My Parents Don't Know About the House Party I Threw This One Time - email submission

I was always a good girl. I listened, did what I was told and didn't really rebel. But in April '94, while my parents went on a vacation, I found my one chance to really do something crazy. My cousin and I --together-- organized a HUGE House Party. We planned to have it in the vacant garage apartment of my parents' house. No furniture, no worries. Right? Wrong. The party grew to massive proportions. Fights over Zima ensued. Five dollars a cup, turned into, "Shut-the-hell-up you asshole, you aren't getting money from me to drink here." Then the [my] college basketball team showed up. Ok, not the whole team, but eight of them. Eight very tall black men, all piled into the back bedroom of this garage apartment. It was a scene. I don't think I'll ever forget it.

The party eventually died down. The Zima fight was all but forgotten. Money was made. The basketball team eighty-sixed the back bedroom. And I was left to clean up. Empty bottles, bottles with cigarette butts, puke in the corner, ashes on the counter, piss in the shower. Oh it was a delight. The reward came when I went down to the house and five of my best friends, at the time, were rolling some joints. I plopped down, tired but triumphant, and smoked a whole one. By myself. No help.

I woke up, on the couch, to my friend cleaning up. She looked refreshed and happy. Little did I know, she had gotten laid in my bedroom. The pig! I guess she felt I deserved some relief so she started to clean. Not five minutes after I splashed water on my face and grabbed a can of coke, I hear that familiar voice calling me from the back yard. I look out and see my grandmother walking towards the screen door, in slooooowwwwww mooootion. It all would have been fine, the house was virtually spotless, save that one ashtray with all the roaches! Like a drug sniffing canine, she spotted it instantly.

"What's that?"

"Oh Gramma, that's just some cigarette butts."

"You smoking?"

"Gramma, don't tell Mom and Dad, please! Just a couple cigarettes. I won't do it again."

"Ok, I won't tell them!"

Thank God she didn't know they were marijauna butts and thank God she didn't make the surprise visit a NIGHT visit.

Come to think of it, I don't even remember what I bought with all the money I made from the "$5.00 a Cup." It was probably cheeseburgers. A pot-taker always needs cheeseburgers!