Dance Party U.S. of Mexico

Ok, this post if for Little Di (aka Diana. [I have two friends named Diana, so I had to give them nicknames, hence Little Di and Big Di. But the names relate to height and nothing else.]) I was invited to the birthday party of Little Di's best friend, Omar. It was to be drinking, dancing, and hanging out all night with a bunch of Spanish speakers. Good thing I really suck at speaking Spanish (speaking EM-ish doesn't really help me much with other languages) and I understand about every 3 words, making my comprehension of a Spanish spoken sentence about a mile off target. Oh yea, it was going to be a fun, but interesting night. Maybe there would be Charades?

Little Di drove because she wanted to see me drunk (which I feel sorry for her because I hardly ever get drunk - I turn into "Mommy Mode" and start making sure everyone has a sober ride home and isn't puking everywhere - before I let myself get too wasted. Plus, when I'm drunk, I think I get quieter then normal, but I can concentrate more intensely on one specific thing, so I play a mean game of pool). I actually wore a skirt and cute shirt since Di said I would be the most under dressed if I wore my original outfit of jeans and a cute shirt. I was already going to stand out because I didn't really know anyone and I didn't speak the language at the party, so I didn't need to be the worst dressed either. The dilemma came with my choice of shoes: my purple Converse or brown boots? The boots looked good with my outfit, but they had heels and we were supposed to be dancing. For most women (and occasionally some guys) heels are not comfortable unless you've been wearing them since birth and I'm not a huge fan of the heel slogan, "being fashionable is painful, suck it up", but they looked much better then the Chucks, although the Chucks were a good fit to last hours dancing and they matched my outfit. Hum, decisions, decisions...yes, it's sad that my life is reduced to "which is a better dancing/partying shoes?" rather than something more meaningful, but you just take life in stride. Heels won the argument with Converses stuffed in the trunk for after hours partying.

The first part of the night was spent at Omar's house, a cute wooden log type building that made me instantly feel like I was at summer camp. (I don't know who designed the apartment complex, but they never grew up). I ended up doing a few Tequila shots with a bunch of the others at the party because 1.)Tequila is awesome, and 2.)The only other options were Whiskey and Vodka - yuck and "taste like ethanol" yuck. Someone handed me a lime for the chaser, but I've never really seen the reasoning behind chasers. If you like shots, or rather the taste of a certain straight up alcohol, why do you need a chaser? It's also strange that most people who need chasers are men. When I was at my wrap party for Pros vs Joes, we had free top shelf liquor and every time I got a group of the guys to do a round of Patron shots, they'd chug a bear afterwards. Wimps. You're men, suck it up and reveal in the taste of a good, smooth drink.

Back to the party, I think I managed to be polite and say, "Hi" to all of Omar's friends and I was happy to discover that although I'm terrible at Spanish, most everyone at the party spoke passable to fluent English. This night wasn't going to suck as much as I had thought, although you could most likely drop me anywhere in the world and I'd find someway to communicate with the locals and have a good time. I was out to enjoy myself for the evening and a little thing like language wasn't going to effect me.

Once we all figured out who was driving (Di being one of the unfortunate ones to be DD), we piled into three cars and headed out to Pasadena for the dancing portion of the evening. It was time to suck it up and be a ditzy girl by not complaining about the heels killing my feet or the potential to spend a great deal of time outside, in the cold, without a jacket. Most clubs don't have a place to hang your coats and it isn't very comfortable to dance with a jacket strung across your arm, let alone break out the dance moves. You could throw your coat in a corner, if you don't mind it being pummeled to dead by stilettos and loafers or you should be ok with the thought that you'll never see it again once someone else finds a use for it - a napkin for barfing, a table cloth, a jacket for themselves, etc. It's just better to not have one in the first place. Dancing and alcohol usually envelope you in a layer of warmth anyhow.

