(18) Un-Democratic Party

Finally I am finished with the last algebra equation on the homework. Slamming the book shut, I then slip my socked feet into my favorite cow fur patterned slippers. Going through my mental agenda, I make my way downstairs. “Homework done, call Charissa done, pick out outfit for next day done, convince parents to drive me to the store to buy food for the party tomorrow night…..oh.” I grab my mom’s keys off of the ladies desk in the hall and jingle them together cheerfully as I enter the kitchen. Tossing the keys in front of my mother who is drinking a cup of her routine Starbucks Kona (high test), I open the refrigerator and grab the last carton of milk.

“What are these for, Daria?” My mom asks me, referring to her keys that are lying on the page of the newspaper she is reading. She looks up from the arts and leisure section to give me a puzzled glance.

“To buy more milk,” I say brightly as I empty the last few drops into the tall glass in front of me, “and to get a couple of food items for tomorrow night.” Tossing the empty white carton into the metal trashcan, I walk to the pantry and pull out the new package of double stuff Oreos.

“What party, Daria?” My mother glances back down to her paper and sips from her Smith ’77 mug with little interest.

“The one I’ve been telling you about for weeks!” I rip open the plastic covering and slide the black plastic container out onto the counter.

“Daria, Halloween is next week, dear.” She turns another page and shakes it firmly so that it can stay open on its own in the air.

“Mom, I know Halloween is next week! Tomorrow night Charlotte is having a party to celebrate Joey’s decision to go out with Pacey from Dawson’s Creek! I told you last week. You know that I was assigned to bring the chips and onion dip!” I sigh, completely exasperated with my mother who is known to forget the most trivial details at the most crucial times.

“Daria, don’t you think two parties in a row is a little much?”

“No.” I reply simply and dunk a cookie in my glass.

“Well, your father and I do.”

“What is this?” My dad enters the kitchen and grabs a cookie from my pile.

“Trip, we’re talking about Daria’s increasing time spent partying.

“Of course,” my father starts waving his Oreo while he talks, “Daria, you may go to the party.”

“I can?” I look at my dad and then at my mom who is still deep into her newspaper.

“Definitely. Just make sure you come home no later than eleven o’clock.” That is it, the final blow. My parents have just done what every teenager instantly resents, they have implied that they do not trust my better judgment and have taken away my dignity, my pride and joy, and my freedom. My parents have just issued me a curfew.

“Eleven ‘clock? The Dawson’s Creek skit contest doesn’t even start until twelve!”

I watch weakly as my mom puts down her paper, looks up at my father, and gleams. It is one of those evil smiles that a mother tends to have when she has laid down a harsh and merciless law and then realizes that her husband is in fact on her side. I watch this exchange of comradeship and prepare to firmly stand my ground, for the war is just beginning.

“I have a curfew now?” I ask calmly.

“Now that is a great idea, Daria, that wasn’t where I was going…but hey…why not?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” I glare at my father now, the anger increasing. I take a bite of a now completely mangled Oreo and chew with immense frustration.

“Of course, your curfew should change each year…next year you can stay out until midnight.” He told me this with so much enthusiasm it sickened me because it was as if staying at a party until midnight was some huge unexpected privilege. He ignored my gasp of horror though and continued cheerfully.

“Now for college, hmm, that might be a little tricky, but I’m sure we can work something out. Oh, and the evening when you turn twenty one, we’ll add a bonus half hour…that means you can stay up and celebrate drinking until four-thirty in the morning.” Now it is beginning to sound like my dad is advertising a new miracle mop with a bonus magnetic duster, not my life as a teenager on the weekends. My mother begins to giggle with her lips on her coffee mug and I can feel myself beginning to lose it.

The second rule to offering a decent argument to your parent after clarifying the situation is comparing the situation to some other known person. I go immediately to step two. “Dad, Olivia doesn’t have a curfew!”

“Olivia doesn’t need a curfew, Daria.” My mother explains.

You know you’re close to losing the battle when your parents ignore the fact that your own older sister doesn’t have to follow the rule. After all else fails, all you have left are whining, yelling at them, and/or walking away. “I can’t believe you are doing this to me! This is so unfair! You never tell Olivia she can’t go on any dates!”

“Daria, that’s a whole different story.” My dad replies. I feel myself losing control and I instantly begin to lash out at them. My face begins to get hot and my heart rate quickens.

