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Pooping a Party

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In a group of friends, there is the reliable one, you know, the one who we can depend on to make itinerary, read map and book the ticket (and Vi that’s you for me). The over-worked one, who always comes last when we hang out on a weekday, cancel on the last minute because of the over time and has more power suits than weekend dresses; and we also have the party-pooper one, the one who eventually ruins the fun of a night out, who gets tired first and whines a lot, the one who just sits there in a club like an odd, find something wrong with the picture, item.

People, I am here to confess, even though we only know each other for a short time, that I am the last one. Yes, my name is FG and I am the party pooper of the gang.

I didn’t know I was a PP until recently, even when my friends keep “teasing” me whether I should come for clubbing and whether I am sure I wouldn’t look dead after a few hours, I assumed that they were just teasing me because they (secretly) adore me. I thought I was one of the cool gal, until this weekend. When a bunch of friends were coming from out of town and they asked me where to go for fun here and I honestly don’t know. I don’t do clubbing anymore.

I am saying no to this:

Pump Room

Geez admitting this makes me feel lame+old+lame.

Retrospectively the signs of being a PP were clear from a long time ago.

I remember when I was like twelve or something my dad took me to Dome for a celebration. I don’t remember what the occasion was but I remember it clearly until now that I was so freaking uncomfortable. I was twitching and not ordering anything and I kept thinking if we could really afford this. I starred at the fancy people surrounding us, they were eating in the Dome like it was their own dining room. My dining room? It has a mother who put food right from the pan to our plates and yells “Eat more, eat the veggie, eat the rice, at least finish the veggie, eat more also eat the fish”.

My dad finally gave up and said, “This is why I don’t take you anywhere fancy. You don’t know how to behave!”. No, people, don’t worry. He wasn’t being abusive. I am the abusive one in our parent daughter relationship. He was just frustrated. For a second.

Years passed by and I managed to stay out of fancy places until I was big enough to be taken to a fancy dinner by a fancy man. It was a 5 star restaurant located in the centre of the national garden, kinda like Central Park but it’s in our city (note to self: Google whether Central Park has a garden restaurant). This restaurant was a really nice place. Where they tend to you like you are queen Elizabeth or her twin. Once I reached there I cursed myself for not getting my hair done and for wearing something that I managed to intentionally burned years later.

When I saw the menu, I then freeze once again. Could we afford this? Maybe he could but I couldn’t. What if he left in the middle to attend to something important or because I said stupid stuff too many times? It was one of the last days of the month. I didn’t enough money in my wallet+piggy bank+saving account+secret-stash combined to pay for even my own dinner. “The menu is too expensive”, I said. He said to order anything I liked. What I really liked and would enjoy eating was one of the most expensive ones. The others, to be fair were almost as expensive but I didn’t know existed. I couldn’t even pronounce them. The one I wanted and could pronounce was the steak.

So we ordered and I didn’t order any drink. Tap water was more than good enough for me. I didn’t touch the entrée food, was too embarrassed to ask whether it was free. I finally ate my most expensive meal in the most uncomfortable way. We were done and left. I could finally breath normally.

My inability to enjoy things that’s too expensive for me is not without reason. You see I grow up in a farm neighborhood (where everyone else had a farm but not my parents), I have fed hundreds of cows and hung out with ducks and frogs. I was a farm girl who was shipped to a big city at a young age. The farming didn’t leave me. I still thrive in humble places. Put me in a thrift store and see me light up like a Christmas tree.

Speaking of which, I had a cheap neighborhood pub, which was a walking distance from my home at one point of time. It’s called Prince of Wales. It’s a open air open mic bar where there are hippies from all over the world looking half stoned and as if they showered a week ago. The beers are marked up only 10-15% of the price in 7-11.

Here, I could dance all night long bearing the stares of my friends who don’t usually see me dancing in proper places or for me what I call as flub (fancy clubbing).

Try to say the word flub, that’s how I feel about clubbing.

Whenever we go to a flub, I order a drink and start strategizing who to tackle so I could go back home faster than fast. Sometimes it’s about making the life of the party drink a lot so she becomes drunk and passes out in the corner beside me. The party then will start fizzing out by itself and we will be heading home.

Sometimes it’s about asking them the question they didn’t want to hear ever or was the reason why we are going to these bars in the first place. Something avoidable. Like, “so when are guys going to settle down?” or “What happened to the guy you went out with 3 weeks ago?”.

Yes, i can be a jerk sometimes. A smart jerk. Muahahahahaha.. –> that’s my evil laugh. No? okay.

Another strategy is just by drinking myself silly and forgetting that I am a flub and start enjoying myself. If I still don’t, I drink some more and stand on top of the bar table and start dancing to make my friends embarrassed enough to take me home (done this) or get kicked out for doing it (done that).

Short Skirt Pump Room

In flubs, girls wear the short skirts and sit crossed legged. I, if I’m paying $20 for a drink (and $20 in the menu is $50 in the bill after service taxes, government tax, liquor tax, having fun tax and other taxes being imposed). I want to be able to enjoy the drink while salto-ing if I want to, not maneuvering it into a sea of people who boggied the floor down.

So now that my friends are coming, I’m having an anxiety attack. Where to take them? What to wear? I can’t keep wearing the only one clubbing dress I bought in 2009, which I wore for the first time with them and second time on 2010 again with them. The only reason I have it is because my mommy bought it for me. I saw a full sequined dress yesterday, I liked it, and maybe it will bring me my party mood. Sparkle is good, right guys?

The flub choice, I guess I can Google it.

Blair Waldrof Party

I am off to shower now. The club hopping is going to start in like 6 hours so I should prepare from now, right? I am thinking to watch an episode of Gossip Girl so I could channel the Queen B tonight (although I am totally a Van Der Woodsen at heart, Lily not Serena).

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