I don't care if it's Tupperware, Pampered Chef, Sentsy or the latest jewelery craze...I won't go.
Bridal shower? I'd rather not.
Baby shower? I'm probably working.
Thrown by a Mormon? Ellhay Onay
Now, if it's a birthday party of someone I love, or if everyone is getting sloshed, I might consider it (because intoxicated people find me particularly charming). But keep it straight up LDS and there is very little that is going to convince me to go.
Mormon parties are pretty much all the same. There is going to be a big bowl full of frape or some non-alcoholic Mormon punch.
And you can probably bet your church donation money that there will be chicken salad. I have no idea what it is, but Mormon's think if you throw out a tub of chicken salad and some croissants you have created the ultimate soiree.
Then there's the token veggie tray and some sort of sweet. You can go one of two ways on the sweets. Either they are a total score and full of fatty goodness, or they left dessert up to the woman who home schools her kids and dabbles in veganism and insists on only baking with apple sauce and whole wheat...which, in case you've never had the pleasure of eating, tastes like lumps of wallpaper paste. But you eat them with a smile and ask for the recipe...because that's the good Mormon thing to do.
So, that being said. I do my best to avoid Mormon parties. ESPECIALLY bridal and baby showers. I mean, I am thrilled by other's happiness of moving on to the next steps of adulthood while I continue into my 23rd year of adolescents. I am. Totally thrilled. What I'm not thrilled about is the other guests.
See, I don't keep up with the latest Mormon layering fashions...
Then there are the games. Do we honestly need to melt candy bars in disposable diapers and then try and guess what they are? Do I give a damn about what baby food tastes like? Do I want to insult the mom to be by guessing her circumference? No. No. And No.
So you might say it had been YEARS since I actually accepted an invitation to any kind of Mormon party. But I caved to peer pressure a couple of weeks ago and went to a baby shower. Sure enough, there was fun punch and chicken salad and lots and lots of layers and headbands and a tidal wave of ooos and ahhs over all of the little baby things.
"Oooooh....black and white polka dot pants! Soooooooo adorbs"
Followed by shallow conversation and lots of tips about diaper genies and breast pads and nursing bras and all things mammillary. I guess the boob convo went to far when the mom-to-be opened a book:
This is where the party took a turn for the better in my opinion. It's also about the time my inner 14-year-old boy came out. I can't help it. The word "boobies" is funny on a normal day. Add it to a room full of conservative women quietly whispering "boobies" to one another and well...I start to giggle. And it just kept getting better.
I realize that most people probably don't look (and certainly wouldn't admit) that when they look at the world and see male and female genitalia everywhere, but I confess...I do. I can't help it. The moment I learned the definition of phallic I've been on the lookout. I'm pretty certain this gift also stems from my inner 14-year-old boy. Anyway. The moment I started giggling the room exploded in "boobs", I started seeing them everywhere.
The highlight was the capstone homemade gift. BIGGEST. BOOB. EVER. Everyone was oohing and ahhing and loving it, but I...I was frantically trying to get my roommates attention so I could point to the gift and mouth "BIGGEST BOOB EVER!"
She was not amused and refused to acknowledge the likeness.
But I know a boob when I see one. And it was a boob...a jug...a knocker...a titty...a girl. It was what it was. The sooner we all see it, the happier we'll all be.
P.S. This is also why we should never put cherries in the center of pineapple rings on top of cakes. Boobs people...it's all about the boobs.