|Smooth as you please.|
I was excited to go to this thing, even though there would be A LOT of people there that I don't know. Anyone who knows me knows that I love cheese. However, I wasn't too thrilled when one of my SIL's friends decided we should all "dress up" for this event.
I am a t-shirt and jeans (or dressy t-shirt and slacks if I'm teaching) kind of girl. When I get home from work, I put on pj bottoms and a t-shirt and lounge like a sloth. Sometimes, I think I'm just a cute guy with a vagina and boobies, which works out since, if I had a penis, I'd be a gay dude, which wouldn't be so good in L's opinion. I wear a dress on Easter, Mother's Day, and wedding and baby showers. I wear skirts only on those miserable Alabama summer days when it's 100º with 98% humidity. I can be girly (around spiders and snakes), but I don't dress girly, especially since L doesn't care if I dress girly or not.
In preparation for this night, I went on closet safari, looking through hanging bags of dresses and suits, most of which I can only dream of squeezing into again, and then I remembered this wild velvet skirt I have. It's soft and comfortable, and clingy in the appropriate places. I tried it on and zipped up my 4 inch knee boots. I did a little spin for L, and he said, "I like the boots. The skirt is cool, too. You going to wear a top with it or just a black bra?" Yeah, trouble was that I lost the top. So, for the next few days, I stressed about finding something. After searching through racks of sweater dresses (SWEATER DRESSES OMG IS IT THE 80'S AGAIN?! NO!), I found a little black top that is ridiculously tight with a crazy neckline. Still, it looked okay with the skirt and only cost $20 (I'm cheap), so I bought it.
I have digressed again...Skip back to Friday...After finally seeing a doctor about my neck, I got home with 30 minutes to get dressed and go. Sometimes, I wish it was acceptable to put a brown bag with eyeholes over my head and just go.
As soon as my brother greets us at the door, I hear my SIL yell, "Help me!" This is the part where being a SIL transforms into being a sister. This is a good thing, as then we are free to order each other around, curse, and poke fun instead of tip-toeing around and being polite. I started slicing the pumpernickel while L threw our overnight stuff in my brother's computer room. Once he returned to the kitchen, she put him on fruit duty. We got everything out and ready just after the first two guests arrived. The spread was beautiful -- something you would expect to see on the cover of Southern Living.
I am a teacher, and so is my SIL. All of her friends are teachers, and they all teach at the same school. Anytime you get that many hens together, they are going to cluck and do it so loudly that it pierces the eardrums. They reached first tier hearing damage when they started gossiping about a 23 year old female teacher who got busted fucking a 16 year old student. I'm listening to them bash this woman and shaking my head as my SIL's sister comes over to stand beside me.
"Good grief, she was only 23," I said.
"Yeah, coaches have been fucking 16 year old girls for how long? Since my mom was in high school for sure and probably forever. And they are usually in their forties. Some even have kids older than the girls they fuck. I mentioned that and they all looked at me like I was a traitor or something."
I nod in agreement. "Right, and do those coaches get fired? Do they get escorted off school grounds? Fired on the spot?"
We shake our heads. This was the first point in the night where my poo-flinging gene kicked in. I had to get away from them before I said something that embarrassed my SIL. Also, three of the ladies wore sweater dresses, and all but one of them wore 4 in or higher spiked heels. Let's face it: unless you are used to them, heels that tall make you walk like you just had an enema.
Eventually, we got around to the sampling portion of the evening, which was also the time when everything started to go wrong for the ladies. While I was in the kitchen eating chili with L, my brother, and the other husbands, the women were all drinking wine...too much wine. They hadn't yet started talking about sex, but it seemed that's where they were headed soon.
Note to men: all women talk about sex when they get drunk, we do compare notes, and some of you need schooling.
After my stomach was mostly full of chili, I tasted the cheeses (professing my undying love for the Gouda, but then, it already knew it was my bottom bitch). I pour myself a glass of Riesling (my favorite wine), which is no easy task as this bottle is almost two feet high. I got a huge laugh later on when my SIL whacked herself in the face with the top of the bottle. Once my cheese needs were met, I enjoyed a chocolate-bathed rice krispie treat (or 2) along with some Belgian truffles that are so good they will make you slap your momma (I got to bring home a box of them).
|Oh, baby, that's right. Take off that rind!|
As the wine continues to pour, the ladies get less and less restrained. Then, they all start talking about designer purses and shoes, things which I care absolutely nothing about, which was my cue to go outside and visit the keg. That's right. Wine and cheese and keg party. That's the south for you. I plop down in a chair in front of the chiminea (a clay pot mini-fireplace with a chimney) to keep from shivering in my thin shirt on this 40º night. Yep, it was me, a fire that eventually made me reek of smoke, and all the guys.
This always happens to me at parties. ALWAYS. I can't help it. Other than my SIL, her sister, and the two or three other good female friends I have, I just find men more entertaining.
|You don't feel the first one until you're on the second one. By the third one, you're ripped and ready to head across the line to the gay bars to check out the drag queens. Bonus: you can make the commemorative cup into a bong!|
What I learned:
Beer-cheese fondue tastes awesome in chili.
If women drink enough wine, they will try to relive high school.
Johnny Quest only makes sense to the deeply stoned.
I fucking hate gay-bashers.