Much Fondue About Nothing

My SIL, the honest one, threw a swanky wine and cheese gala Friday night.  She researched this thing to the teeth, decorated her entire house, even made placards for the cheeses so everyone would know the name, the style of cheese, and the flavor profile.  She had a chocolate fountain and beer-cheese fondue.  Before Friday night, I never knew how delicious a rice krispie treat smothered in chocolate could be.

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. 

While the overstuffed, roaring, chiminea rains ash down on us, we talk about bar hopping in New Orleans and Memphis.  Meanwhile, the ladies have all gone upstairs to try on...get this...cheerleading  and school danceline outfits.  We can hear them whooping and hollering at the ladies brave (or drunk) enough to try to squeeze into something only a teenage girl should wear.  Occasionally, husbands were retrieved to come view their wives.  I stayed by the chiminea and talked about movies, atomic hand grenades from the Tropical Isle, and listening to the blues on Beale Street.

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! 

Everything was going great, and then two homophobes started gay bashing.  This marked the second time my poo-flinging switch got flipped this night.  L and I decided to go back inside because, well, shoving an asshole's head in a chiminea just isn't the polite thing to do. 

I nibbled some more (Brie on crusty bread with honey <cue Homer drool>), had a bit more wine (a homemade variety so sweet and fruity that I could actually taste grape skins), and dipped a few more things in chocolate.  L and I caught a bit of Johnny Quest that was about as understandable as Thundercats or Voltron or Teletubbies.  We settled on Swamp Loggers, which was about as interesting to me as watching grass grow.

You can see the Havarti in the background, giving the evil eye to the Brie.

Eventually, I went back out for beer, only to find the keg floated.  My SIL was in a group of women, hurling grape tomatoes out into her yard and insisting to her friends that I am just the cutest thing.  When I got ready to go back inside, she squeezed the daylights out of me.  Then, I chased her down before she could take a lit cigarette into her house.  When I sat down in L's lap and put my arm around him, she said to her friends, "Look at them.  They're gross soulmates.  They like finish each other's sentences and shit."

The rest of the night involved an embarrassing accidental pantie showing (not me), a drunken golf cart ride in 40º weather (I didn't go) which sobered up those folks enough to drive home, and me finally breaking down and taking a muscle relaxer because my neck hurt so freaking bad that I couldn't stand it.  Still, I laughed often, and when that happens, I call it a good night.

Saturday, there were a lot of folks moving slow.       

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.