“Have you seen Sex and the City?” the woman asks,
stepping a little too far into my personal space, with an anxious look
in her eye that suggests my best answer would be yes.
“I have…” I say.
“Look who I hung out with last night!”
On the screen of her digital camera is a picture of her and
“Steve” from Sex in the City, the short,
squirrelly, curly-haired dude who played Miranda’s
boyfriend/babydaddy/husband. Apparently “Steve” was in Seattle last
night to make an appearance at some kind of work function. The woman
walks away when I ask where she works.
Next to me on the dance floor in the basement of the birthday girl’s
house is the “party mascot,” a guy wearing a sweatband and a
T-shirt with six-pack abs painted on it.
Back upstairs, people are downing shots with Tabasco sauce in them
and eating snacks like Kix cereal and fancy cheeses. An earthy,
smoky scent wafts into the kitchen from the back porch. Armed with no
liquid courage, I make friends with the cat and admire the Raggedy Ann
and Andy dolls above the fireplace until a nice third-grade teacher
introduces herself.
Everyone is laughing, everyone is attractive—a party
perfect enough for a movie. I sneak out when the host announces
the dance floor is officially open. I didn’t really crash the party; I
just kind of bumped into it and shyly scuffled away. 
Want The Stranger to befriend the inanimate objects in the
living room at your party? E-mail the date, place, time, and party
details to partycrasher@thestranger.com.
I’m actually the guy in the muscle shirt. No shit. And I’m the first commenter. And it was a fucking fun party.
Firsties- you weren’t the “party mascot.” You are the Tag Team mascot and don’t you forget it. Unless you want to get text bombed into oblivian.