A Night Out with Daffodil

Sam took me out last night. We had Big Plans, which means we hired a babysitter that didn't need to be home by 9 o'clock, and we got dressed up. We were headed to the Diva Club, which is a monthly gathering on the back patio of a lovely and very well-respected local restaurant, to benefit a nonprofit. The parties are quite fun - cheap drinks, free hors d'oeuvres, and usually 3-4 merchants selling everything from jewelry to makeup. This time they had a collection of bodycare, bathingsuits, jewelry, and scarfs. The event usually has a theme of sorts - I wasn't sure what the plan was for this month, so at about 3pm I looked at the flyer online. Good thing I did - they had planned a "masquerade" theme.

Damn It.

I am not a fan of the masquerade. I hate masks, first of all. Hate them. The eyeholes never line up with my actual eyes, I am always sure that suffocation is right around the corner, I get all itchy and sweaty, and I can't eat or drink. And god help me if I puke.

Not that I do that very often. But let's just say IT HAS HAPPENED.

PLUS every time I see the word "masquerade" I have an immediate image of that really fucked up movie "Eyes Wide Shut" and I am certain that there is some sort of criminal and/or deviant behavior going on. And that, combined with alcohol, equals INSTANT PARANOIA.

But I didn't want to be a spoilsport. No one likes the guy who comes to the costume party without a costume. So on our way to the restaurant, we stopped at the costume store to get......something. I suggested hats. Sam showed up at the register with this - And MY OH MY that was not what I had in mind.

I grabbed a hat and a fan, because I still have some dignity and self-respect (or at least I did at the beginning of the night) and we were on our way.

When we got there, it was a mixed bag. Some people were really gung-ho with the theme. Most of the elaborately costumed were in their 50s and 60s, and one really adventurous senior was in a backless black velvet ensemble which was, well, breathtaking I think is the word I shall use. I could have become really fixated - much like watching a terrible car accident or something, but I was distracted by the models in masks and bikinis that were dancing around in a very enthusiastic manner.

It was very distracting.

I was also having a bit of trouble focusing because the cocktails were $5 and I had several. And at some point through the swirl of half naked women - young and old - my husband suggested that  perhaps I should eat something. But I was trying to buy a bikini off one of the models - directly off of her, actually - and couldn't be bothered. So he got up and went to see if there was a table available in the dining room, while I smeared a moisturizing glitter bar all over my arms and licked the sugar off the rim of my glass. ("No I am NOT DONE YET there is still sugar on the rim.")

Sam came back from speaking with the owner of the restaurant about a table, and found me staring at 2 models grinding away to Michael Jackson with my straw clenched between my teeth. He gathered up my new bathingsuit, stuck my hat on my head, and led me through the dining room. We were given a lovely table overlooking the water, surrounded by romantic couples whispering and holding hands. I fixed that, though. Between my intoxication and the fact that I was half-deaf from the speaker I had just been sitting next to, I was - I believe - shouting.

"SORRY I GOT DRUNK."
"That's okay, Sam said calmly, picking up his menu.
"IT WAS ON ACCIDENT."
"I know, don't worry."
"BUT I'M FUN." I screamed in the middle of  this well-respected restaurant, startling the tourists at the next table.
"Yes, well, no one can argue that darling. I'm glad you are having fun. What are you going to eat?"
"I WANT THE LOBSTAH."
"Alrighty."
"WHAT ARE YOU HAVING?"
"I think I am going to have the shrimp. Or maybe the duck."
The waiter rounded the corner, speaking to Sami as he approached. "Good evening, can I get you another drin- No, no no it looks like you are all set in that department." he said hastily as I tried to put on my new bikini over my dress.
"ISN'T IT PRETTY?"
Sam shot me a look. I put  my bathingsuit in my lap and picked up my menu meekly.
"Ma'am." the waiter looked unimpressed with my bathingsuit and my behavior "Are you ready to order." It was not an option, he was not asking a question - he wanted me to eat something and shut up.
"Yesssssss." I was trying to talk quietly, having noticed the glances we were getting from the other diners.
So I ordered. And then Sam ordered. And then I ate bread - quietly - until my food arrived.

After a few minutes the chef came out to see how we were doing. "How is your dinner Sam" he asked as he approached the table. I swung my head around and tried to bring him into focus.
"My dinner is great, thanks. How are you doing?"
"Good, it's always fun to have these events. And how are you?" he asked, turning to me.
"I AM AMAZING."
He startled and maybe took a teensy step away from the crazy lady.
"Amazing, Well, haha that's nice. I'm glad you are enjoying it. Please let me know if you need anything."
He edged away and we finished our dinner. Somehow we got out of the restaurant with my bathingsuit and glitter and purse and phone. And when we got into the car I started tweeting.
"Definitely NOT the designated driver. Sweet Mary I'm smashed like potatos."
Impressive. Star of the literary world, obviously.
Smashed Like Potatos.
(sigh)
I read that this morning and felt even worse than I already did - which is saying something.
Sam takes full responsibility for my tweeting while drinking, and promises it will never happen again. The poor man. He already has a long list of date night responsibilities that have accumulated over the years after some bad experiences that we won't go into here. The list includes (but is not by any means limited to):
making sure my boobs are inside my dress at all times
that I am both wearing underwear, and that no one can see it
that I have my purse
and my wallet
and my ID
and my phone

NOW he has to actually take the phone away from me to prevent me from tweeting things like "I'm smashed like potatos." Jesus H Christ on a cracker. I don't know why anyone takes me anywhere, I really don't.