Fertilizer Doesn't Necessarily Make It Greener...

I ventured out to a "Holly Jolly Holiday Party" Saturday night. I know, it doesn't sound like something I would do but every now and then I have to remind myself that the grass isn't any greener in the burbs'

My friend G and her husband C were the hosts. We are somewhat casual acquaintances and I was a bit surprised to even receive an invite. She later called to inform me that she had a friend she wanted me to meet. Oh dread, a holiday fix-up! Ah, but this one is perfect for me - an attorney and a black man all in one. For some reason G thinks I am one of those blond women who only dates black men. To set the record straight, I have only ever dated one black man and he is a Jamaican with a British accent and two PhD's...hardly the stereotype. Considering all the other races, creeds and colors I've been seen on dates with it always amazes me that I am pigeonholed into that particular class of blonds. Add to that the fact that I really don't like other lawyers and it's a wonder I went to the Holly Jolly thing at all.

The real reason I had to go was that G claimed to have many single women friends. I saw this as a perfect opportunity to set CL up and watch another train wreck. It's mean, but it is fun. That, and it was time to give myself a reality check by venturing into the world of the tract homes, surface marriages, 2.5 kids and three car garages again.

The party was to begin at 6:30 and include dinner, cocktails, games, and a gift exchange. These gift exchange parties are ridiculous because you never know who is going to get the gift and I know I always end up with something I later regift to someone I don't know. If people want to spend money on strangers, they should spend it on gifts for kids and donate to Toys-For-Tots. Hey, that's a good idea for you folks hosting parties - have your guests bring a favorite toy, put them all in a box, and then take it down to a collection center.

Alas, this party was for adults and I, of course brought the gift that keeps on giving, aThigh Master. This is the perfect gift for such occassions because nobody really knows what to do or say when they open it and you know they have secretly always wanted one. Besides, everyone can use some toning this time of year...

As I was saying, the party started at 6:30 so, of course, no one arrived until after 8:00. CL picked me up in his work truck, which is a Ford Ranger with blue flames on the front. I encouraged use of the truck because 1. I knew I would need some cocktails, and 2. I knew we were headed into the land of excess and keeping up with the Jones' - none of whom would dare put flames on their truck.

The cliche that is modern suburban living began when we arrived at the gate of the housing tract G and C live in. CL and I both come from good trailer stock. There are no security checkpoints to enter the trailer park, although there should be DUI checkpoints to get out but that's another story...Anyhow, G lives in a typical suburban housing tract in poorly planned Oxnard, California. For the mere cost of $900,000 you too can own a postage stamp lot with a gargantuan house that looks just like your neighbors'. What's that? No original decorating ideas? No worries, the homeowners association you pay an extra $350 a month to maintain that security shack will provide you with complete guidelines to be a proper member of the tract and as such, never express any individuality whatsoever. From what I can tell that means owning an SUV and a sedan, having two children, and owning oven mittens that match your dishtowels. No worries that your neighbor is similarly situated approximately six feet from your house because you invite them to participate in every event that you hold at your new abode and. And they will bring candied yams and veggie platters. The women will congregate in the kitchen to discuss the latest Pier One holiday theme and the men will be in the garage hovering around a Kegerator full of delectible Coors Light discussing sports.

This was exactly the scene CL and I stumbled upon. We first circled the housing tract and noted that the HOA must have approved one inflatable santa and two reindeer per lawn, along with all white light themes. We even spotted a couple strolling along in matching santa hats. Then we came upon C and G's house. Indeed, a handful of men were standing around in the garage, plastic cups full of pissy beer in hand, discussing the merits of living along golf course fairways. Cl sighed and said we could leave now and catch a movie. I almost agreed but we were spotted (as happens in a truck with flames on it) and summoned in.

We went to the open garage door but were promptly instructed to enter through the front door for our photo opportunity. After ringing the bell, which played a chorus of Jingle Bells, we were advised to place our gifts in a color-coordinated fashion under the tree, posed in front of the Martha Stuartesque tree, and told to smile for the camera. We found our way to the kitchen and CL began grazing. I hit the bar, which was located in the garage/man-space for a much-needed cocktail, leaving CL in the kitchen with the ladies. He was promptly introduced to M who was a single, late 30's city employee that proceeded to tell him her life story and not ask a single question of him. Meanwhile, in the garage, I met D, the lawyer. He was already two sheets to the wind and using poor humor in an attempt to overcompensate in front of the other boys. Saved by the call to dinner, CL and I met back in the family room, ate some excellent food, and compared war stories from our respective set-ups.

After diner I attempted conversations with several of the clones - I say that because every woman was wearing black pants and a red shirt, every man, khaki trousers and a green sweater. I think they all saw the same photo of holiday wear in the latest Macy's ad and modeled their own looks after it. Coversation for the evening revolved around who owned which model of tract home. The 'Golden Eagle' was supreme with five bedrooms and four bathrooms but still close enough to the Fledgling to hear any of the four toilets flush and know the daily routines of either inhabitant. The party-goers could not comprehend the size of my estate and asked whether or not I was scared living "out there all alone". Will somebody please remind me what I am supposed to be so scared of that I need a $7 an hour unarmed guard posted out front?

Thank goodness it was gift exchange time. The exchange consisted of one booze-related item after another, with the occassional poker gift set or card shuffling machine. Oh, and the ThighMaster. It actually went over quite well as the woman who selected it was in her late 60's and immediately removed it from the box and began doing the butterfly. I was fortunate enough to be standing next to her husband who was also pleased with the gift and considering mastering her thighs again himself. After all, a Thighmaster will do more for your sex life than a bottle of booze any day of the week.

The games were to begin after the gift exchange so CL and I made our escape. There was no way we could tolerate a moment more of the pretense that comes with Holly Jollyness in a group of sheep. Add to that the distinct smell of fertilizer that permeated the house due to the location of the tract - next to a strawberry field - and we were sufficiently nauseated for the night.

CL drove me home and when I got out of the flaming truck, I walked through my too-high grass, took a moment to breath in the crisp, clean air, looked up and appreciated the stars that come with living miles from any city lights, and headed in to my one-of-a-kind eyesore of the neighborhood home to find my fluffy little dog and retarded cat waiting for me. I then used actual wood to make a fire in my wood stove and decided my life is pretty damned good.