Hi there. Polly here.
Parties. I like them, okay? A lot. Especially around the holidays.
Decorations and twinkling lights are everywhere. People show up. They tell me I’m cute. They sneak me snacks. By the end of the night a whole lot of delicious crumbs have fallen on the floor and they all belong to me.
But how about you? You think parties are good, right?
Now, I’m not a big city chihuahua. I’m just a little rural NJ, green grass kind of pooch, but I kind of always thought a party was a good thing. I mean, you send out invitations to it, right? Maybe you even get the invitations printed on thick, glossy paper and stick stamps on them.
Classy.
There’s usually food at parties. People dress up. Sometimes they even sneak off or go home with someone other than the person they showed up with. Okay. Maybe that’s a different kind of party. Never mind.
But when did the word “party” start to mean something that was a bad thing?
Let me explain.
Last week my mom had a little too much “Creativity Juice,” and my dad was, well, on a roll. Next thing we know there’s a knock at the door. And a guy yelling. Loudly.
“Hey! It sounds like you’re having a party in there! Keep it down or I’m gonna call the police.”
(The guy lives half a mile down the road. How he heard the fun and frivolity is an interesting question. Maybe he has bionic ears. Maybe he was just some creep looking in our windows. Just saying.)
So, when something THAT disruptive is going on, why is it that no one ever says:
“Hey, it sounds like you’re murdering someone – watch out for blood spatter!”
“Sounds like feral cats in mating season! I’m calling animal control!”
“Why is there a construction crew doing major demolition at this hour of the night?”
“It sounds like the zombie apocalypse just started.”
No. It’s always, “It sounds like you’re having a party in there.”
What do some people have against parties? Whenever two or more people gather in one place, yes, you have the potential for a good time, also known as a party. Especially if:
– They’re basically happy people
– There’s adult liquid involved.*
– No corpses are in the room.**
So, I have a theory or two about people who think parties are bad.
– They’re basically jealous because they don’t get invited to any parties. At least not any good ones. A “help my nephew move pizza party” is not a good party. I can understand that. I don’t get invited to many parties either. It’s because of that “old dog, small bladder” problem I have. And I’m kind of small, so, once the party gets rocking, I can easily get flattened. Like a bug. But it doesn’t mean I’m jealous of the people who do get invited. After all, they know to bring me home treats. Or else.
– When they have parties, no one comes. The guests cancel or just don’t show. Now they have a bowl full of spiked punch and no one to drink it. So, they sit alone in a corner, by themselves, with a bowl and a straw. A very long straw. Look at the bright side: no worries that anyone double-dipped their chips in the onion soup mix dip (my mom’s favorite party snack). And you can drink that punch right out of the bowl. It’s sort of like living alone and drinking out of the milk carton. Or eating out of the dog chow bag.
– Maybe they think parties are bad things because when they do have them and people show up, the guests don’t bring nice treats over. Like grain-free, hand-baked dog biscuits shaped like that cat who’s trying to kill me. Instead, they bring a dusty can of Alpo they found waaaay in the back, on a bottom shelf at the 7-11 down the road. It’s the difference between a home-made, 7-layer dip and a jar of Cheez Whiz.
So what does this mean for you?
Next time someone is too noisy or out of control, don’t get upset. Grab a treat from your kitchen cupboard, then head on over and turn the doorknob. Chances are it’s unlocked. Crash the party and have a good time. You might even make a new friend or two.
Just be careful if they’re serving brains.
Polly the Sassy (and party dog) Chihuahua
* Of course, sometimes this adult liquid can cause problems. My mom and dad used to swing dance a lot, and he would sometimes do a move he called “The Duck”: my mom was supposed to duck and my dad would swing his leg up and over her. Once, during a dance contest – and after a hefty dose of “dancing juice” – he told my mom “Duck!” She didn’t have enough time. He kicked her in the head. They didn’t do dance contests for a while after that. There are a few other things they didn’t do for a while either.
** Wait a minute. Not true about the corpses. My mom told me about the time she and my dad went to her Uncle Ray’s funeral. They took the train into New York, hopped the old number seven subway out to Woodside, Queens. According to mom, the viewing was a blast. You see, Uncle Ray used to work on the set of a late-night talk show during the 60s through the 80s. So, folks said a few words, told some stories, and even jokes, which seemed like the right thing to do. When it was over everyone headed back to the subway. Slowly. Because in Woodside, there was an Irish bar on every corner. And everyone had an Uncle Ray.***
*** When I kick the bucket I get the feeling there’s going to be a party as well.