It’s My Party and I’ll Cry If I Want To… (Pics)

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So, it goes like this . . .

There we were getting ready for our annual holiday ornament party. Friends had up from orange County and from various parts of southern California. My parents were here helping along with a couple that come up from Long Beach to help us run the bar and make our celebration terrific. My husband has known them for many years, and they are from the same parts of Pennsylvania.

So I climb in the shower, and I’m doing all my normal things. Which one of my friends would call the PTA.

What is the PTA?

Well somebody might think that PTA means Parent Teacher Association. And, they might be right if there were from Alabama, and NOT in the shower.

Hmmm… The PTA.

And, like I said I was in the shower doing my normal things, which included the PTA…

Puss, Tits and Ass.

Well, let’s be real… everything does need to be cleaned, right?

I have to look, smell and feel absolutely divine for my guests that are coming for the annual Christmas party… so everything gets washed including the PTA.

So, I climb out of the shower and I’m towelling off…

I am calm, because downstairs I know that everything is in place.

The Bar.

The Buffet.

The vegetable crudite display and the candles in the chandeliers were lit.

24 Christmas Trees dangling beautiful ornaments from around the globe …

Yes, now the number had grown to 24 trees. I can’t help it. They just look so beautiful… I can’t stop buying them.

It looked like a gigantic Winter Wonderland inside my house…

Sans the snow…

And, of course, no mittens or galoshes…

79 degree California weather with palm trees outside.

A giant California Winter wonderland, okay?

We Californians have got to do it our own way… I just throw a little “Alabama” in on the side from time to time — with a Y’all here, and a Y’all there! But, you understand that I do have some of the California affectations absorbed by now, and so… well, I don’t really do anything “small.”

So, yeah, I’ve got 24 Christmas trees running up my electricity bill. It’s beautiful, dang it. So get over it.

Yes, now there I am. Unusally calm with the impending knowledge that very shortly my home was going to be alive with about 80 other minds… and the fact that I was going to have to be witty, charming, and beautiful… Well, hell… I should have been freaking out.

Don’t worry…

My calm didn’t last for long.

The help was busy prepping the hot food and everything was on schedule.

So, there I was… still damp, with my PTA’s still tingling.

I had just begun to shimmy into my beaded dress because I wanted to do all my makeup and hair after I finally got my dress on.

It’s a fabulous dress, but I don’t know why I always buy such complicated clothing. Once again, not a “step in” dress… an “over the head” dress with straps going this way and that.

Just a fricking pain in the butt to get this dress on.

Holy crap, what a mess.

I am standing there contemplating just wearing the stinking thing as a partial top since it was strangulating to get the dress on over my head and wet showered hair. One arm in, one breast out.

No problem. Throw on a skirt and my left tit will be the hit of the party.


So, I finally get the frigging thing on.

Slide it down over my hips.

Thank God it still fits.

I’ve been eating my weight in turkey, brownies, fudge and cheesecake for the past two weeks. So, my ass is about the size of Oklahoma right now.

Thank God for the proverbial black dress…

… that stretches….

A silent “yay” for  the creation of Spandex.

Bless this inventor, this Sultan of Elasticity. I will always display their label of honor on my expanding derriere…  

So, I finally get this beautiful, god-forsaken, beaded strappy dress over my head with final authority, and slick it down the side of me.


I need a frigging drink just to get this dress on.

Relax. Relax.

“Honey, can you get my a green apple martini from the bar?”

Yes, relax.

Help is on the way…

No sooner to I get the dress on… zipped up… looking in the mirror I turn left, and turn right… and of course, curse the size of my butt…

When all hell breaks loose. The fire alarm starts to go off at my house. It’s a loud blaring bell that is completely destructive to all your senses.




Aaaaaaaah! I am running down the stairs with a trail of obscenities still stabbing the air behind me. Shoeless, and bra-less. Boobs bouncing, and wet hair flopping.

80-some people are coming to laugh and schmooze in less than an hour. WHAT THE HELL AM I GOING TO DO? TELL THEM THE NOISE IS SANTA COMING…



“What the hell is going on?” I scream.

