Party Girl

I know a girl, a girl called Party
Party Girl!
I know she wants more than a party
Party Girl!
And she won't tell me her name.
Oh, no! Not me!

U2: Trash, Trampoline and the Party Girl

— 'phfina commentary: U2 released this song long before I was born, so I have to wonder ... did the song birth me?

I don't know if you know this about me but I 'prefer' to go out with girls (*rolls eyes*), and I still prefer that, and still do that, even though Saga and I are 'an item' ... whatever that means to everybody.

And I was called on that, and my knee-jerk reaction response, was 'that's none of your goddamn business who I go out with and who I don't! That's between me and Saga!'

But, maybe it is your goddamn business. Maybe it is ... so I'll let you decide — because that's what you do: you're always deciding about me and judging me, because you do that to everybody, so I've just joined the club of 'everybody' ... for the first time in my life — so I'll let you decide about me, the party girl.

Here's the girls I've gone out with in very recent times.

Yup, I'm quite the slut. More on that later.

Girl #1: Melanie

Well, of course you know about Melanie, right?

Wanna know what happened when I got to her apartment?

Sure you do.

So I'll tell you.

Nothing.

That's what happened.

Because it went down like this.

I got to her place, and God! ...

Okay, why do I fall for rich, classy women?

Well, she poured herself some white wine, and then offered me a glass.

And I froze.

And then she gave me a puzzled look, and asked if I was okay. And a voice said yes, and that made her more guarded, and the voice said I had to go, that I had to return some videos or something, and I wasn't exactly running to the door, maybe, and ...

And her voice stopped me. "Melissa!" she called out, and she said before she was doing this ... that is, saving Africa, she was a crisis counselor for women suffering from the sectarian violence, you know: rape and murder of their families, and she's seen trauma, and was I experiencing trauma and did I need to talk and it was okay to talk with her if I needed to talk.

And the voice said "No, I'm fine" and I don't know how I got into my car and my keys into the ignition and I don't know how I got on the highway and I don't know how I found my parking space.

All I know was that I was screaming into my pillow, muffling my voice, so the neighbors wouldn't hear and so the police wouldn't come again.

And then the alarm woke me, and I had to go to work, you see, and I was so grateful I didn't tell Melanie which "D.C. area" sbux I work at.

You know: in case she looks for me. Like Brenda did.

Can't have THAT happening where I work.

And that was that. I haven't been 'out' to Tabu's since.

Girl #2: Lisa

So I went to Lisa's birthday party. You know: Lisa? The überExecutive Lawyer who has to fly to Paris every week? Well, I couldn't find her party because it was in Ballston — you know, the rich side of town — so Lisa left her party at this swanky restaurant and walked me to a parking space and walked me, 5 blocks, back to her party where her birthday cake and all her friends were patiently waiting for her because of little lost me.

Her friends.

They were all older people. I mean older. And I was like, ooh! I've met another girl who likes older people, too! and I liked Lisa more, you know? I felt mmm! friends! toward her. But then I found out which birthday this was for Lisa.

I thought she was in her late twenties, you know? or maybe early thirties, but that was pushing it.

Lisa just turned 42.

And I looked at this Irish imp in front of me, Lisa of the blue eyes and the brunette hair, and didn't see crow's feet and didn't see resignation or cynicism. I just saw a happy girl on her happy birthday.

And I couldn't reconcile the number 42 with the girl I saw in front of me.

And.

And I am so, so glad I was still wearing my dress from church, and not back in my blue jeans, because every single one of her 'older' friends — who were older than her, yes, but probably more her contemporaries than me — were dressed with style in perfectly tailored clothes that were so subtle and elegant, but not at all flashy, that the word money just screamed off them as they breathed and drank their whatever and took tiny forkfuls of their whatever.

And they talked about their startups taking on facebook and they smiled politely at each other and at me.

And now you know something about me, right? I mean, you know it already.

sbux barista. Can I pay my rent? In my little tiny high-rise apartment?

No. I can't afford to live in the cheap side of town. So Dad writes me a check every month so I don't get evicted and so I can eat.

And there I was, little me, and yes, they were all taller than me, at their party, and the party went on and on and on, way past my bed time, and I ordered a Glenlivet Scotch and drank that, and still felt out of place

...

