The golden birthday party went well.
I can always tell if a party goes well when my friends tell me a couple of days later that I fell asleep on the toilet.
Yeah, good times.
Actually, I evaluate party success on a number of scientific criteria, but sleeping on the john is a great measure of the fun quotient.
The least fun parties I have attended were of the middle school make-out variety.
You know, the ones where everyone really wants to play spin the bottle, but there’s that one ugly, dorky kid with whom no one wants to make-out.
I was that kid, and I hereby accept full responsibility for ruining many a potentially good 7th grade make-out parties with my mere presence.
Thankfully, I have blossomed into a dorky adult and know now spinning bottles is not a good way to bring everyone at the party closer.
(Or maybe I just gave up on ever being a coveted make-out partner.)
In high school, my friends discovered drinking things from bottles may be more fun than spinning them.
As a country girl, the high school parties I attended generally involved a gravel pit, cotton field or other clearing; several trucks (with radios tuned to the same station and tailgates as seating); a few cases of nasty Natty (or other cheap, disgusting beer); and a fire made from stolen scrap wood.
As exciting as these affairs sound, the highlight of these parties was usually a fit of hormonal teenage angst.
A break-up or a fistfight was always an indicator of a good time, and it insured everyone in town would have something to talk about between weekends.
I think the rage may have had to do with the cheap beer, which one friend always claimed contained “Vitamin V” for violence.
I since have developed strong disdain for bloodied noses or hysterically crying girls and a deep appreciation for drama-free gatherings.
The worst parties I’ve been to lately are the ones in which posses don’t mesh.
Nothing’s tougher than entering a cliquey party.
To combat this problem, hosts must provide copious amounts of food and drink and a few folks guaranteed to mix it up — the “crunkmasters,” if you will.
“Crunkmasters” are the folks guaranteed to get everyone “crunk” — they can converse with anyone, are a little bit crazy and possess the innate ability to get others to join in on the fun.
The best “crunkmasters” are those people who also can make others want to be crunk.
They are often in high demand, because being crunk is an art.
No one wants a crier or a jerk to be crunk.
The “crunkmasters” must convince people to be happy, fun and drama-free.
Thank heavens my “crunkmasters” didn’t know me when I was in Alabama — unmakeoutable, country and drama-laden.