Nope I do not mean hoedown (thanks spellcheck, ya smart arse). I will get to that part in a minute, but first a little context, okay? Last Saturday night was Alex’s annual managers work Christmas do, which is always held at the local country club. Obviously we are not members of the club. I went there a few times in high school before formal dances and once I sneaked in with some friends who thought it would be fun to steal their dad’s golf carts and take them for a spin ( they were right, it was quite fun), and for the occasional work related functions over the years, but that’s about it. I have always been somewhat fascinated by the whole idea of a country club though. I can’t understand the point of being a part of something like that. Maybe that’s why God decided to not make me rich. He knew it would be wasted on me. On the other hand, I spent many years being the dorkiest kid in the hood, so possibly He wasn’t thinking of that at all.
Anyway, I was really looking forward to the Christmas party this year because it is a chance to get all dressed up and festive and I really actually like my husbands co-workers. Last year was a lot of fun. I got the perfect amount of drunk without getting too drunk, meaning, I got drunk enough to sing a karaoke duet of “Love Shack” with Alex, but not drunk enough to get sick or slutty. That was the effect of two glasses of white zinfandel. I know there are plenty of people who vividly recall holding my teenaged legs in the air for countless impressive keg stands back in high school, but something has gone horribly wrong in the interim twenty years. I have no tolerance for alcohol whatsoever anymore (which will be a popular recurring theme in this blog, no doubt.) Maybe it has something to do with my hermitism and the fact that I rarely drink these days, or maybe its the daily medication which comes with the warning “May cause dizziness or drowsiness. Alcohol intensifies effect.” It’s probably that one. Outwardly I may be imbibing a cute social cocktail. Inwardly I’m getting cross-faded like a fucking frat boy. You see witty banter, and obligatory foot in the mouth repartee. I feel strobe lights, slurs, and dub-step.
So this year, we were running behind as usual and entirely missed the pre-party meal at a local Mexican food place. Which sucks ass because I was seriously craving some cheese enchiladas (I always am, honestly). It wasn’t until we arrived and Alex started the whole “This is the right place, right? Is this the right place?” that I realized I hadn’t eaten anything but a quick Snickers bar in the car like four hours previously and my blood sugar was getting a bit subterranean. As I hobbled through the pot holes of the parking lot on wobbly ankles that are no longer used to heals, we made our usual pact to have a look around and if either of us wanted to leave, we’d do the rounds and then go out to eat instead. I was mostly concerned at that point, that there wouldn’t be any food or that we wouldn’t see anyone we wanted to spend the evening chatting with. I was not expecting to waltz through the doors and smack dab into a large group of my old high school classmates, looking like a J. Crew ad in snuggly sweaters, jeans and boots. I always kinda figured that if the world was in fact littered with wormholes and time warps and what not, that it would totally be my luck to fall into one eventually. I never for one second entertained the possibility that I would some night, nearing the end of 2014, innocently open the doors to the country club club-house and happen upon the Christmas season of 1992!
I cast a quick nonchalant glance over my shoulder to see if “The Ghost of Christmas Past” was benevolently watching over the scene but instead (Thank God!) spotted my husbands boss and her partner (both in cute jeans and boots, I might add) cheerfully waiving us over to the bar where I was presented with a glass of wine the size of my unusually large head. Obviously, I was genuinely grateful at having been sucked back into the present before the panic attack kicked in. Equally obvious (to me at least) was the fact that we would soon be leaving to get some much-needed grub as I clearly could not be expected to hang around, looking desperate and over-dressed in a black lace dress and vintage costume jewellery ensemble at what was clearly a casual, boots and jeans affair. I began gulping my giant wine in anticipation of a hasty departure only to discover that my husband had turned inexplicably traitorous in regards to our recent parking lot pact. When I hissed at him from the corner of my mouth that we seriously needed to get the hell out of here seeing as he failed to inform me the dress code had changed for this years soiree, he simply replied that I looked “beautiful” and pretended to be unable to comprehend what the problem was! I refrained from mariticide only by sucking still harder at my huge ass wine and by removing half of my lovely accessories while chain-smoking on the veranda that over looks the golf course. Eventually I ran out of Altoids to snack on and decided to wander inside in search of something edible and that is when I discovered I no longer had the option of a quick get-away because my husband still hasn’t learned to drive in America and I was now what would be classified as “tipsy” as well as minty fresh.
It took a plate of cheesecake and a few rounds of Craps (it was a casino themed party) to get me back into shape for my escape, but the minute I felt as though I could safely drive, we pretended to head for the bar but kept on walking straight out the door. Perhaps I was feeling a bit giddy at the thought of finding some real food at last or (more likely) I was still suffering the effects of my dinner of wine and breath mints, because somehow I managed to completely miss the five-inch step directly in front of me where someone had jauntily parked a fricking golf cart. I noticed the carts cute little baby tire only as it began flying toward my face (actually vice versa) and with catlike reflexes I thrust one gaudily be-ringed hand out to catch myself on the tiny vehicle only to discover it was slippery with dew or frost or whatever the name is for the most slippery substance known to woman kind! Not wishing to fall to my death at such a bizarre local, I used my hitherto unrecognized ninja skills to maneuver myself into a position in which I was still relatively upright and braced on the hood of the cart. That is when stage two of the avalanche that is me began and there was nothing left to grasp for but air and ground. I would not be defeated! I grasped for those with all my might! Somehow the slipping and sliding continued despite the fact that I had landed at least once. I felt like Alice in her damn rabbit hole, falling and falling for fucking ever! As I watched the scant contents of my tiny adorable bag roll around on the treacherous ground before me, I realized things had gotten too surreal. I was no longer embarrassed or fearful of dying from a broken neck. I was simply curious as to whether or not the entire collapse of my personage would ever end, and I vaguely hoped my gorgeous pumps were ok. Finally I found myself legs akimbo, flashing a belated SOS with my knock off Spanx from Wal-Mart into the eyes of my startled and terribly alarmed husband who, unaware of the slipperiness involved in my spill was under the dread impression that I had suffered a sudden and massive stroke and had lost control of all the muscles on the left side of my body. So I honestly can’t blame him for the hesitation and blink of surprise when I said simply, “Help me pick this shit up and let’s get the hell out of here before someone comes outside!” I was actually quite cheered by his reaction as there are very few things in this world more hilarious than a highly alarmed proper Englishman (unless it’s an over dressed middle-aged woman flipping over a fucking golf cart).
On the way home we decided to just grab a hamburger and fries from Dairy Queen and it wasn’t until I got home and changed into my usual uniform of pyjama pants and baggy sweatshirt that I started to feel the scuffs and bruises on both sides of my body leaving me to wonder if perhaps some cartwheel action had been involved in the whole golf cart from hell incident. Alex couldn’t really be sure as he was suffering the effects of shock.
Over all it was a pretty good night out for us. We did forget to takes pics so I tried to get some Mary Kate-esque hangover shots in Alex’s Christmassy tie, the next day, but instead wound up with a slew of the kind of embarrassing selfies my daughter will eventually stumble across and tease me relentlessly over for all eternity. I have included one below.
I hope everyone else is having such a lovely, eventful December and I will continue my promised “tips” series very soon!