“That is not a whole different story! If I have a curfew Olivia should get one too! Why are you doing this to me? Why does it matter how late I stay out just as long as you know where I am?”

“Because, Daria, this is about learning responsibility. No one needs to continually go to parties and not come home until three o’clock in the morning, it’s just not necessary.” My mother tries to reason with me, but nothing she says is going to make me feel better. They will never understand how awful it is to have to leave a party and miss the events that occur after your curfew. They will never understand that a real party doesn’t start until way past eleven o’clock.
“So that’s it? I don’t even get a choice in the matter!”

“Since when is this a democracy?” my father shoots back at me.

“I can’t stand this! I hate you both! You don’t understand, you don’t know how important this party is to me!” I take the plate in my hand and slam it back onto the counter. “All you do is control my life, why can’t you just stay out of it and let me make my own choices? Is that so hard? Why do you have to be such controlling, manipulative, dense people? Just stay away from me!” I walk over to the pantry and shove the package of Oreos back on the shelf next to the bag of Tostitos angrily.

“All right, Daria, if that’s the way you want it, you don’t have to go the party tomorrow night. You can stay home and read the dictionary all night.” My dad tells me, his voice calm but stern.

“Fine!” Now nothing matters anymore. I want my parents to feel some amount of the pain they have caused and will cause me from missing my party tomorrow night. I stand in front of the pantry and do something I know my parents hate more than anything else. I grab the edge of one of the pantry doors and slam it as hard as I can against the other closed one. I can see my mom’s face deeply edge into a harsh cringe. I can now almost guarantee that there is some sort of scratch or mar in the nice mahogany wood. Now she is feeling true pain. The loud crack fills the kitchen. .

“That’s it, Daria!” I can tell my dad is really angry now as I watch his bulging eyes, red face, and a clenched fist from his left hand. “You know what? You’re not going to the party tomorrow night, and you’re not going to the party next week or any other week for that matter. Daria, you are not going to go to another party until you’re twenty-one for all I care!” He hollers at me.

“Good!” I shout back and walk quickly towards the stairs. I know not being able to attend any sort of party until I am twenty one years old is not exactly a positive new rule, but I can’t let them think they’ve won, I can’t let them see me crumple.

“Come back here, Daria, we are not done speaking with you!” My mother shouts. I am already stomping up the stairs though and storming down the upstairs hallway. I reach my room, slam it also as hard as I can, and then jump onto my bed in a fit of rage. Immediately I think through drastic actions and ways of dealing with my parents once and for all. Then only thing that sticks out in my mind though is to completely stop acknowledging them as having any part in my life. I would have to start getting rides to places from my friends, and paying for my own clothes and expenses with my savings money from my summer babysitting job, but then that would not be the greatest way to live considering I could only spend about five dollars a day, not counting tax.

I remain sulking in my room, trying to think of ways of revenge on my parents for about an hour and a half. Then the image of me staying at home with them, handing out candy to greedy little kids in Pokemon and princess costumes, while my friends are laughing and dancing around to loud music, comes into my mind. The thought is too much to bear. How can I not be able to go to this party after Cameron and I had already planned to come as Fred Durst and Christina Aguilera and I have already bought a pair of leather pants? Heather might have to take my place!

I make the decision. Letting your parents know who's boss is definitely not worth missing the party of the year. Besides, your parents are always going to be your parents, and even though you might not agree with them on everything, you have to admit they do a decent amount of things for you and you do have fun dancing around in your pajamas with them in the living room to their Beatles trilogy CD. I get off my bed and look around for a tissue box. When you lose a battle, the only thing you can do is offer the best apology you can and tears are essential. You cannot possibly convince your parents that you are sincerely sorry without at least one drop rolling down your cheek. If you do this, admit that you were in the wrong, tell them you love them, offer something in the name of peace, such as never doing “such and such” again, and then calmly talk through the situation once again, unless it’s a serious situation or your parents are true ogres, it won’t be long until your parents will break down and you will resolve the conflict maturely together.

I find a tissue box wedged in a shelf in my closet. Grabbing one soft sheet and sticking it the side pocket of my cloud
printed flannel pajama pants as if it were a white flag, I walk slowly down the carpeted stairs, ready to make peace.