Yeah, I'm a hypocrite, too. I freeze at Melanie when she offers me a drink, but here I am drinking expensive single-malt Scotch.

You know, ...

God!

So, my dad is like ... really, really rich.

But you would never know it, 'cause he's a dashing, rugged man in his flannel shirtsleeves grabbing firewood from the side of the road so he can have a lower heat bill, you know? And splitting the wood himself, and saving the bath water to flush the toilet so he pays less on the water bill.

So he's like that to everybody, you know? Very ... depression-era cautious about everything, especially spending money.

But then ... well ...

So you know my grandmother died from something like alcohol-related death. I don't know myself: it's hush-hush. But that's on my mother's side. Well, my dad?

He likes to drink.

You know, socially, but every social occasion and interaction has some kind of drink associated with it, and he's at bar fixing you a drink or fixing himself one.

And then, when he ... when he was driving me and my mom somewhere, 'cause he's like that with his exes — wives and girlfriends and children — generous, he opened up a can of beer and offered it to my mom, and she said no, thank you, and offered it to me, and I choked out a no, thank you, so he drank it as he was driving us along, then threw the empty can into a full bag of other empty beer cans.

Recycling, you know: saving the planet and all that.

And, well, he's also a discerning drinker, finding excellent wines and rare Scotches. He let me taste a 25-year-old Macallan once, and it tasted like pure spirit and it disappeared in my mouth, that sip, and I didn't get drunk at all, but I felt nice for a long time after that. And one time he showed me the label of a 32-year-old Oban that he has in his cave, and replaced the bottle reverently.

Maybe I'll inherit that bottle. That bottle? It's $1000.

Yes, he has a cave, with bottles, lots of bottles, like that, ... and, fyi, it's pronounced: ca-ah-ah-v(uh) as Dad was sure to make sure that I understood that.

...

So, I had my shot of 12-year-old Glenlivet, that I love (I have a 15-year bottle here at home ... I save my (well, Dad's) pennies!), and people came and people left, as you know, those soirées for rich people with rich people attending do, and it was sometime after 1 am, and Lisa and I were still there, and one other person, Maria shows up at 1 am, so the party is still going strong.

And Lisa had told me, "You know, Violet, you put up this front of being funny, and you don't have to do that with me, because I've seen the real you, and I just want you to know that I love you" and she smiled, and I felt both ashamed and relieved.

I was ashamed because I'm not even aware that when I'm laughing and joking, I'm pushing people away, and I'm not even aware that I'm even doing that, I just am doing it, and here I was doing it again.

And I felt relieved, because Lisa said it was okay to be me.

And, well, that scared me a little bit, the intensity of her look. Now I know what it's like to be on the receiving end of penetrating eyes, you know? And I felt like I had nowhere to hide.

You know?

And Lisa was crying a little bit about something that Maria and she had shared, and I piped up that I could cry on cue.

And Maria looked at me critically, and said, "okay, show me."

So I did.

Maria was impressed. So was Lisa. She asked me what I was thinking.

So I told her.

So now I'll tell you.

I've never told anyone. Not my family. Not Rosalie.

Not even me.

You see, when I was in college, on the prowl, getting Julia out of my system with every girl I could lay my hands on and fuck, Julia was, really, moving on with her life, but she still sent me notes.

And one day I got a note from her. And, of course, I couldn't stop myself. I read it.

And it was an invitation for her baby shower. She was going to have a girl, and I was invited.

And bb was down in the Great Washington D.C. with his family and I now had another new niece, and ...

And ...

And I don't know what happened, but I think I did. I think I told myself why Julia left me, and it was because I couldn't provide her with a baby, a baby girl to love. We couldn't be a family. And so, you know, if I could do that, then Julia would love me again, maybe, and yes, it's stupid, her leave her husband for me because now I can give her a baby, but you tell yourself what makes sense and what doesn't when nothing makes sense.

So, there I was at the Campus Pizza, and it was ladies' night, and there was this Rugby club there and there was our girls' rugby club there, too, and when I showed up, the girls' team noticeably perked up and I already saw the looks and maneuverings as to who'd be the lucky one tonight.

I had helped about half the team discover the inner lesbian that they may or may not have known that they had.

Remember me mentioning something about me and my slutty behavior?

But I wasn't there for them tonight. Yes, I had given myself over to the panther, but I had given her an instruction when I released her on the hunt.

