Last night found my husband and I going to his command Christmas party. (This is the office party for you civilians out there) I adore any reason to get all dressed up and wear my expensive makeup that makes me look decent. While I was getting dressed, Makenna told me I looked twenty five. Hmmmm.....makes you wonder if she was sincere or angling for more presents. I'm gonna go with sincere because she told me she liked my shirt because it matched my bra. Both were black.
We headed out to a local country club to enjoy the festivities. The turn out was really great and I saw a few here and there that I knew. I spoke to some and pretended not to see some that just rub me the wrong way. (I have a talent at doing that...learned at my mother's knee.)
I am a people watcher of the highest order. I was fortunate enough to sit with a fellow watcher of stupidity and we proceeded to have a ball looking at the fashion choices made for the evening.
Take for instance:
Girlfriend in the tight tube dress that only came 3 inches below your butt? No amount of tugging will make it longer and that totally means you can not do the white girl dance of waving your arms in the air. Not unless you want to give a really good show.
Captain, sir? I know this is your party and you can do what you want. I also know you drove your spiffy golf cart over because you live there and have to be cool like that. But, really? You couldn't iron that button down shirt and maybe tuck it in? You know....look put together somewhat?
To the girl in the short turquoise dress with black lace trim along the bottom? That sure is an unusual color you got going on.....but I think I saw that same dress at my prom back in 1989. I'm just saying.
To the girl who wore the beautiful formal gown. First, why didn't you ask what the dress code was? We save those dresses for Balls and such...whatever will you wear come April? And if you were going to bump convention and wear the dang thing anyways...why didn't you go ahead and get the hair fixed? I'm really curious about that.
To the guy who wore his suspenders and orange tennis shoes? Because you are a big guy and can move like nobody's business, you are totally forgiven. You were the best dancer there. You proved that some white boys can dance.
To the dorky 40-something guy. You can't dance. You will never be able to. You weren't entertaining us like you thought. We were laughing at you in a not so nice way. But, hey, you put it out there. Oh, and by the way? You're still a jerk. Beer does not make you any nicer and I don't get paid to be nice to you.
After watching the usual line dancing and other interesting dances, I turned to my husband with my hand over my eyes and declared, "There are people out there who are truly embarrassing my ethnicity."
All in all, it was a really nice party. The door prizes were really good, even though we didn't win anything. It's always fun to see if you will walk away with a good gift card or flat screen television. The food was amazing. Well, it was after we sent that raw piece of steak back for a little more cooking. I have no shame in asking for done meat. Everyone at the table minus my husband saw those steaks coming with horror in their eyes. Make that four steaks well done, please! They were worth the wait.
I scored a couple of slow dances with my handsome hubby. He wore a red dress shirt with a Christmas tie and, by golly, he looked good. We weren't able to dance at last year's party because of his knee injury, so this year we were determined to get at least one in. We requested our song (which is also my ringer for him on my cell phone) and hit the floor when the music operator complied. Another slow song followed and we circled a few more times before heading home.
Today finds us cleaning and heading out to finish shopping. We are determined to "wrap" it all up and enjoy this last week before the big day. Can you believe it's one week away?
Tomorrow is Jaime's (of the airport moving sidewalk story) birthday. Carla and I are hosting a small cook out here at the Edge in her honor. It's not everyday you turn 20. I tell everyone that Jaime is my extra daughter, but HER daughter is NOT my grandchild as I am way too young to be a grandma. I am "Auntie Hope" and like it that way.
Have a good weekend, Internets. School lets out Tuesday here, so I'm sure there will be a few more stories to share before too long.