Latch key kid part deux, a cautionary tale

The freedom of being a middle school latch key kid in the '70s occasionally had its consequences. I did nothing to jeopardize those freedoms in sixth and seventh grade when I was a clueless nerd (6th grade) and a nerd who, at least, washed her hair regularly (7th grade). But by 8th grade, I'd finally gotten my wings to "work" (ie. my Farrah Fawcett hairstyle feathered back successfully). I had my Dr. Scholl's and my satin roller skating jacket. I was on the margins of popularity; not quite there, but it was within reach.

Hoping to clinch the deal, I threw a party. My mom was home, but stayed upstairs because she trusted us. Big mistake, as it turned out. The popular kids showed up, some of them already intoxicated, and I stood idly by while they raided our bar. My logic: If I did nothing while they drank all of my parents' alcohol, maybe they would invite me to sit at the cool table at lunch.

After Billy, one of the cutest guys in school, threw up all over our couch, I finally went to get my mom. Of course by then I was all, "hurry! hurry!" Mom made Billy clean up the couch, called everyone's parents, and I was not allowed to have another party again until my senior year in high school...I'm still waiting for the invitation to the cool table.


Popular kids displaying items from my parents' bar.