"Hunt for something breathing," ... as always ... "and hunt for something with a dick and lots of sperm."

And I got hammered. One dollar drinks? I got smashed.

And I almost giggled at the collective disappointment of the girls' rugby team when I took my drink, whichever drink number it was, and took myself over to the visiting rugby team from whatever military school those boys came from, and I hit on a boy with a dick and a lot of sperm.

It didn't take a lot of convincing on my part.

And the guy? He was ... perfect. Solid as a rock. I mean, he was like the personification of Emmett, except this guy was ruder and he had lighter brown hair. Don't remember his name.

Do remember that we got to my car and there wasn't much preliminaries, but I was on my back, and he was big, strong, and forceful as he desperately unzipped my jeans and he slammed into me, hard, as he kissed my mouth, hard.

And ...

And then he had to go. I mean, the white van was honking at him, and he cursed and he said he had to go and he zipped up and he said he would call, and he like rushed out and the other guys were laughing, and everybody was so drunk, and I wonder if they even made it back alive to wherever they were going.

Nelson. His name was Nelson.

And I got out of my car. I knew I couldn't drive ... in fact I could barely walk, and I stumbled back to the dorm and I was so sore, and leaking, and ...

Well, I probably looked like a mess, because my (very straight) roommate asked if I had been raped and did she need to call the crisis hotline or campus security, and it was so weird, being so sad with such a buzz on.

And a month later.

Well, I was late, and the I felt nauseous, and then ...

And then I was pregnant.

But not for long.

Because one day about a month later after I found out, I started bleeding. A lot. And I just knew. I just knew something was wrong, and I rushed to the obgyn, but what could be done, nothing, and I was told that maybe I could have taken progesterone and ...

And I know ...

No. Yes. I don't know anything. I just knew I had my baby and I loved her, and she was taken away from me.

Because I don't deserve her.

Me? Be a mother? In school, with no money to buy pizza around all those rich New England snobs (me being the worst snob among them, ... except not rich)? Me? Be a mother now, fucked up me with my fucked up life and imagine having me as your mother and oh, my God, if I were my mother I would shoot me and no court would find me liable or they would give me a medal for justifiable homicide.

God took my baby away, and it wasn't my baby anyway, it never was, and I tried to do one fucked up thing so I could be loved, and I fell in love with that baby and wanted to love her and isn't that sick, having somebody so you could love them, so God took her away from me because one day with fucked up me is worse than an eternity in hell.

So I simply told Lisa that I had a baby girl once ...

And then I was in her arms and I was crying so hard into her chest and so embarrassed that I was ruining her blouse that probably cost more than half the clothes I owned, okay, all the clothes I owned.

And I was so unaware that I was crying at her birthday party. And how self-absorbed and selfish is that?

And she held me and lovingly shushed me and told me she loves me and she rocked me and she rocked me.

And eventually I stopped crying, and the conversation moved onto other things, not embarrassedly, but easily and naturally ... gracefully.

Lisa is a gracious hostess.

And much later that night, or, technically, morning, she and Maria walked me back to my car, and I drove home.

And the next day I realized that she had said she loves me like three times that night, and I took it in friendship.

But Lisa's 42, and she doesn't have a husband, and she has friends, but I didn't see her, you know, close to any of them, and ...

And so the next time in group, I saw her, and I was, God! I was watching her with my laser eyes, but she was easy and carefree and was so pleased to see me and then group started and I went to my volunteering place as she sat in group.

And that was that.

Girl #3: Madison

So that brings us to sweet, little Madison. My boss. My 19-year-old boss who has started her own company and manages her parents and step parents, and knows everything that needs to be done, and will do it if you don't step up yourself, but is so sweet about it and who took me out to the movie Scott Pilgrim vs. the World and laughed so hard at Scott's gay roommate, and so ...

And so after group one night where she said she was so glad to have me on the team and how helpful I was (*glow*) when I wasn't being a pain in the ass for calling her when she wasn't stepping up into leadership like she should (*little glow*), I took her out to this Irish pub, O'Connell's I think it's called.

It was around midnight, and when she ordered lemonade I was like, huh?

And she smiled and said, 'The waiter probably wasn't even going to card me.'

And I was like. *Gulp* I'm robbing the cradle, taking a girl out to drink who's not allowed by law to drink yet.