The first club we went to was a bust. Omar had reserved a table, with bottle service, but they wouldn't let in one of Omar's friends because she didn't have her passport. She only had an expired work permit and no picture ID. The doorman was saying that no one was suppose to get through the door without an ID, driver's licenses being the number 1 choice, but even though they weren't suppose to accept Passports, they were the number two choice. They also preferred only California licenses. This seemed the strangest of all considering they are a bar/night club and to exclude people based on where they live seems like a stupid business strategy. Wouldn't you want out-of-towners to come to your business, love it and then promote it to their friends that would come and visit? Why would you say you're "not suppose to accept Passports" when the U.S. Government, let alone the rest of the world, deems them an appropriate form of identification? Dumb managing/promotional skills that club has. I wonder how long they will last.

We ended up in the bar for about 30 mins before leaving to join the 4 people that didn't get in, including the no ID girl, and moving to the dance club Omar and his friends go to most weekends. Aside from the strange ID process at the front door, the bar also refused to play a song Omar had requested for his birthday. Omar wasn't very happy with how his friends and he were being treated, especially because it was his birthday, and so he felt he should abandon ship, rather then stick it out. Plus, he wanted all his friends to be celebrating with him and since some were at the other club, that's where he was headed. I understand his reasoning, but I also understand the bar's take on the subject of the ID - she really didn't have a picture ID that was valid, so they shouldn't have let her in - and the song that Omar wanted played was a Mexican Ballad. Can you imagine all the people on the dance floor bumping and grinding to Lady Gaga one minute and then a slow Ballad comes on the next. I could just see everyone stop, stare, and wonder if they'd been transported back to their High School prom, pondering if they should hold hands with their dance partner and lightly sway left and right. Um, not gonna happen - yelling, possible object throwing, and a fired DJ seems more likely. Sorry, Omar, but Ballad’s are just not good for clubbing.

Back in the car, we drove past the new club slow enough for me to read the name illuminated over the door, "Giggles"... Seriously? There was already a line forming down the street, so Di let our passengers stand in it while we went to park the car. I came with her so I could revel in the warmth of her CR-V as long as possible. Apparently that meant 3 more minutes. The line actually moved fairly quickly and when it came to the dreadful cover charge, it helped that Omar talked the doorman into letting us get in at half price, being his birthday and all. Once inside I forgot about the cold, nothing like 100's of dancing bodies to heat up a room. It was also nice to have generous guys in our party who deem it appropriate to pay for a lady's drink.

Now, I'm not really too much of a dancer, one being that I have two left feet and, two, being that I'm hugely self-conscious when it comes to me being an idiot in front of others. But over the past few years, I think that's started to change. Little things at first - taking bad pictures on purpose because this way you'll know you look terrible and you don't have to freak that someone will say something mean since you'll probably be the one starting the jokes - to more adventurous embarrassment - standing in a large crowd of photographers and asking them to sign a release while they use you as their camera adjustment guinea pig, to eventually saying, "fuck it" and jumping onto the dance floor. Dancing is a great form of exercise and it can be quite fun with the right dance partner.

Boy Number One - I wanted to dance and so I just got out there and started using some of my five dance moves. As long as I attempted to stay on beat with the bass, I didn't look like a electrified chicken. This in turn captured Boy Number One's eyes and he became my dance partner for the next hour or so. At first it wasn't too bad, both of us in our own grooves, but occasionally dancing in tandem. It quickly went downhill as we moved further and further away from my safety net of "Diana" and into a dance corner by ourselves. The space between our bodies dwindled and I was left grinding in circles. This isn't such a bad thing once in a while, but if you have to move slowly in a circle while moving up and down on the person next to you for longer than a couple of minutes, one tends to get bored. Plus grinding doesn't work for every song the DJ plays, no matter how much you want it to.

