The Celery Selection

I don't want to eat celery at a party!
Especially when I do not know anyone in the room nor do I really care to increase my friend circle. Now I have nothing against celery. It is packed with fiber and nutrients somewhere in between the flavorless green crispy water. Celery is great stuffed with crunchy peanut butter or dipped into a hot cheesy artichoke ranch dip...but alone, no thanks. I love how it is perfectly placed next to its other dull siblings; the cherry tomato, the carrot stick and the broccoli floret....come on, who wants to eat these at a party?
What I love about shitty parties is their selection of cheap cheese. When you have shitty people filled with shitty lighting and shitty music, who the heck wants to eat celery and broccoli when you have gallons of cheese cubes and M&M's awaiting your bored palate. FIber and calcium do not matter when the room is void of taste and the only thing to tickle your palate is partially hydrogenated corn syrup. When the room is saturated with boring people I will never exchange my number with, I immediately start to crave the saturated fat and the buffet table becomes my new best friend. And what better to wash down the pepper jack cheese (with fake pepper, of course) then a bottle of 2BuckChuck with the label obviously ripped off to disguise its pungent taste. No new friends, no photos taken, no life changing discoveries made, all you leave these parties with is gas and indigestion.
I love witnessing the women and their shift in tastes. I recently watched one middle sized woman linger around the buffet table at a party and eat carrot stick after carrot stick. Even though her eyes were glued to the brownies like Frankenstein stalking his mistress, her mouth was chomping on the orange root. Then as the night progressed and the wine got thicker she moved on to the nuts while her zombie eyes were still fixed on the brownies. I started my countdown as to when she was going to burst and I predicted the exact time. The hosts were changing the music, her date was in the restroom and most people were outside having a smoke when she walked over to the table and took 3 brownies in her hand and wrapped a cookie in a paper towel and quickly found her way to the kitchen sink, stuffed her face, threw away the evidence, refilled her wine, applied lip gloss in the mirror as she checked for black crumbs in the teeth then joined her friends for a smoke. Mission accomplished. I laughed with complete compassion for her because at least she goes to the kitchen to hoard whereas I go to the bathroom. Stuffing my purse with cookies is truly a talent of mine.
The next night I am invited to a posh industry gathering. Its in the Malibu Hills and is hosted by a gorgeous man wearing a suit who is never home and a beautiful woman wearing silk who never eats. Yet, they bring out the best players for this party, picking a fabulous local restaurant to cater the food. I walk into this mansion, with soft jazz playing, candles lit around the corners of the room as the lights from the other million dollar homes in the hills fill the grand open windows, and I am greeted with the 'Boring Bean Pole' and the 'George Clooney-Wanna Be'. As they escort me into their home, I walk past life-size photos of her naked body painted by famous artists from Latin American countries. Strange how the naked interpretations of her look nothing like her body. The woman in these paintings has curves, breasts and an ass. Actually, these paintings look like my body! After searching for an ounce of fat in her size 2, I do not see the hips, breasts or booty as depicted in the paintings. Though I am still confused at this misinterpretation, I take it as a compliment. 'George Clooney-Wanna Be's' might not like a full bodied women, but famous Latin American artists sure do. I knew I should have been born in Puerto Rico!
So as the skinny hostess and spiritless man escort me to the kitchen I am faced with what looks like the golden city of Lost Horizons. 3 tier silver platters of chocolate puffs, pastries, scones and biscuits, like the ones at high tea at The Grand Hotel in Brighton. Meat and Cheese from around the world with a magazine collection of bread to accompany them with. Seafood, salami, quiches, crab cakes, mini taco's and every dip imaginable. And cookies, oh the cookies; chocolate, peanut butter, snicker-doodle and sugar. How much fun are we going to have in the bathroom together. But as I suspected, I look around and see that in this home, the food section is not the popular spot to be. So I sip my wine as I try to drown the rumblings of my tummy with distant conversations with people way out of my league.
One thing I do notice at this party is that there is no celery. There are no vegetables except for in the empanada's and cream filled dips. I also see that the caliber of cheese and wine makes me feel so special to be in the same room with them. I am already exploding in my Spanx panties inside this new suit I bought. Oh the joys of suits! They look so sophisticated as they cinch in and button over your protruding stomach rolls. But I can't eat! Its not that there is an electronic zapper when I go to the food table. Its just that I have this Paris Hilton devil inside my head. Every time I order a big meal or get up for seconds at a buffet I hear Paris laugh. I see her sitting in the corner watching me put these excess calories into my mouth. She shakes her head and gives me a look of disapproval. As I put the food stuffed fork into my mouth and I promise myself this will be the last bite, she gives me a cynical tilt of the head as if she knows that it will not be the last bite, and of course it isn't. She snidely remarks that if only I ordered the salad instead of the Gyro I could have worn 'That Dress' to this party. We all know 'That Dress'. The dress you spent way too much money on and wore it once many months ago with pride. Showing off your sculpted arms by lifting your wine glass with gusto and sitting anywhere and everywhere with out the least bit of worry over what surprise guest might pop out from your stomach- you know, Roly and Poly!
But back to the party, which had an unexpected ending. Lots of interesting conversations that lasted until I could not take it anymore. It was as if I became the woman from the previous party where the carrot sticks and cashews were not enough for me. I told Paris to shut up, dropped my purse, strutted over to the table like the Mistress about to mount Frankenstein, picked up a peanut butter cookie, stuffed it into my mouth and started to moan and make 'When Harry Met Sally' orgasm noises. As I shouted the experience of the wonderful flavors that were exploding in my mouth the people started to look over at me. One by one they came to the table and bit into the cookies. Soon the food area was filled with skinny women and tan men stuffing their faces with cookies and making a melody of orgasmic chanting. This was much better than any celery selection!