These Parties Aren’t Like Those Parties

Patrick and I got evited to a party taking place on an upcoming Saturday night and after responding affirmative to being there we carefully planned our timed escape. Not that we don’t love an hour long Metro ride to a one-bathroom townhouse in DC crammed with lawyers but I think we have something else planned that night. Like ordering a movie On Demand and drinking a bottle of wine. Each. That’s our kind of party.

In 2004 I lived in Solana Beach, second only to Coronado in The Greatest Places I’ve Ever Lived Ever In My Entire Life and also More Reminders of My Most Regretted Decision Also Known As Moving To Virginia.

That information isn’t terribly relevant to the story, except that I miss being there. Thanks for indulging me.

Solana Beach is the entry to the northern part of the county, directly across from the Del Mar Racetrack. I lived a about a mile from the beach making it “inland” and also more affordable. I sort of befriended a quirky but nice girl whose name isn’t Kelly but whom I’m going to call Kelly. We didn’t really hang out all that much, since she was more of a party girl, but we texted from time to time and I saw her whenever I went to the salon where she worked. Which was fairly often because girls in Southern California spend a lot of time on various waxing, polishing, and coloring needs.

Kelly was “friendly” with various athletes, police officers, and other wealthy somebodies in San Diego and one night she invited me to a party in Rancho Santa Fe. I was super nervous about going, even after she assured me that my planned outfit would be just fine and she gave me the passcode to relay to the guard so I’d be able to get in.

Rancho Santa Fe is the third most expensive place to live in the entire country and has the highest income communities in the U.S. I pulled up to the house and it was, how shall I say? Large.

I let myself in and followed the noise to the kitchen where most of the people had congregated to enjoy the catering and champagne. The attendance ranged from much younger than me to much older than me and the outfits spanned from micro minis to suits. I found Kelly and hung by her side, feeling wildly out of place and epically uncool. She pointed people out and gave me tidbits of gossip and introduced me to all her young, pretty friends wearing way skimpier clothing than me.

As is the way with young, pretty girls there seemed to be a lot of drama. Almost every one of them needed Kelly to listen to one problem or another and whisked her away for whispered advice.

I didn’t plan on staying for very long and within an hour and a half hour I was starting to eye my watch. Standing in a group with Kelly and some of the young pretties I tried to find my out when an older, obviously wealthy gentleman approached. He put his arms around a couple of the girls and casually asked who wanted to make $500. Kelly nodded a couple of the girls out of the group and they all walked off with the man to a room.

HOLY FUCKBALLS! Kelly was a pimp!

Needless to say I didn’t bother waiting for “an out”, I just got the hell out of there.

I went home, put on sweatpants and plopped onto the couch. I opened a beer, grabbed the remote and settled in for the night.

Because that’s my type of party.


3 Responses to “These Parties Aren’t Like Those Parties”

  1. 1 sydneybristow2009 June 10, 2010 at 12:26 pm

    Bring plenty of protection to Palm Springs because you’ll be expected to have sex with everyone else’s husbands, and some random strangers too. For free.

    HA !!!

    Oh, and as for attire, the only thing that really isn’t accepted in my group is the “too slutty chick” look, you know, the hot gal who has to throw her boobs in everyone’s face. And I’m not worried about you. Oh ! Or the “thong on the barstool” look. Avoid that one, too.

  2. 2 Stacey June 11, 2010 at 1:25 pm

    LMAO! I just love your stories 🙂 Your kinda party is my kinda party for sure!

  3. 3 sydneybristow2009 June 13, 2010 at 6:21 pm

    Love the new header !

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Amyella (pronounced Amy-ella) is a pseudonym for Amy Levitt, a fitness and health food fanatic and a beach girl at heart. She has been sharing her sometimes nonsensical thoughts and self-amusing stories online since 2002 and currently spends a good deal of her time wrangling her 90 pound Rottweiler and 60 pound Boxer. Which is quite a show.
The origin of the name Amyella.

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