I started to watch the people around me, occasionally laughing at their awkward dance moves or bad outfits while circling. Clearly my attention had wandered, but Boy one didn't notice. I can't help but feel like I should make my boredom more obvious sometimes, but is that truly a confidence killer to the man? I tried to break apart from Boy One to dance to my own beat, but he wasn't getting the hint. It was time to cut my loses and find the rest of the birthday party before Boy One asked to kiss me again for the third time. Sorry, dude, but just because a girl wants to dance with you, doesn't mean she likes you. Dancing is just that, dancing, not a move used to make out, unless both parties are aiming for that goal.

Boy Number Two - We found the rest of the crew and chatted for a bit before my hand was grabbed and I found myself back on the dance floor. This time though, I was still within sight range of Diana, my buffer, and Boy Two could dance. He also was willing to teach me, having patience to deal with my ''out-of-syncness" on the salsa songs. We danced round and round, literally because he liked to twirl me, for over 2 hours. It was refreshing because I could dance with someone who didn't want to constantly be "up on me" the whole time, I was learning dance moves six and seven, and he was good company. Little did I realize (yes, I'm ignorant) that if you're laughing and looking someone in the eye every now and then when you dance, they take that to mean you like them. Grrr.

I made up a fictitious boyfriend to hopefully deter Boy One and Two's ulterior motives, but I don't think that ever, truly worked. I think when a girl says she has a boyfriend, it spurs men on to try and prove they have something better for you then the person you're with. It shouldn't be that way, but it's true; Men, like the rest of the animal world, love the challenge of fighting for a woman's "heart", only they use dance moves and words instead of horns and heads. In the end someone still goes home with their tail between their legs, and usually both parties involved are a little less happy then when they started the evening.

Anyhow, Boy Two stuck with me for the remainder of the evening, even coming back to Omar's place after the dancing. Boy One had vanished shortly after I escaped him, I think, having headed home because he didn't want to stick around watching me dance with someone else. Seriously, dude, not to be too rude, but I only wanted to dance and I'm sorry if your feelings were hurt, but you could have sucked up your remaining pride and found someone else to dance with, no need to leave. But whatever...

Once back at Omar's place, everyone pretty much was drunk (not me, because I'd switched to DD after Di wanted to drink more. I didn't mind because I'm usually DD and drinking doesn't do much for me besides give me a tummy ache and a killer hangover) and chatting away. Omar put on his Mexican Ballad, turning the stereo up and singing in a circle with his friends. Quite a sight and funny if it wasn't 3 am and most of the people at the party being illegals. No need to encourage the cops to show up at the door. Once the song ended, Di and I got the stereo lowered to an acceptable volume and while I chatted with Boy Two and "Cute Older Guy" (as Di named him), Di put most of the drunks to bed in various chairs and couches in the living room. Even if she couldn't drive, she could still Mother.

We were all hungry, but most of Omar's food had to be cooked. The meat needed to be grilled and carrot sticks weren't cutting it. Someone found a tin of pasta and shrimp that could be baked, so Maria One (it seemed all the girl's at Omar's party had Maria in their name) and I tried to turn on the oven, but quickly discovered it was non-operational, or it just took a lot of time and some special handling to make it heat that we didn't know about. Omar was pretty much useless at this point and was promptly put to bed by Maria One and Di. That left myself, and a bunch of drunks to figure out the dilemma of cooking a pasta tin in the microwave. "Cute Old Guy" said to cook it on defrost, Boy Two said to put it on high for 15 minutes, and Boy Three said to just eat it.

I didn't want to get sick and I was worried that all the different heat settings the thing suffered through would be bad, but after 20 minutes of the pasta sitting in the microwave after being half defrosted and half cooked on one side (the container was too large to spin), I gave in to my hunger, pressed high cook button for 10 minutes and watched the cheese melt. At 4:15 in the morning, beggars can't be choosers and food is food. We'd worry about the food poisoning in the morning (well, later that morning).

