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Although my wolf family did their best trying to instill good manners in me, there remain plenty of situations where I feel lost on issues of etiquette.

Emily Post, a name synonymous with good manners, probably would have wept in shame if she’d been my wingman Saturday night. I went to a birthday party, which sounds innocent enough — until you start paying attention to Miss Post.

She writes, “A young girl of social position does not go to a public ball without a chaperon.”

I am not a young girl, unless you happen to be about 100. And yeah, the question of my social position is elusive. I know money has something to do with it, so my best guess is that I’m positioned in society somewhere between a hobo and a hobo with a really nice bindle.

And there’s the fact it was a birthday party, not a public ball, but since there was dancing — if you count grinding the ping-pong table along to Tupac as dancing — I figured it was close enough to a public ball. It had to be; she never covered such socially complicated topics as “Spinsters Crashing College House Parties.”

I know; I checked.

At least I didn’t go sans chaperon. I was invited by a couple of dudes I’d met at a bar an hour before, who knew a dude I knew, who was having a birthday party at someone’s house that I didn’t know.

Again, my gut said Post still wouldn’t have approved, and, in researching the topic, I discover I am right.

“To go in the company of one or more gentlemen would be an unheard-of breach of propriety.”


But I didn’t know that then, and was feeling footloose and fancy-free and certainly not ready to go home and eat a pot of Stovetop in front of the television yet. So I went to a party where there were lots and lots and lots of “gentlemen” and probably more than a few young girls in social positions.

Post certainly would have been tut-tutting wildly at this point, but after walking into the house, she would have been far more dismayed by the hostess.

Said hostess was not wearing pants.

Descending from the stairs in a peach Ziggy T-shirt and a pair of black panties, from far away, our hostess appeared totally pant-free, if you catch my drift. If you don’t, that’s probably good. Post wouldn’t approve of me bringing it up in conversation.

Anyhow, while at this party, such polite games of society as “beer pong,” “karaoke,” “making out in the hallway” and “drinking straight from the bottle” were played. While I chose only to participate in the “drinking straight from the bottle” game, I had a pretty fun time.

So I guess while I may never find myself at a debutante ball, or allowed into a place where shirts and shoes are required, it’s probably also safe to say Post never went to a ball where the hostess was in her skivvies.

Course, she’s probably fine with that.

Jeanine Fritz writes about bindle-sporting hobos and bottomless hostesses each Friday in the Colorado Daily. Or at least this Friday she did.

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