So, I had this thing to attend. I got a written invitation in the mail – stamp and everything. No evite or Facebook event – a typed letter with my name asking me to RSVP (sans a way to RSVP but that’s not the point). I was pretty excited to see the invite – something about getting mail that isn’t a bill or something. I had fully intended on going – the event was on a Saturday night, not a prob because I don’t do anything on Saturday nights.
So, RSVPs are important. And I know this. Yet, I still waited around until the day before the event to RSVP. I knew the moment I got the invite I was going to go. I pretended like it got lost, that I saw it the day before and still wanted to attend. Why didn’t I just RSVP by the date? I don’t know. WTF. I made up some story about the envelope getting stuck in a magazine and was ‘it too late to RSVP??!!” (exact quote – extra punctuation and everything.
I don’t know why I do these types of things.
Maybe I’m channeling my inner calling of Hollywood lights. I’ve always dreamed of being an actress – I’m pretty damn good at it (or just good at, and enjoy too much, lying). ANYWHO. I went to this thing.
Community thing, trying to get resources together to encourage volunteering and giving back. Stuff I totally support, stand for, believe in but don’t have the focus to actually accomplish. It’s not so bad I tell myself, the invite said light h’orderves…so there will be wine. I have my mind set on cheap, at room temperature white wine. YES.
I put rollers in my hair. Why do I even have them? I don’t know. I have them and tonight I was putting them in. And I did and it sucked and I ended up turning on the curling iron anyways and my hair still looked exactly like it did when I started. Whatever. The mini-human like what I did with my hair – she saw me in the curlers and liked what I had done with it. My husband humped the air and stated “it’s like when you had short hair, hot.” AWESOME.
SO. All dressed up for this community thing. Hair flat but awkwardly bent from curlers and an iron. Makeup thick from disguising day old oily skin and too-old-to-have zits. The heels made me feel politiciany – especially in the snow. Politicians don’t wear boots, they wear heels. A three strand, stacked pearl around my neck and I felt better. Off we go.
I get to the thing. I only know the host. Community thing is a city museum – so there’s art hanging up from the local schools…it’s…cute…or something.
“EAT! Won’t anyone eat?”
I’m motioned to a small table with cheese, crackers, hummus, soda and sparkling cider. NO WINE. Feeling the typical level of defeat, I surrendered to seltzer, hummus and red pepper. I pretended to care about the paintings on the wall, simultaneously being annoyed by the ages of the kids who did them. Oh, you painted a watercolor of a majestic moose eating in the new fallen snow and you’re seven? How pretentious. So, before it spilled over onto my expression I walked away from the paintings and stood to watch the crowd. There were no tables, so I was left balancing my Coach wristlet, cup of bubbly disappointment and my plate of limpy cucumbers and hummus. I hadn’t eaten, so I was ravenous, but delicate for the crowd.
I placed the plate on the top of the cup and took a bite of the tasteless hummus. The plate slid toward me and I caught it. ‘Zesty Veggie Hummus’ all down the front of my black blouse – all the zesty now mocking me. I didn’t skip a beat. Plate caught, napkin dipped in seltzer, dabbing and rubbing and carrying on. I handled it rather nicely, I wondered who saw. But was instantly overwhelmed with – THIS IS REAL LIFE, PEOPLE – bellowing between my ears. This is it. I drank warm seltzer and got schmootz all over my favorite fancy blouse (we’re talkin’ Macy’s fancy here).
Whatever. My little wristlet served as a shield to the smears on my shirt and I carried on. I didn’t eat anymore, so when I left I was still starving (mostly from embarrassment, it’s amazing what embarrassment will do to the appetite).
With wine on the brain, and incompetency smeared down the front of me, I stopped for a bottle of cheap white wine. And more cheese, pre-sliced because I was sneaking it up the stairs and couldn’t be bothered with working out a way to sneak up utensils, too. You know when age is creeping up on you when you sneak cheap ass Barefoot Pinot, pre-sliced white cheddar and reduced fat crackers in the house.