Back to the group of boys Di and I were left with. Boy Two works for a company that sells random things to other companies - a legal form of hustling. Since I had complained for the last half of the night to him about how painful my feet were feeling, he said he had slippers in his truck and he'd get me and Di a pair. He walked out the door and came back a few minutes later with 2 sets of purple fuzzy slippers. He really did have them in his car. They matched my outfit, but looked like something out of "Purple People Eaters". I didn't care as long as they weren't the heels. Too bad they were a size too small and my heel met the floor every time I took a step. I really did like them, but slippers shouldn't be small.

Boy Two also confessed to me that he knew there was something special about me the minute he saw me walk through the front door of Omar's place earlier in the evening. I told him it was probably because I had the whole, "Token White Girl" thing going on, but he smirked and said that wasn't it. Maybe he caught a whiff of my "crazy-person pheromone", but other than that, I think I'm just normal, no special thing. A white girl in a pink skirt.

Boy Three, is just that, the third boy of the night to have a small crush on me. I don't actually set out to make guys like me, I rather take the opposite approach and try to deter them from wanting to go out with me, but somehow the wires get crossed and they develop crushes. Too bad this isn't High School and crushes can be innocent. Boy Three was beyond trashed and his girlfriend was sleeping it off in the corner. Some song came on the radio that he needed a dance partner for and so I was his first choice. We danced for a bit, but again, it was the circle thing, and I quickly left. He figured dancing didn't work, so he'd try chatting me up and asking if I wanted to go out with him. I asked why he was hitting on me with his girlfriend in the other room, and he pretended he didn't know what I was talking about. See, pretending to be ignorant of a fact is bad when the proof is next to you and if you're drunk... drunks suck at lying. I shot him own in plain English, without regards to his feelings. Obviously he doesn't care about other people's so why should I console him.

Boy Three was also friends with "Mean Drunk", one of the remaining guys who is not a nice person when he drinks. He didn't think he was as drunk as he was, so he wasn't too fond of all us semi sober people telling him to sleep it off. Little Di had the lovely task of trying to get him to rest for a bit on the couch, but it took a lot of handholding and patience. I would have probably just conked him over the head and laid him on the couch. That's probably why I wasn't in charge of getting the drunks to bed.

After Little Di escaped "Mean Drunk", she had fun entertaining/talking with "Cute Old Guy" who really wasn't that old (just older than us) and who had beautiful eyes. He happened to be the next best thing to sober in the room and was a good conversationalist. Di really wanted to ask him out, but she wasn't sure if he was flirting with her or just being polite. Especially since he brought up his girlfriend who he was having a going away party for (she was headed back to Chile for an indefinite period of time) the following weekend and would Little Di be interested in coming? A strange request, seeing as he has a girlfriend, but she's leaving, and he is inviting a girl he just met. He said he would tell Little Di the extenuating circumstances about him and his girlfriend, but only if she came to the party. Little Di said no. Maybe she'll find out another way.

By 5:15 am, we'd eaten, managed to clean most of the house, evict the people sober enough to drive, wash all the dishes, and put "Cute Old Guy" to bed on the newly vacated couch. He was sober, but didn't feel like driving the long distance to his house and figured he'd catch a few winks at Omar's. True, true, but "Cute Old Guy" had just met Omar a few times, so he didn't really know him. It must be a guy thing that allows them to feel comfortable enough to crash on a practically stranger's couch and not feel odd. I would feel so weird that I wouldn't be able to sleep and then I'd drive home even later then originally planned and feeling worse. It's just better to head out after everything's finished, then to stay, at least for a girl or maybe it's just me and my trust issues.

Little Di and I got home at 6:04am. The sky was beginning to lighten for the coming sun, casting everything in peaceful purple hues. The night turned out to be quite entertaining, getting me out of the house and trying new things. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday and the wee hours of Sunday. It was off to bed for three hours before getting up to spend Easter Brunch at Di's mom's house. But that's another story...