Not necessarily that I told you about it, but if you know me at all, or read this blog somewhat regularly, you know that I would inevitably embarrass myself at a holiday function. Mission accomplished.
My husband and I have an amazing friend, St. Frick, (not his real name) who lives an amazing life with amazing friends.
For some strange reason, we are included in his list of friends, most likely because we are the charity case and he feels sorry for us and our lack of taste in artwork.
A poster of Johnny Depp is considered classy, right?
He is known for throwing over the top parties and the invitations for these parties are highly coveted, as the food and drinks are delicious, and the company is fantastic.
Normally, Matt and I can be easily impressed with the artwork carved into the side of a watermelon at a buffet line, so maybe believing my tale of amazing food isn’t an educated decision. But then again, if anyone knows good food…it’s this girl.
So trust me when I say his parties are fabulous.
We received the fancy invitation for the party and immediately thought it was an error, and delivered to the wrong house. No one sends us fancy invitations to anything.
I wish I was kidding about that. So getting a fancy invitation with font other than Times New Roman was exciting to us.
The fact that it wasn’t on copy paper was just an added bonus.
The party wasn’t called a holiday party or an end of the year party. No. That wouldn’t be good enough.
Since it was after Christmas but before New Year’s Eve, the party was called “The After Party.” Of course it was.
Now the only experience I’ve had with an after party is when the twin singing duo known as Nelson came to my college and we went to a bar afterwards where we ordered quarter pitchers and played darts.
Somehow I had a feeling this wasn’t what St. Frick had in mind, although I figured he might like me to bring those adorable long-haired twins.
My only other experience with an after party is what we used to call “after bars” in college, which was always at a frat house and it was in a basement with cheesy music playing and one candle lit to cover the stench of vomit, beer and STDs.
Again, I didn’t think that’s what St. Frick was imagining.
Naturally, Matt and I knew we were going to attend. After all, this was a holiday party we could get on board with, as it didn’t involve drunk relatives or the child molester from down the street asking every boy under the age of 10 to sit on his lap.
We texted St. Frick to let him know we were in. I’m sure he was less than thrilled when he realized the riff raff accidentally got his invitation and were planning on attending.
I could practically see him moving his expensive pieces of artwork into storage just to avoid another incident of me knocking something expensive over.
Because I’d never been to a fancy “After Party” before, I didn’t know what the attire would be. Naturally, I figured Pajama Jeans would be appropriate, but thought I would ask to make sure.
I texted him and asked him what the attire was for the event. Here is his exact response: “No Pajama Jeans. Holiday cocktail party. Pretty. Sexy.”
Does this guy know me or what?! I both loved and hated how he knew I would wear Pajama Jeans so he immediately forbid me from wearing them.
I wasn’t sure what “holiday cocktail party” attire was, but I didn’t think a Christmas turtleneck with a duck in a Santa hat would fit the bill (no pun intended). So I decided to grab my flashlight and go to my trusty closet for wardrobe options.
I figured cocktail party attire meant something fancy, and since I’d recently been to several cocktail parties, I had some outfits I knew I could wear. Okay, I’d been to two parties in two months, but in my world, that’s a lot.
I found a dress that I thought would be appropriate, and I decided to spice it up with a faux fur little shrug. The outfit was adorable, and it didn’t cost me anything, which made it all the more attractive in my eyes.
It was also shorter than the dresses I normally wear, so I figured it would meet the definition of “sexy.”
I decided to go with my hair partially up and then swept back in a simple style that looked formal yet messy. I’m not sure the messy look was intentional, but it looked like it was.
I’m not someone who uses hairspray, or any form of hair product, as evidenced by my simple hair style, but since this was a big event, I decided to be fancy and use some.
I located a bottle that had to have been 10 years old. The sprayer was broken, but my husband was able to fix it so I could spray away.
I doused my hair in hairspray and when I was done the entire bathroom smelled like it did when I was in the 7th grade and thought crunchy curls were attractive.
Well…it almost smelled like that…minus the stench from the aftermath of a lunch of burritos. Fortunately, no candles were lit in the house, which is a good thing, as I was pretty sure the entire room was a powder keg.
After coughing up half the can of Aqua Net, I emerged from the bathroom and grabbed my heels and jewelry. Yes, heels. I didn’t wear my Uggs to this event. Can you believe it?
My husband was pleasantly surprised by my appearance, but I figured it was mostly because I matched and didn’t have any stains on my dress (yet). After being with me for a few years, his standards dropped on what he finds acceptable.
We headed out the door and to the party, all the while wondering if we were dressed up enough and if we would fit in. After we parked the car I turned to my husband and gave him the usual pep talk I give whenever we go to a party with St. Frick.
“Don’t fuck this up for us. These people are awesome and we don’t want them to figure out that we bring nothing to the table, other than empty plates. Put your game face on and don’t screw this up for us.”
Pretty motivational, right?
We walked up the path to his house and were in awe of the beautiful lights and decorations. St. Frick knew how to throw a party and he definitely knew how to decorate one. As we approached the house, I saw another couple walking up as well.
As we got closer, I looked at them in an effort to figure out if they were in similar holiday cocktail attire. Upon closer inspection, I realized both of them were wearing jeans. Pfft!
They were going to look like idiots when they walked in the door and saw everyone else dressed up! I secretly couldn’t wait to watch them be humiliated.
We walked in behind the dingy couple and surveyed the room.
WHAT?! Where was the holiday cocktail attire? There were people in nice jeans and fancy tops and heels, but no cocktail dresses. Where was the sexy attire? Was this a joke?
St. Frick approached me, gave me a hug and told me I looked beautiful. Yeah, because I was completely overdressed.
“What happened to the holiday cocktail sexy attire?” I asked.
He looked at me and smiled and said I looked perfect.
We forged ahead and stayed at the party until we shut it down in the wee hours of the morning. I decided I wouldn’t let my cocktail dress get in the way of my enjoyment, and I didn’t.
I also wasn’t mad at St. Frick for his explanation of attire. For a guy who only sees me in sweat pants and ratty t-shirts with no bra, it wasn’t a stretch for him to believe I would dress down for the event.
Perhaps he thought my idea of “holiday cocktail” would be what everyone else’s idea was of dressy casual. I couldn’t blame him. But next time I get an invitation to one of his parties, I’m wearing Pajama Jeans no matter what he says…