The other night I went to a Mardi Gras party given by a fabulous friend who was born to be a party planner, even though she is not a party planner and she's thinking about a career change to meteorology, which I'm like, "For Real?"
Because the weather is not even close to being as fun as a party. In fact, the weather most of the time, is booorrrriiing.
Unless you're a senior citizen.
I have come to realize senior citizens find weather and conversation that revolves around weather to be one hell of a sizzling good time. Seriously, have you spoken to a senior citizen, lately?
I was having a conversation with my husband's 85-year old uncle, whom we call Uncle— that's it— just Uncle, about the Tiger Woods debacle.
I was hypothesizing about Tiger's car accident and his bloody, black-eyed, jacked-up injuries that most certainly did not come from an air bag and the fact that it must really come in handy when you find out your husband's a slimy Ho-Dog, to have an inordinate amount of high-quality golf clubs at your disposal.
And Uncle said, "I wonder what the temperature was that time of night?"
Seriously. The most salacious story of the year and you want to know the Fahrenheit?
I'm going to make a concentrated effort when I get older to avoid any subjects of weather and make it a rule to never, ever become an early-bird diner.
But, anyway, back to my party story. My friend who is tall and blonde and beautiful and from Texas and about the classiest lady I know, gives the most fabulous parties. And since she has also lived part of her life in New Orleans, she is a Nawlin's party girl, through and through.
I went to the party solo because my Hubby had some pressing family matters involving senior citizens, that did not involve weather conversation.
Since I have been hitched to this Dude for a very long time and since we are one of those sickening couples who do everything together, (Well . . . it's not like we're attached to the the hip. He has his interests and I have mine. And we're not annoying in like we finish each other's sentences. And we definitely would NEVER wear matching clothing. If my color scheme even closely resembles his, he'll turn right back around and change, because he doesn't want to look "gay". And I always remind him that the matching shirt thing is the least of his worries when it comes to his fear of looking gay, since he wears a man purse and pushes his guns around in a stroller. And we're not like John Tesh and Connie Selleca, all preachy to the world on how to keep a marriage ALIVE through the playing of John Tesh music. I would rather walk on hot coals to save my marriage, if that's what it took. I can guarantee you it would be a hundred times less painful than John Tesh music. And we sleep in a king-sized bed, mainly because he tells me I'm too hot if I even lay so much as a pinky on him during sleep and I hate FEET TOUCHING ME! And for the most part we don't even watch TV anymore in the same room. And we're definitely, definitely not this couple:)
But what I'm trying to say is, the important stuff — time with our friends, Saturday nights, dinner together, date nights, laughing together until we bust a gut — that's us.
And we always go to parties together. We're great at going to parties together.
I felt all out of sorts going solo and so I did the next best thing, I forced asked Tim and Michelle to be my dates.
It was a fabulous party.
Now, whenever I'm at a party, I like to seek out the dude standing in the corner all alone. Those folks, the ones hovering just on the edge of the periphery like they don't fit, are always the ones with the best stories and I love a good story and I love folks that don't quite fit. The crowd at this gathering was all around suburbia age. But, I noticed a young, stunning girl who looked more like she should be guzzling down cheap beer out of a plastic cup at a frat party than hanging out discussing the almoooost there stock market correction and God's greatest gift to women: Spanx.
This girl, I am certain, thinks a spanx is a cat-like animal that lives in the jungle.
So, we talked. And she was a cool girl.
The party rocked well past the witching hour and it was a little after the witching hour I started missing my hubby. Around this time, his coat would be draped across my shoulders to keep me warm, his big hand would be enveloping mine and we'd be laughing and talking together with all our wonderful friends, just waiting for one to give the signal to the other that it was time to go.
Not that I wasn't having a good time, mind you. I just like it better when he's around . . . except if it's anywhere near a toilet. Then, no.
At one point, late in the night, I plopped myself down on the kitchen floor to give some love to my friend's 3 dogs. Because I don't have enough dog fur already covering my clothes.
Her little pugs, one that she rescued recently, were cuddly and sweet.
Miss Young and Beautiful joined me on the floor in her teeny, tiny spanx-less black dress. She'd had a few cocktails and since she didn't have an ounce of body fat, I think she was feelin a groovy kind of buzz from her few cocktails.
I only say this to help explain what happened next.
We talked about how cute the dogs were as we petted the squirmy blobs of fur. She oohed and ahhed over the rescue pup, telling me how much she loved his little face and how very much she loved, loved, loved, looooved dogs.
I nodded my head and told her, I too, loved dogs. (I didn't add all the love, love, love, loooooves, since I was driving and therefore, not drinking because if I had been knocking back a few glasses of wine, I would have been ALL about the quadruple love.) I told her I also had 3 dogs, 2 of them being puppies, because I'm all about the dog love . . . and a masochist, apparently.
She said, "Ohhhhh, what kind?" As she kissed that little pug right on the mouth. (A sign of a true dog lover.)
"Labradoodles." I answered, waiting for the sparkly excitement that always comes when I announce I own this new kind of hybrid dog.
