All Rileyed Up

The Crazy Hip Blog Mamas writing prompt this week is a one word prompt: Home. This is very convenient, because my latest post happens to address that exact word. Home. As in, where I live. I have just now twice mistyped the word “live” as “love.” Coincidence? I hope not. After all, this is The OC, where I am exposed to this:

IH8URPL8

Sis-in-Law invited me to go to a party with her. The kind of party that has a name, a theme, and in this case, it was “White.” I was a little unsure, I mean, I didn’t know exactly how I should interpret this theme? What kind of ‘white’ are we talking about here? After all, this is The OC.

I immediately thought of a wedding I went to a few years ago, at the end of which I wound up in the back of one of those old station wagons where the backseat faces the car behind you, sitting next to a large, shirtless blond man with the word “ARYAN” tattooed across his chest, and along his back, from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, the word, “NORDIC.” It was one of those moments where I thought to myself, how do I get into these situations? That particular time actually wasn’t my fault. Friend abandoned me at the wedding to shack up with Dude, so I had to catch a ride with Total Stranger to go back to the hotel, and Total Stranger tells me I can sit in the back of the station wagon, and sitting back there is friggin Nordic Man, and I’m like, oh shit, I got in the wrong car, but what am I supposed to do, walk back to Total Stranger and say I’m not sitting next to your friend because if it weren’t for the hair, I’d call him a skinhead? So I take a deep breath and remind myself that it’s only a tattoo and maybe he’s just proud of his heritage and that’s it, and there’s nothing more to say about it, and I shouldn’t judge him on his tattoos. I’m still pondering this and they slam the door on me and Nordic Man, locking us in to our cozy compartment and then the car starts moving, and I totally feel like I’m in some weird alter reality because, as I’ve already mentioned, we’re in the backseat of an old station wagon, so the direction I’m facing is not the direction we’re moving in, and I’m watching everything just get further and further away. So I’m sitting there, moving backwards, drunk, with Nordic Man, with no idea what to say, and the only words going through my head are “Aryan – Nordic – Aryan – Nordic.” Now, it is important that you know that when I am drunk, I suffer diarrhea of the mouth. Clearly, most people in my situation might think to just play it quiet, you know, keep it cool. But not me. Oh no. I said the first thing that popped in my head, which turned out to be, “So, are you from Norway?” Yeah. It was one of those nights. Nordic Man was not from Norway (big shock to you, I’m sure), but was keen to discuss the great history of the men–not all people, just the men–and the Aryan race. As it turns out, I wasn’t the only one in the car who suffered diarrhea of the mouth while drunk. In fact, I wonder if the reason Nordic Man had been relegated to the back seat to begin with was because everyone else knew him and knew how he got when he was drunk and didn’t want to sit next to him in the car and listen to him spout about the Nordic people, and then when Random Girl (me) asked for a ride back to the hotel, they thought it would be funny to make me sit next to him. As for my part, the wedding took place just after my last semester of college, during which I had written a paper on the Eddic sagas. Nordic Man was more than marginally impressed as I regaled him with the intricate details of the life of Snorri Sturluson, and his contributions to historiography. Before we bade good bye at the end of the ride, he borrowed a piece of paper from his friend to write down a few book recommendations I gave him. I wondered if he would ever read the books. And if would mention them at his next skinhead meeting. And if he did, would he fess up that the info came from a girl of mixed ethnicity. And if in admitting that, would he suddenly realize how shameful a pursuit white supremacy is. And maybe our drunk encounter in the backwards moving station wagon changed his whole opinion on people and the world, and made him a much happier, more open minded individual. You never know. Sometimes you just gotta say, when in Rome.

So, anyways, back to the original story, Sis-in-Law invites me to this White party, and I’m thinking in my head, am I going to see Nordic Man and laugh with him about wedding memories of old? It turns out I vastly over-interpreted the situation, very similar to how I used to behave towards guys when I was in high school (“What did he mean when he said, he’d call later? Should I call him right now? I’m gonna call him right now.”). The theme of the party referred to the dress code. After all, this is The OC.

The White Party recommended attendees wear all white. Being a mother of two young children who do not follow the rules of etiquette when it comes to experiences in self-feeding, I find it’s safer for all intents and purposes to not own white clothing. This presents a problem. How do I go to the store to acquire a white outfit whilst toting the kids and making sure they aren’t wrecking the white outfits that I will not be buying, because I expect to have to try on several white outfits before finding something that looks reasonable on me, and by reasonable, I mean it makes me look like a hooker – after all, this is The OC.

I’m still trying to figure out the outfit situation and Sis-in-Law forwards me the evite. In addition to wearing white, the party is at a house overlooking the ocean where we will be able to watch the sunset while drinking cocktails, and the host and hostess have hired a professional masseuse and a tarot card reader to entertain guests, which as Sis-in-Law puts it, is a must do (the tarot card reader, that is). Wow, I thought, this is going to be some party. After all, this is The OC.

Sad to say, the party came and went without me. Sis-in-Law made a date for that same night to attend a tennis match and she thought it was going to be a daytime thing, but it turned out the tennis match was at night (which is also very bizarre. Since when are tennis matches at night?). Clearly, I couldn’t show up alone at the White party that I wasn’t invited to, so I missed out. And how sad am I to have missed out. I’ve spent most of my moping time since creating extravagant fantasies of what the tarot card reader would have said to me:

“You did in fact change the life of a skinhead and taught him that we are all one race and that women can think for themselves.”

“Your novel will be finished by the end of this year, it will get picked up immediately by an agent who worships the ground you walk on, taken to a publisher who will pronounce you brilliant, and sell to a public who will buy it like crazy because Oprah will put it on her booklist, and then bring you on her show, where she will introduce you to David Beckham while he is wearing Speedos.”

“You will never suffer any physical damage from the amount of coffee and alcohol you ingest on a consistent basis, and in fact, you will find out it has been the source of your good health and long life.”

“Your kids will always think you’re the bomb, and will grow up to become a rock star and champion swordfighter.”

In all likelihood, I suspect the tarot card reader would have said something more along the lines of, “You will get a mani and pedi next week at the spa, a boob job next year, and the newest model BMW before any of your friends, and it will have a clever vanity plate: 2BAD4U.” After all, this is The OC.