This weekend we attended a “white party.” No, we aren’t racist, and this party wasn’t filled with hateful propaganda nor did it look like a scene out of American History X (although I would have been just fine if a hunky Edward Norton was there sporting the wife beater he rocked in that movie).
Rather, this party required everyone to wear white clothes to the soiree. My husband and I have an amazing friend who throws parties like you wouldn’t believe.
He has a sarcastic sense of humor, which makes him quite dear to my heart.
He also looks like a thinner version of Santa Clause, if Santa Clause trimmed his beard and dropped f-bombs every other word. So, to keep this blog G-rated, I will hereafter refer to this friend as “St. Frick.”
St. Frick sent out an invitation for the white party, making it clear that if we wanted to eat or drink at the party, we had to be dressed in white.
Not wanting to miss an opportunity for free food and top shelf liquor, I needed to find myself a white outfit.
Since I’m not a size 2 (and I dislike those that are), it was difficult to find a flattering white dress that covers my backside without looking like a semi. (I will make a honking noise if you do the arm signal, but I won’t be happy about it).
When I went to check out Target let me know that if I spent another $25, I could get free shipping. I’ve never been good at math, but I figured this was clearly a bargain.
Why would Target lie to me? So, I found another dress I liked, completed my purchase, and waited for the shipment.
The white dress arrived and although it wasn’t the cutest thing in the world, it would work as my ticket to all the top shelf vodka I could drink for the night (which by the way, is a lot).
My husband also found a white outfit, although he wasn’t nearly as lucky with target.com as I was.
The night of the party we donned our white outfits and headed to St. Frick’s house for the bash. As we walked to our car, Matt and I realized we looked like we were either getting married, or going to our jobs at the painters union.
We arrived and parked several blocks away, and followed the sounds of pumping music. St. Frick has the most amazing house I’ve ever seen, and his patio/pool/pool house look like it came out of the pages of Crate and Barrel.
Whenever we go to his house we find ourselves cussing profusely, cursing how awesome his house is and how lame ours is.
We arrived and saw a taco truck in front of the house. I love tacos and all things Mexican, so I bellied up to the truck and asked for some tacos.
The sixteen year old employee glanced at me and knew he would be earning his minimum wage making tacos for me all night long.
Begrudgingly he verified the taco truck was food for the party. Woo hoo!
We walked to the backyard to get the party started and were shocked to discover it already started without us.
We walked into the back and saw several different sized balls hanging from the second story of the house. It looked like there were bubbles floating everywhere and it was amazing!
We immediately found the bar. It was located in the pool house, in case you were wondering.
I felt better with a vodka in my hand, and Matt and I walked around to check things out. As I looked around, I noticed everyone was wearing white. We looked like were were members of a crazy cult, and not friends of the fabulous Mr. Frick.
Although I knew we most likely weren’t invited to to a cult ritual, I promised myself I wouldn’t trust anyone wearing white Nikes and I definitely wouldn’t drink purple Kool-Aid (unless it was mixed into my drink of course).
After downing my vodka, I set my glass down for two seconds only to look back and discover it magically disappeared. Either I was drinking too fast or we really were in a mythical place.
I was impressed but knew if this place could make vodka magically appear instead of disappear, it would be my happy place.
As I stood there thinking about such an enchanted place, a woman in all black asked if I wanted another drink. I really was in heaven!
The party was in late July in St. Louis in the middle of a heat wave, so it was over 100 degrees outside. Everyone was covered in sweat, but no one noticed, either because they were too drunk to care, or too mesmerized by the hanging balls.
I fell into a category somewhere in between.
As I felt the sweat running down my back and into my unmentionables, I started a conversation with a lovely couple noticeably sweating more than I was, which may or may not be the reason I chose to stop and chat.
We talked for a few moments until the announcement that we could begin ordering tacos from the taco cart. It then turned to anarchy as everyone bombarded the taco truck.
I suspect I spilled a drink and punched a woman in the face, but I got a good spot in line, so I figured it was well worth the violence.
To say the tacos were amazing would just be a slap in the face to the tacos. They were better than amazing. They were the greatest things I ever tasted, and that’s saying a lot as I’m a bit of a food connoisseur.
I enjoyed my first round of tacos but needed more. I was too embarrassed to return to the truck because I didn’t want the teenagers to think I was a fatty, as if they couldn’t tell.
So, I went incognito and sent my husband under the guise they were for him. Right, like anyone would believe the guy with the flat stomach was getting more tacos while his overweight wife looked on. Whatever.
I successfully finished my second round without spilling anything. I was beginning to think St. Frick’s house had magical powers, as I always spill on myself. Always.
I can eat a banana and somehow stain my shirt. It’s a gift I have. Really. Some people can paint or draw with anything, I can make a mess out of anything.
With a belly full of tacos and vodka (the perfect storm), I got to mingle. Since it was dark, people were wearing glow sticks like jewelry. Not to be outdone, I made myself a necklace and anklet, as I’m trying to bring that look back…and failing miserably.
My husband and I chatted with friends separately and then met back up to swap stories. We sat down by the pool with another couple and dangled our feet in the water, desperately trying to cool off.
I splashed water on my dress, hoping I could then use the excuse that the wet spots quickly forming under my breasts were water from the pool, and not massive amounts of sweat. I’m not sure I fooled anyone.
We headed to the car sad it was over but amazed at how cool it was.
I hope I didn’t make an ass out of myself too much, but I suppose I won’t know until all the photos come back.
I just hope we get invited back, as there is nowhere else in the world I can go where the drinks magically appear and I leave a party without a stain on my dress