So we had our (respective) drinks and fish and chips, and her eyes became saucer-like as she saw me down wheat beer and Scotch (an 18-year-old Macallan) and ... whatever else, and she asked me if she wanted me to let her drive, so I eased off.

God! She has so not seen me drinking when I'm drinking.

And we talked about group, and about life, and we got into my car ...

... And I dropped her back off at her parents.

Because her mom told her ...

... hahaha ... I am (sadly) laughing so hard as I write this ...

Her mom told her to call her if she went out anywhere else or with anyone else other than me, Violet.

So she could have ... I mean, I could have taken her that night, you know, to my apartment, and her mom, who's also in group, would have been totally fine with that, because I'm 'such a nice, sweet girl.'

And I guess that's who Violent it: nice, sweet, cheerful.

So, I was Violet that night, and dropped her off at her house, and drove home.

And you know, Violet is me. I put on a mask of this nice, sweet, cheerful girl to run away from my past, and, wow, there actually is a nice, sweet, girl, not a ... well, whatever, a panther, wearing the mask. The panther is there. God! The panther is there, and mothers, lock away your daughters, I mean: really! And while you're at it, lock away yourselves. But behind the mask is also me and me is somebody who is a panther and who is, shockingly, nice, and sweet, and generous, too, maybe. And ...

And now, here I am at my keyboard.

Here I am.

And yes, I went out on 'not-a-date' dates with those girls. You know what 'not-a-date' dates are, right? Of course you do. You weren't born yesterday.

So, you tell me. You judge me.

Running around. Quite the party girl, aren't I?

Quite the cheating slut. That's what you think of me, isn't it? Well, isn't it?

Do you see how fortunate I am to have Saga? Do you see how fortunate you are to have that possibly damaged, possibly imperfect girl you have or had or will have? And how fortunate she is to have you? How she needs you to love her? How she needs to love and be loved? How you may want that in your life, too?

And, you know what? I can say all of this is none of your business.

But guess what. I took a stand when I wrote my stories. Maybe I didn't know that when I pressed publish, but then you started writing in and saying how I saved your life with my stories? So here I am out in front, in my glass house, totally exposed.

And I can be the bad celebrity, and moon you as I give you the finger.

Or I can take on that I'm actually standing for something, if I want you to live the life I know you know you need to live, well, then I'd better walk that talk, right?

And I'm so unaware of that as I go about my life. Remember? Human being here?

And I so try to live that, not 'being an example' but 'treating the person in front of me as a person.'

Do you know how impossibly hard that is to do? Do you know how, every second, I so utterly fail in my thoughts and actions to live up to that?

I mean, like just last week, a person strides by me in black heels and an executive black pants suit, and I'm like '.. Colleen?'

And it's Colleen. The suicidal girl in a ripped tee and ripped jeans I had written off, who now, months later, is coaching, for goodness sake, and she was all like 'Violet!' and gave me a hug and had this huge smile on her face and was telling me how she's whipping the other coaches into shape by telling them about 'this girl I know who's a, like, fucking genius and who can have fun with this stuff and her life!' and she hugs me again and says how cute I look when I'm blushing like that. And then she thanks me and runs off to coach her own group.

And there I am, standing there, struck dumb, and just fully aware of how I had judged this person and how wrong-wrong-wrong, how way wrong I was.

Why did I get on this kick? Besides to point out that us Irish girls are so going to take over the world and that's a good thing?

Oh, yeah, so I can be a big 'fuck you and mind your own business' to the world like some celebrities, or I can say, hey, we're all in this together, and if I say something, I'd better mean it, and if I mean it, I'd better do it.

And not to make this burdensome. But it is. When you press, 'add chapter,' you are putting your shit up there for the world to consume, to judge, ... or to be moved and inspired by.

That's what I'm doing.

So, do judge me. And do call me out. And, if you're up for it, do love me.

I love you.

I love you, and I want the best for you. And it doesn't have to be serious nor significant.

But every time I press 'add chapter' it's because this chapter matters.

And ... and my life matters. And the matters of my life matter.

Just like for you.

It's just what you're up to with your life, and that your life matters.

p.s. I realized yesterday that I hadn't had a(n alcoholic) drink in two days then. So this is my third day that I'm ... well, sober. (What a stupid word!) Hm. Weird.