Because 'Life Tastes a Little Too Good' to Some Party People

Warning: I’m going to get downright raw in this post. If you don’t want to read about drugs, sex and, more specifically, gay sex, I won’t be offended if you click elsewhere.

First off, I’m not that cool. I’m a big dork mom of three who drives a crumb-filled minivan. Perhaps you think simply because of my proximity to Hollywood, I’m connected to the “industry” scene or have had my lips plumped with botox. For the record, my boobs are real, even if they are real deflated, and my lips are naturally plumped. Truth be told, I’ve always liked my pout-y mouth, especially the bow tie top that looks extra Ferg-i-licious when I wear stoplight red lipstick. As far as the entertainment "industry" goes, I'm good friends with a successful CGI artist-art director couple and that's about it. I'm so not plugged in. (Where was I and I how did I lose track of all the sordid bits of salacious, first-hand content I’m suppose to bring to your eyes?)

Moving on now, and quickly, this weekend a friend of ours helped us out by babysitting the minis three so I could forge ahead on several writing projects (nothing that cool, I assure you, unless you consider school newsletters and corporate conduct handbooks glamorous) and go to a birthday party in Studio City with my husband and our former neighbor/longtime close friend. My babysitting friend also seeded my veggie garden for me while I rapped away on the keyboard and my children stomped the dance steps of Michael Flatley, or tried to, firmly into the parched soil.

My husband was the D.O.D. all weekend, except for when our babysitting friend took over while we ventured north to the birthday shindig. He makes me look like a slacker when he watches the kids. Not only does he play with them like a champ but somehow also balances meals and post-meal-blowout cleanup, mops the floors, dusts better than Merry Maid and folds six loads of laundry into neatly stacked towers (that I haven’t put away yet).

Yes, yes. Onto the sex and drugs already. I don’t have much time to really clue you in on a sundae-sized, hot-fudge greased, cherry-popped scoop, but I can spoon you a taste of bullet points about the posh party:

· I’m willing to estimate that 99 percent of the people at the party were gay. I’m an admitted fag hag, always have been, so why am I pointing this out? Why should it matter? Who cares? Why am I so un-politically correct? I think this is a notable fact even if you don’t. I don’t really have any compelling reasons for that … so scratch your head and call me Mary.
· My husband got hit on by dudes at least half a dozen times. He handled this extremely well, except for when he placed his massive open palm on the chest of a super drunk Abercombie model look-alike 34-year-old named John, I think. Never before had I seen my husband push someone other than my kids when they play wrestle. And, let me tell you, he wasn’t playing. “C’mon, you’re so tall, gorgeous and bald,” John cooed (drunk-slurred). Lemme’ see if you’re a bear or not.” Bear is apparently what hairy guys are called in the “family” community (correct me if I'm wrong because I really don't know for sure). Sorry, John boy, but the Hubster doesn’t swing his door that way, even if his two best male friends are gay. Low-rise, acid-washed jean guy, Mark, a lanky bottle blonde who proudly served his signature “way-too-f-ing-strong, bitch” (that's seriously what he called them) marguerita lime Jell-O shots, closed in on the Hubster. Meanwhile I reminisced about my college days in Boston with a gay attorney couple who met and fell in love in law school at Boston University when I caught the Hubster desperately eyeballing me from across the patio while trying to create a wall of smoke between himself and come-on-strong Mark. (I totally forgot this is supposed to be bullet style. Oops.)
· A jet black haired bone of a stripper arrived late to the party, though thankfully not to strip. Her sole purpose, apparently, was to convince a bunch of wasters to follow her to the bathroom and sniff coke off of an expensive, heavily veined granite counter. She lied to me and told me she was a bartender, but, c’mon, she so isn’t. I was fooled for a while until her roommate, who affectionately called her his “wife,” revealed the truth. I believe she’s his “Mary” or his wife on paper for insurance reasons. Isn’t same-sex marriage insurance legal in California, though? I don’t know. My friend kicked her out of the bathroom for me so I could use it for what it's really meant for. She left a sprinkling "dust" on the counter, which I swabbed away with a wad of toilet paper. I'd never seen that stuff in my life and think I'm all set until the next life. No thanks.
· A swarm of dancing drunken men crowded the huge flat screen TV to watch the De La Jolla-Mayweather match. I’m sure I annoyed Mark to no end with a constant stream of small-talky questions about boxing basics, Mayweather’s hyper cut pectorals and star audience sightings (Leonardo DiCaprio, J-Lo, Tommy Lasorda, etc).
· A cluster of partygoers thought that De La Jolla had gotten “fat and old.” Fat and old? I think I’m the same age as him and I can show you some serious “muffin top” fat. Jeez. Their physique standards are stacked a little too high if you ask me.
· The bartender rented for $45/hour from beautifulbartender.com was BEAUTIFUL. Everyone guessed that he was straight but he confessed that he’s bi-curious. Yeah, I’d say that too if it would fill my tip jar. Smart hottie. Very, very smart hottie.
· I found it extremely culturally insensitive that Mayweather wore the colors of the Mexican flag and had his team don shirts that read, “Mexico loves Mayweather.” What a rude jerk. I suppose the best man wins according to strength and skill, not the contents of his character.
· I think my husband and I were the only parents of young children at the party, except for one perfectly coifed set designer who said he got a girl pregnant a decade ago while he was “trying hard not to be gay.”
· Sex, didn’t I promise some sexy stuff? Well, I think I’ll keep all that to myself for now.
· I had a great time and don’t regret the 50 bucks we laid down for babysitting. Seeing how people party in the Studio City hills was worth every cent.