I then begin pounding the number buttons on the alarm pad.

Pressing. Jabbing. Cursing. Screaming. But, the alarm keeps screeching.

7 minutes of this was enough to drive me out of my f-ing mind. “We’ve gone to all this trouble for this party, I need for you (the alarm) to shut the hell up! (:?sdt% qvio4$ — More obscenities) ”

I was screaming so many bad words, that I ran out of them and had to make some new ones up.

I finally pressed a series of numbers that seem to work…

Aaaaah. Sigh of relief…

Well, it worked for 10 ten seconds, and then:




I have this vision of all these firetrucks pulling up elbowing my guests, “Excuse me Ma’am, but we’ve got a fire in this house to attend to.”

“A FIRE?” And, then of course my guests run screaming for their lives.


Yeah, that’s the type of celebration I wanted to have that night. Right.

Fun. Fun. Fun.


Another 6 minutes of ear-piercing stressing-inducing mind-numbing noise enveloped my house. What the heck am I going to do?

Where is my alarm company?


BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM. Pounding on the door right next to where I was standing cursing and banging the alarm codes. I could feel the vibrations of the knocking.

I’m thinking, holy crap, the firetrucks are here and I am going to get a humongous bill from the City for a false fire alarm.


I open the door, “Is everything alright here, ma’am? We got a signal at the station.”

It was a man from the alarm company dressed in a Kevlar vest and carrying a “piece.”

My eyes widen.

Double holy crap.

“Well, this alarm thing won’t go off, and in a matter of minutes I am going to be hosting a holiday party. I can’t have this thing going off! We’re supposed to be singing god-damn christmas carols! Help! I need help, man! I need this thing to stop to improve my stinking mood. I’m supposed to having fun, and I am NOT having any fun here, Sunshine.”

We finally got it to stop. “I can’t guarantee that it won’t start-up again,” he said.

Holy guaca-crapping-christmas-colored-mole.

“Well, that is the point when I will rip the freaking alarm out of the wall, sir.”

He looks at my husband. A knowing nod passes between them.

This must be male code for “and you have to live with this, huh?”

“Smile for the camera. You’re now part of this night,” I said.

So, I in barefeet and he in his kevlar, had just settled down the long alarm for a nap.

And, what to my wandering eyes should appear, but 80 familiar faces carrying ornamental reindeer.

Where up in the past the alarm rose such a clatter, and now it all behind us, it didn’t seem to matter.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and stopped all the ringing and turned with a jerk.

Laying his hand upon the side of his Glock, I thought for a moment he was going to whip out his …


You guys are so naughty… I just love it!

And, giving a nod, out the door he did flee, this house of freakouts and terminal glee.

He sprang to his patrol car, gave a loud call, “Have a great party, my dear! Oh, Belle of the Ball!”

But, I heard him exclaim as he drove away faster, “If is goes off again, I know a man that’s good in repairing wall plaster!”

The party was a great success… and, the alarm did NOT go off again.

Thank you, jeeze Louise.

We drank, and we schmoozed, and some carols we did sing.

But, the alarm stayed silent, not nearly a ring!

Here are some pics from the party!

The vegetable crudite buffet and us!

Me giggling

Me and the chicks

4 of the 24 trees

Before the party

More holiday cheer

Beginning the Ham Session

Belt it, baby!

Lou and my book

Me and my man

More cheer

My daughter and her friend

Open your eyes, man!

Our Saviour

Smile for the camera!

The Boy

What the hell am I doing?

Yay! Sing it!

Yeah Baby!


Be well,


Writer's Digest Award Winner - S. Belle Karper  A 78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award WinnerBookmark and Share

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
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About SheriBelle

Award-Winning Author & Screenwriter

2 responses to “It’s My Party and I’ll Cry If I Want To… (Pics)”

  1. SPARTICUSIAN says :

    Beautiful as ever Princess Belle love the pictures and blog.

  2. Cheryl says :

    Sounds like all turned out well and the pics are great. So in the end it didn’t matter. Happy Holidays

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