“Tell me again why you come to these things Vick?” I moaned once we were out of the public eye, “I’m sick of pretending I’m Zsa Zsa Gabor.”

“Who?” Vick asked, crinkling her nose.

“You know, Green Acres? And stop that, you’re going to prematurely age yourself,” I said. She glared.

“I’m going to grab some drinks okay?” She said, fluttering away in her white dress and heels. I plopped down on an empty sofa. The music at the party was beyond agonizing, a nauseating mixture of rap that everyone bobbed around to.

If it was up to me, we’d be playing The Pixies or XTC or…

“This seat free?”

I looked up, now distracted from my inner DJ, gave a disgusted look at the guy standing there with his predictable red cup of beer and backwards white hat.

“NO,” I said loudly, lifting my leg up as if to kick him with Vicki’s dangerous looking Gucci boots. He backed off, looking a bit frightened. Vicki walked up.

“He was cute,” She said, looking back.

“Ugh, I’m not Mary Kay LeTourneau,” I protested.