I was invited to the “Dirty Santa” party!
The girl who invited me was someone I met at a meetup.com event.
I know. But I’m a go-getter and I had just moved to Georgia from Los Angeles. When “make friends” is on my to-do list, I don’t mess around. I was going to that party and leaving with five phone numbers. When you’re in a new city, making friends is like dating. It’s a numbers game. You have to throw people-spaghetti at the wall until something sticks. Not to be confused with peen-spaghetti. That’s different.
I was excited – maybe I’m gonna fit in with these girls after all!
And because helpful unicorns follow me everywhere I go, I happened to be in Nashville the VERY NEXT day.
You know what’s in Nashville?
Hooray!
My favorite part is it’s located here:
I’m not joking.
I took my mother into The Hustler store with me because our family abandoned the notion of normal decades ago. Lookit she was a pimp in the 70′s - this is child’s play.
We decided to keep the gift on the mild side since I had only met the girl who invited me once, and I’d be meeting the rest of the girls for the first time.
Obviously pink handcuffs and a fetish crop were perfect.
The sales dude made it all fancy with tissue paper and put it in the signature Hustler bag! Awesome – I wouldn’t even have to wrap it.
On the day of the party I showed up in Marietta, which I was not familiar with at the time. I had only heard stories. It’s very small and quaint – Mayberry-ish. There are two kinds of girls there.
Swingers who wear pearls.
photo credit: 123rf.com
And moms who bake all day and gaze lovingly at their family members during meals.
photo credit: batcrapcrazyblog.com
I assumed my group was going to be the first bunch.
Let me be clear: I’m not a swinger and I don’t wear pearls, but it sounds interesting.
The GPS told me I had arrived at my destination, so I parked in front of the traditional looking house and rang the doorbell ready to meet my new friends. The woman who answered the door looked like she just stepped out of this magazine.
photo credit: waxingKara.com
I introduced myself and didn’t even hear her name because I was so captivated by her make-up. It was perfect. The “natural look.” The one that takes a minimum of 84 products and just as many minutes to pull it off.
To complete her Southern Lady look, she was wearing a crisp white button-down with a cardigan neatly arranged on top of it.
I have NEVER been able to wear a shirt under a cardigan. Ever. It gets all bunchy and stupid, and my boobs make me look pregnant. I kind of hated her for a second. But then I stopped because she was so pretty.
Meanwhile I was standing on her porch wearing black motorcycle boots and a leather jacket holding a Hustler bag. Kind of like this:
photo credit: stylestalker.com
I wanted to lie and say I was at the wrong house, but then I spotted her pearls.
Ohhhhkay I see what’s happening here. You’re not fooling me, Mrs. Carpool Swingerpants.
She invited me in and I followed the chatter to a perfect kitchen right out of The Stepford Wives.
Thankfully the girl who invited me flowed out of the crowd to greet me wearing jeans and a t-shirt. I exhaled a little bit, but then inhaled sharply when she shoved me into the center of the room and announced me to the group.
Everyone stopped talking and smiled at me warmly in that pretend way when an outsider has crashed a party.
photo credit: teacups and couture
Then their eyes wandered down my person and landed on the Hustler bag.
There was a collective gasp, one “oh my,” and then giggling.
I was Mortified. Yes, capital M.
The hostess, Miss Good Housekeeping (not Mrs. Carpool Swingerpants as it turns out), was kind enough to break it up with, ”well come on in here then and you can put your gift with the others.”
I followed her into the wholesome living room where a virgin log was waiting to be burned in the fireplace. In front of it, arranged just so, were all the other gifts wrapped in cheerful Santa paper adorned with tiny stuffed reindeer and crocheted candy canes.
I plopped my slutty Hustler bag down in the middle of them.
When I returned to the PTA convention in the kitchen I found my acquaintance, and started whisper-shouting at her.
me: Oh my gaahhhhhd what is HAPPENING?!?! You said this was a dirty Santa party!
her: Honey, dirty Santa is same thing as a White Elephant party.
me: What the FUCK is a White Elephant Party?
her: It’s a gift exchange! Everyone brings one, you draw numbers and then take turns opening them and everyone ends up with one that’s not the one they brought! It’s so much fun that’s why I invited you!
me: I can’t be friends with you.
her: Oh don’t be silly. What are you talking about?
me: You let me bring handcuffs and a fetish crop to a suburban housewife party.
Her: Oh noooo it’s totally fine!
me: Please stop talking.
Then we noticed we were the only ones in the kitchen. The two of us followed the murmuring into the living room where the rest of the party-goers were gathered around the fireplace…scheming on how to score the Hustler bag.
I left exactly six minutes later.
So here’s what we can all take away from this: the most southern and proper girl you know may be the one who wants handcuffs and a fetish crop. The dichotomy is alive and well my friends. Look for the best pot roast, the best cupcake, the most organized pantry, and the prettiest thank-you notes. That girl? Has more energy than she knows what to do with. We’d all be wise to harness it.
We’d also be wise to get ALL the details when invited to a party (that note was for me – I’m sure you smart people already do that).
I didn’t make any life-long friends at the Dirty Santa party, but eventually I ended up with my own fabulous crew of less undercover Dichotomy Girls.
Atlanta-based crew: Robin, Jaime, Alana, Claire and Tamiko (sadly not in this photo)
These girls don’t quietly scheme about Hustler bags. They say, “hand it over, bitch.”
They also make beautiful cupcakes.
Related articles
- Hustler’s Larry Flynt wants to save man who paralyzed him (huffingtonpost.com)
