My Night at the Female Rugby Team’s House Party
An in-depth account from the nerd who took notes.
By Olivia W. McCoy, University of Georgia
You would think that by my junior year in college I would be well-versed in the ways of partying.
You would think.
Well, believe it or not, I attended my first house party this last weekend. I know it’s a bit sad, but to be honest I’ve never imagined a party to be glamorous enough to beat out my classic Friday-night Netflix binge.
But there’s a first time for everything, so, tape recorder in hand, I braved myself to walk into the world of the unknown. Alone, afraid and outnumbered, the night began.
Alcoholic Beverages Consumed (ABC): 0
*click* So I’m showing up to my first real house party twenty-three minutes late because I read somewhere that you can’t show up to a house party on time. I hope my tardiness is reasonably fashionable.
I turned onto a narrow street, obviously inhabited by college students. You can tell by the number of beat-up, hand-me-down, scratched, scorched and scotch-taped clunkers lining the streets, pulled up onto the curve, practically sitting in the lawns.
Driving up to my friend’s house, I see scattered people in the yard smoking and leaning on each other as they laugh.
I put my parking break on and climb out of the car, being sure to lock my own lemon behind me.
I have in my hand 1.75 liters of rum as a host gift. I’m not sure if you bring hostess gifts to house parties but I have it anyway. Please, don’t ask why I had 1.75 liters of rum in the first place, but it’s Bacardi so it’s not like you can just drink that stuff. It has to be mixed with something else, you know? Wish me luck future readers. *Click*
*click* (Immediately the mic is filled with a booming bass and just by listening to the tape you can feel the ground shaking under you. My voice is loud and I’m having to scream over the excitement.) Upon entering, I was given a hug and immediately a drink was put into my hand. It looks like everyone here has a good head start on me—What is this? What? Oh ok, thanks. *click*
*click* My first sip of hunch punch reminds me of Hawaiian Punch. Do you remember that stuff from growing up? This is stronger. Did you know that hunch punch is actually served out of plastic storage bins!? Like, big, blue plastic boxes. What is up with that? *click*
*click* Within the first five minutes they’ve already resorted to opening up my hostess gift. This should be interesting. *click*
*click* Right after finishing my red solo cup of—what was that again?—of yeah, hunch punch, we were given a round of veeeery pungent jello shots followed by a chaser. I thought it was water. It wasn’t. Whoops. *click*
It’s here on the tape that my recordings begin to become these undecipherable messes of drunk girl slurring and giggles. All semblances of research, scientific discovery and professional intonation have—how do the kids say it these days—left the building. I will, to the best of my abilities, continue to give you what I can understand.
*click* So I’m starting to—Oh hey! The birthday girl! It’s soooo nice to meet you!—uhm, yeah, I’m really starting to feel it now.*click*
*click* Oh my god, is that beer pong? How do you play? How do…what is…oh. Fo shizzle (Shots fired, direct hit to my pride)—my god I LOVE jenga! *click*
*click* What are they—in the middle of the room?—well that’s ballsy. Get it? Ballsy?—No wait! It’s my turn. *click*
*click*Apparently having a cup in your hand doesn’t keep you safe anym—a what? Again?—time passes—Ugh why does it have to taste so bad.*click*
ABC: 5.5 (I think)
*click* Indecipherable what I think is French. Louder indecipherable French accent. Screaming. *click*
*click* I don’t think I’m driving home tonight. *click*
*click* Here’s…dare. “Twerk on door.” But I don’t know…twerk…fine. *click*
*click* Apparently I don’t know how to twerk. *click*
*click* I think…better kisser than…exes.
*click* I AM LIV AND I AM ¾ ALCOHOL WOOOOOOOO— *click*
*click* A new voice enters the dead space on the tape. What kind of overalls does Mario wear? Denim Denim Denim. Get it? Heehee.*click*
*click* Why? Oh, Ok. What is this? Never mind just give it to me. *click*
Time: I have no idea
ABC: More than I should have
*click* What the frickity frack—*click*
*click* Well that is a wall. Hellllllooooo mister wall! *click*
*click* WHAT IS HAPPENING THERE’S A FIRE OH MY GOD THERE’S A FIRE THERE’S A FI- *click*
*click* The fuck am goings on? *click*
*click* Where did the rabbit come from? *click*
*click* Another new voice (female) The trick to a house party is to leave before it gets shitty.*click*
*click* This… sucks. I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungover nor will I ever be again. I woke up in a different house than I started in, clothes on don’t worry, with a dog trying to French kiss me.
Now I’m walking the thirty minutes back to my car but it’s taking more like an hour because I’m having to stop and dry heave on the side of the road every 5 minutes or so. Oh yeah, that’s sexy.
I must look like a piece of shit right now. Almost there. *click*
So as it turns out, I am not the partying type. Or, listening to this tape over and over again, maybe I’m exactly the partying type. Who knows?
While I appreciate the experience, I doubt I will be doing that again. The aftermath was too brutal. Three days later and I’m still feeling the effects from that night. Never again will I put myself through this. But, then again, isn’t that what everyone says?