I didn’t expect to have to omit so many inappropriate details in a blog post about a party thrown by the 45-year-old parents I babysit for, but here we are.
In case you haven’t been keeping updated on my blog: 1. whatever, I don’t like you anyways, and, 2. this past semester I have been tutoring three kids in English a couple times a week.
Oh, and the family I tutor for is, quite frankly, the shit.
This past Tuesday, before leaving the house, the parents invited me to a Cuban-themed party that some of their friends were going to be throwing on Saturday. The dad warned me that there would be a lot of drunk French adults with fake cuban mustaches, as if this was a deterrent and not the surest possible way to get me to go.
I spent a good amount of time and stumbled upon quite a few interesting websites trying to figure out what kind of thing I should wear to coincide with the Cuban theme. After all, how slutty is too slutty when picking a costume for a themed party thrown by people who put you in charge of their children? My sorority days had definitely not prepared me for this: push-up bras and neon onesies surely do not scream “your kids are safe with me!”. In case anyone is actually invested in what I wore (which I really hope for your sake you aren’t), I finally decided upon a long flowered dress with a questionably-appropriate neckline, put a fake carnation in my hair, and called it a day.*
So we got to the house and I was pleased to realize that I finally did it: I was FINALLY the hottest girl at the party. Granted every other woman there was over the age of 45 and wearing a Cuban mustache so I wasn’t exactly playing in the big leagues, but it’s still a victory. Take THAT every cheerleader I ever went to high school with!**
A few highlights from the evening:
Who is that random girl and why is she obsessed with our dog. Oh my gosh there was a dog there! And it was so cute! It’s name was Oreo and after about six million games of fetch last night, we are pretty much besties. Okay, I know I sound like kind of a psychopath, but seriously I miss my dog more than I miss Big Gulps from the gas station, and I REALLY miss Big Gulps from the gas station. I’m not sure what it says about me as a person that I would have been perfectly content chilling with the dog all night and having absolutely no human interaction, but I think it will prove handy should I turn out to be the next Miss Havisham.
This is the song that never ends. The family hired a salsa band to go along with the Cuban theme, which meant I couldn’t use my usual fallback moves on the dance floor: the Dougie, the facewash, and the “look at me I’ve got boobs”.*** Luckily, there was an abundance of creepy French dads who wanted to show me how to salsa dance. I have to be real though: it was actually really fun! Usually I get a little self-conscious when dancing while practically sober, but I was comforted by the fact that I couldn’t possibly look more ridiculous than old French guys wearing flowered shirts and fedoras. There were only two fails of the night: 1. never getting my hands on the bongo drums, despite my best efforts, and 2. being almost groped by a creepy French dad who kept insisting on dancing with me. I’m not sure if it was the stench of old cigarettes or the fact that he was looking at me with the expression of a serial killer which was more off-putting, but either way, I could not wait for the song to be over. Unfortunately, every song the band played seemed to last for at least 10 minutes, with a bunch of fake stopping. Every time the music would come to an end, I would start walking away and basking in my freedom, only for the band to take up the song again and my hand to be grabbed by the sweaty guy in the fedora.
Getting rid of those pesky work formalities. I’m not an expert, but I’m pretty sure professional courtesy goes out the window the minute your boss dances to Katy Perry’s “Firework” in front of you. And also when you take shots with them. And also when you eat chile together (in some cultures, we would actually be considered married after sharing such a meal****) The parents I tutor for have always been so welcoming and nice, and last night was no different. They were even a bit protective, a couple times coming to say hi and checkup if I happened to be talking to anyone of the male gender. At one point there was a song playing that legitimately just repeated the phrase “feed the whores” for about ten minutes. It took me about three minutes before I couldn’t help myself, and had to ask the parents if they knew what the song was saying. They were quite confounded when I provided the translation. I’m just all about bridging that cultural gap!
One thing about the party was certain: it’s a good thing that I love being the center of attention. If you are ever the only American (or foreigner for that matter) in a huge place filled with Frenchies, be prepared to hear about the following three things quite a bit: New York City, Kanye West, and how big the coffee cup sizes are (in that order). Also, it’s kind of like being at freshman orientation again: be ready to say your name, where you’re from, and what you want to do with your life about sixty million times.
With only one week left in France, I can only hope I get one more chance to salsa dance….or at least eat some chile.
*When going as a random to a themed party, I always like to go middle-of-the-road. I like to wear something that coincides, but that is at the same time non-comital. I’m not trying to have a Legally Blonde pink bunny situation.
**In all fairness, there’s still a chance I wasn’t the hottest girl at the party.
***All of these moves are better suited to the musical treasure “Get Low”.
****I actually just completely made that up.