She tipped her head back and let out a small agonized groan as if I had pained her and said, "Ohhhhh, I haaaaaate those dogs!"
I was so taken aback by her honesty, I burst into laughter. Seriously. It was the most refreshing, real thing, ever. I absolutely loved it.
She didn't try to apologize for her admission. She just kept kissing the dogs on the mouth and groaning about Labradoodles.
I related my story to Michelle who fumed over my tale since she owns one of my Labradoodle pups. She traipsed over to Tim, all worked up, and told him about the hater.
Now, I often say Tim and I were separated at birth. We're The Twins. I am Danny DeVito and he's Arnold Schwarzenegger. We're one brain in polar opposite bodies. For instance, we both love asparagus with a great passion and think Charlize Theron is the most beautiful woman on the planet and we're both the ignored, suck-it-up middle child in enormous families. So, we get each other, totally.
Tim had my reaction, busting a gut at Beautiful Girl's admission.
Tim and I have decided real candor is simply delightful and we're going to start a whole new trend.
A mother says, "My 18-month old, Pembroke Hampton, is so advanced for his age. He's reading Shakespeare!"
Just throw your head back and say, "Ohhh, I haaaaate that name! What's wrong, you couldn't think of anything douchier?"
Or better yet, "Ohhh, I haaaate toddlers and their douchy, pretentious parents. How can you tell he's saying, 'To be or not to be' instead of 'I've got crap in my pants'? Seriously, it all sounds the same."
A waitress tells you her life story, even scooching you over to sit down as she takes your order, telling you how swollen her feet are and how she works 2 jobs and . . .
You say, "Ohhhhh, I haaaate all your talky-talk. I order the wild salmon and this is what I'm hearing, Bwaa, bwaaa, bwaaa, bwaaaa, bwaaaa, bwaaaa. I am not your girlfriend. We are not painting each other's toenails while unloading about our crap day and our PMS. Just.Bring.The.Food. . . . . please."
A woman made of tendons and skin with no body fat is bragging about her fitness routine. "I do spin twice a day, 7 days a week! Cardio boot camp, Zumba and Pilates are all part of my everyday routine! I'm training for a triathlon and I do yoga for fun!"
You say, "Ohhhh, I haaaaate skinny bitches."
An acquaintance says, "Gwyneth Paltrow is my spiritual guru. Her Goop holds the secrets to the universe."
Hang that head back, "Gawd, I haaaate stupid people."
A parent says, "My little girl is having a recital next week. She plays the violin. Would you like to join us?"
You say, "Oh, I haaaate it when kids are learning how to play musical instruments. They're just so . . . BAD, you know? It hurts my ears. But call me when she gets good, when I can, you know, enjoy it! K?"
Or how about this Dude, "Sorry, I'm tardy to the party. I zoomed over here on my custom-made Harley. I was late cause I had to dock my 60 ft yacht at my 10,000 sq ft beach house. I barely had time to slip into my Gucci jeans and Prada loafers. I was freaking out when I looked at the time on my Rolex. Did you see my Rolex? Hey, what kind of vodka are you serving? Because I can only tolerate diamond-filtered vodka."
That one would get, "Gaaawd, I haaaate dudes who try to overcompensate for their small penis."
And then there's the parent on the sidelines of the soccer field. "That's my boy, #12. See, the ball just flew right by him. That's my Scotty."
And you say, "I haaate Scotty. He sucks! He can't kick a ball! Man, I wish the coach would bench him. S-U-C-K-S the BIG ONE, seriously!"
(I wouldn't really, just so you know!)
Or how about the Dude with the Confederate flag on his back window, the bumper sticker that says, "Save your confederate money boys, the South's gonna rise again"(seen all over my town) and the steel bull's testicles hanging from the back of his Ford F-150.
You hang out the window and declare, "I haaaaate rednecks."
On second thought . . . maybe that's not such a good idea.
And finally, your new acquaintance tells you they're a meteorologist.
You say, "Oh my gaaawwd, I hate meteorologists! That shit is so booorrrring. Please, don't start talking about the weather or you'll force me into pretending to listen as you yap on about your snoozey life's work, when honestly, all I'm really thinking about is my bacon wrapped meat loaf and Johnny Depp."
I think our new trend will be so empowering, Internet. Now, if only I could actually do it. But, I won't because I'm the nice girl. I couldn't hurt someone's feelings if they showed up with a mop on their head and asked me what I thought of their new 'do. I don't have it in me. Tim, on the other hand . . .
Anyone else have any big, truth-shall-set-you free, statements? I'd love to hear them!!
Today's Dooo Itttt Download: John Mayer's, "Say". It's such a gorgeous song and I know that Johnny didn't mean it this way. I think he was more on point about telling the sweeties in your life, you love them but could we get any more succinct encouragement to tell the tree-hugger to stop being such a Debbie Downer?
That's all I have to say about that.
Have no fear for giving in
Have no fear for giving over
You'd better know that in the end
Its better to say too much
Then never say what you need to say again