I went to a party tonight. It was… festive! And… party-like! With… snacks!
When I was younger I was a very social creature. Now that I am old and cranky and hate everyone and everything, I would rather be a hermit. But still, a part of my brain senses that I used to enjoy being around other people who say things like “How about that game!” and “Try the pinot grigio!” And so, when I am invited, I go. And try not to embarrass myself too badly.
Hey, brief pause here to say THANK YOU and YOU’RE SO PRETTY to everyone who’s ordered Woulda Coulda Shoulda merchandise so far. I hope to someday pass you in the street and gasp and swoon and grab you and kiss you full on the mouth while you dial 911 on your cell phone and I babble on about how you’re wearing MY SHIRT. Anyway, I bring this up to illustrate that while I would think nothing of assaulting a complete stranger with my dorkitude, I am not QUITE enough of a dork to wear my own advertisement to a party. Instead, today I happen to be wearing the “I’m blogging this” shirt that Joshilyn gave me. Because that’s just SO MUCH LESS geeky.
In a houseful of people, I discovered that the partygoers fell into one of two camps in reaction to my shirt.
First reaction type: After taking an extended period of time to read my shirt and ponder its meaning–while trying very hard to make sure it didn’t appear to just be boob-ogling–the reader would make an astute comment like, “Oh, I’ve heard of blogs! They’re, um, online political comments or, uh, something. Right?”
My response to this first class of reaction: “Sure, something like that! *crickets chirp* I have to go stand over there now.”
Second reaction type: The reader would scan my shirt, chuckle, and say, “Uh oh! Are you going to blog about me [drinking this wine / eating this chip / saying what I just said / wearing this outfit]? Teehee!”
My response to this second class of reaction: “YES, that’s the MOST FASCINATING THING I’ve seen ALL DAY! *crickets chirp* I have to go stand over there now.”
[Note to self: Do not wear this shirt out of the house ever again. P.S. Maybe just don’t go out of the house at all; seems less complicated.]
Now, normally, these sorts of parties–being populated predominantly by married couples, rather than singles looking to mix–end up with all the men at one end of the house talking sports while all the women are at the other end of the house talking about the kids. Or if we’re REALLY lucky, someone will have a good shoe shopping story to tell. Indeed, the separation of the sexes did happen at this gathering the same as it always does. Before long our hostess was pointing out that tomorrow is her anniversary, and all the women were comparing how long they’ve been married. Well, except those of us who’re divorced. The married women were telling each other, “Wow, that’s wonderful,” and us divorced gals were all “WOW, that’s a REALLY LONG TIME not to kill a guy! GOOD GOING! Tell us your secret!”
Anyway, it was all quite predictable and moderately entertaining. We women sat in the kitchen (near the food, natch) and gabbed and I was feeling amiable. Then one of the husbands came in and went over to the food table, and a minute later approached us, asking where he could find a napkin. He’d managed to drip dip down the front of his shirt. We found him a napkin and a few minor cracks were made about his finesse and it would’ve ended there if not for what happened next.
Preface: I was not drinking. This was not inebriation (at least on my part; I am not making any assumptions about the hostess or the guy), just flat-out tormenting. And you have to understand that the man in question is a big, somewhat burly police officer with a crew cut. I… couldn’t help it. And in my defense, his wife was laughing so hard I thought she was going to wet her pants.
Dip-Dripping Husband: *holding out the affected section of shirtfront* Do you have any club soda?
Hostess: Any WHAT?
Me: Club soda. He wants it for the stain on his shirt.
DDH: Yeah, to get out the stain.
Me: What are you, A GIRL? Club soda?? SERIOUSLY?
DDH: I am a METROSEXUAL. And I don’t want a stain on my shirt.
Me: You are a WOMAN. With a stain on your shirt.
DDH: Met. Ro. SEXUAL. I use PRODUCT.
Me: In your hair? You don’t HAVE any hair!
DDH: Hey, I’m growing my hair out! But no, product for my FACE.
Me: OH, your FACE. Girl.
DDH: *turning back to the hostess* So do you? Have any club soda? Or, OH! Have you SEEN the commercials for those new Tide pens? Those look great. Do you have one of those?
Hostess: Uh, I have… Stain Stick.
DDH: Is that like the Tide pen?
Hostess: It’s like… Stain Stick.
DDH: Will it take the stain out?
DDH: Because those Tide pens, they take the stain RIGHT OUT.
Me: Okay, Rainman, we get it. Definitely time for Tide pens.
DDH: You can carry one right in your pocketbook!
Hostess: In my what?
DDH: Your pocketbook.
Hostess: My what?
DDH: Your POCKETBOOK.
Hostess: My WHAT?
DDH: POCKET. BOOK.
Me: Dude. PURSE.
Hostess: Thank you! He’s not just a woman… he’s an OLD woman.
Me: I hear? He uses PRODUCT. I think he keeps it in his POCKETBOOK.
Hostess: How very metrosexual!
DDH: Wait, are you going to blog about THIS?
Me: Probably. Anything else you’d like to add?
DDH: I’m telling you, those Tide pens take the stain RIGHT OUT like THAT.
Me: Good to know.
DDH’s Wife: You know, he once ruined an entire load of towels by pouring bleach in right on top of them. There were actual HOLES burned through the towels. It’s not like he knows ANYTHING about laundry.
Do we know how to party or WHAT?