Last week I went to a soiree fundraiser. Yes, a soiree. I’m a big deal.
I may not know how to pronounce the word soiree, but the way I pronounce it is “open bar” and I like the way that sounds.
This soiree was a fundraiser for a local dog rescue group, so naturally I was interested.
The fact that it included food, drink, and a doggie fashion show was an added bonus. I want to dislike dogs in costumes but I can’t. They’re adorable. It’s the same way I feel about Dakota Fanning
Because I’m so important, I obviously needed an entourage for this event, although Turtle was nowhere to be found. Pajama Jeans and Downtown Christy Brown (not their real names) and I went together and left our husbands at home to miss us. Hopefully they would fold the laundry).
The attire was cocktail, and as I’m a pro at cocktail parties, I knew it would be fine. You are probably asking yourself “Has she gone to 2 cocktail events in the last 6 weeks?” Why yes, yes I have. Didn’t I tell you I was a big deal?
DTCB drove us to the event, and the entire way there her car would lurch forward randomly and make very uncomfortable sounds. I wondered why she was driving like an 85 year old blind woman when she told me she needed an oil change.
After further investigation on my part, I discovered that what she meant by “oil change” was that she needed actual oil added to her car.
Because I’m a good friend, I wanted to distract her from the upsetting sounds her car was making, so I decided to fill the inside of the vehicle with noxious gas…my own.
I must admit it was quite pungent and did the trick, as soon the focus was on gasping for air and not on the jerky vehicle. Mission accomplished. My friends are so lucky that I’m so caring.
We arrived at the event and the valet guy was more than enthusiastic about parking our car, that is of course, until he got inside and the smell burned his nostrils.
When we were fairly certain were centimeters away from crushing his femur, he dramatically pulled his arm down in a strong motion, signalling “stop.”
Clearly this guy was a drama-major working the valet for an extra few bucks.
We headed inside and found our assigned table. We were happy to discover it was up front, located next to the stage where the fashion show would take place. Didn’t I tell you I was important?
We were unhappy to discover it was far away from the bar. I understood it was a charity function and they didn’t want to lose all their money on my vodka addiction, so I didn’t fault them for making me walk a bit to get my fix.
We headed over to the drinks and I gave new meaning to bellying up to the bar. I wasn’t wearing Spanx because they are dreadful, so my stomach was hanging out, and I knew the only way to mask it was to douse it in liquor.
Oh wait, that’s the way I help myself forget about it. Whatever, I didn’t have to look at myself all night, my friends did. Suckers!
I will also admit that I am a bit of a vodka snob. I like the top shelf stuff and I don’t mind paying extra for it. The lack of hangover the next day more than justifies my bar tab the night before.
The bartender asked me what I wanted and I asked him what kind of vodka he had. I expected him to provide me the names of several top shelf brands, but instead, he told me he had Seagrams.
Seriously?! Was this bartender kidding me?
How could he tend bar if he didn’t know the difference between vodka and whiskey? They aren’t even the same color!
I told myself he was color blind, as that was the only way I could excuse his behavior.
I reminded him that Seagrams isn’t vodka, and it seemed as if this was a revelation to him….like discovering that Captain Morgan isn’t really a captain, and that Ru Paul isn’t really a girl.
His response solidified my initial belief that this guy was someone’s paroled cousin who just got out of prison for cooking meth in his pick up truck, and this was a job he could report to his parole officer. (Hey, I watch Oz).
I asked him again what kind of vodka he had, all the while giving him an ocular pat down to ensure he wasn’t sporting a weapon of any kind. He pointed to various flavored vodkas in a brand I’d never heard of.
He tried to convince me it was a new brand but it was “all the rage.” Um, did he think I wouldn’t know my vodka brands? Vodka I know. There was no such new thing.
It was probably something he cooked up in his basement now that his meth lab was on hold, at least until after his probation period ended.
My head was hurting with all this knowledge I was imparting on the felon, so I told him I would take a cherry flavored vodka with water.
He poured my drink and handed it to me in a cup the size of the Dixie cups at pre-schools everywhere. Really?
I realized this was a charity event, but the price of the ticket was the approximate cost of 2 tires so I figured I’d at least get some top shelf vodka in something other than a sippy cup.
It was not to be. Fortunately for me I have no shame (or class), and I promptly ordered another one “for my husband.”
|Seriously, can you see the size of my drink? Tiny|
We walked around looking at the auction items and I spotted something I wanted. I wrote down a bid and decided to watch it the rest of the night to see if anyone else would bid on it. I mingled and talked to people, all the while keeping my eye on the prize.
Then I ran into a few of my friends who were also headed to the bar. I didn’t tell them it was my third trip, although they suspected it was when the bartender handed me my drink…before I ordered it.
We began talking and I had two drinks in my hands, as I didn’t want to run low on the precious substance. Since I’m incapable of talking without my hands, I began flailing my hands about and spilled vodka on the floor.
GASP! I was devastated. Not necessarily about the loss of liquor, but that I would have to return to Jailhouse Rock to get another one.
My celebrity friend grabbed some napkins and cleaned up my spill, all the while silently asking herself why she was friends with me in the first place. I’m sure it’s for the street cred.
The night continued and the food wasn’t that great, although the dessert was amazing, and that’s all that mattered.
After dessert, it was announced that the silent auction would be closing soon. I stumbled back over to the auction table and made sure my bid was the last bid on the item I wanted.
It wasn’t, and I saw a guy writing in his bid under mine. Whatever. There was still time. I stood back for a few minutes and then swooped in and wrote in a new bid about a minute before the auction ended.
As I did my victory dance (being careful not to spill my drink), I looked up to see the guy who outbid me last time writing in a bid. Oh no he didn’t!!! The auction was over.
I spoke up and asked why he was writing in a bid when the auction was clearly over and I had won. He pretended not to hear me, but I could see him holding his head in shame.
How dare he steal that item from me? I mean, he paid for it, but whatever. Some people have no class.
Shortly after losing the auction, we left. I was devastated about losing and our feet hurt from our heels. We found the drama major and had him pull our car around. We tipped him with enough money for him to buy some new mascara, and we headed home.
As we rode back to my house, the car jerking forward and backward at random times, we decided that although we had dinner and dessert, we were hungry.
We hit up McDonald’s where we definitely looked a little overdressed. We tried to convince the employees we were high rollers and just came from a soiree, but the fumes and smell coming from DTCB’s car told a different story.
I’m waiting to see all the pictures from that night and I know some of them will be posted on line. I will scour the web looking for the identity of the person who broke the rules and outbid me on the auction item, and then I will send him a bottle of flavored Seagrams vodka.
It seems like the perfect gift for that idiot, and I know just the ex con who can make the delivery.