Okay, so, I went to a positively lovely cocktail party in Savannah, Georgia, last night, Saturday night.
I had a delicious time. I was dead tired, but I went anyway. There are some darling, new people, who moved into our neighborhood while we were in California and they were simply too charming to ignore.
Well, just before we left California, my boat mechanic hands me couple of fat buds as a "Going away gift".
I said, "You F'ing asshole! I haven't smoked this shit in ...
oh my god, that's really fragrant & strong! How in the hell am I supposed to get this back to Savannah without Narcotics dogs sniffing at my luggage? To which my boat mechanic replies: Put it in a pill bottle and wrap it in layers of zip-lock bags, but wear gloves so you don't leave finger-prints... oh, and check the bag...
just in case.
So we get to Savannah and our luggage is missing and I am certain it's been confiscated by the state of Georgia as evidence in the upcoming case of Hough vs. Georgia.
So I said to my partner, Tony... Why don't you go to the baggage claim, "Help Desk" and inquire as to where our luggage is...while I sit here and watch the dogs...
That way, I figure if Tony gets handcuffed & arrested, I'll still be able to taxi into our comfortable flat in the Historic District with my dogs, and get some rest. Of course, I'll have to "carry in", all the luggage by myself. And, I do have, in addition to my laptop & hand bag, two dogs in black bags weighing 12 pounds.
I know, I'll get the taxi driver to help me carry the bags, if Tony gets sent to the slammer.
Well, we finally got our luggage, and honestly, between the marijuana we smoked when we got our luggage at 3 a.m., the Trazodone I popped so I could get my beauty rest, and the bottle of wine I knocked back - plus the jet lag, it was a miracle that I could pull my gorgeous self together to attend a cocktail party, Saturday evening.
I showed up at the party around 7:30, which is positively late when you're my age. I'll tell you, I was so tired that I nearly fell over making a few greetings when I arrived. Someone asked me about a cocktail...
"Would you care for a wine? We have white, red, or a vodka spritzer?"
I inquired, "What's in the vodka spritzer?" and the reply was: sparkling water and vodka.
I mean, who drinks watered down vodka?
I might have tried a gin-spritzer minus the spritzer, but the vodka spritzers were already made in a pitcher.
Doesn't that seem like a really bad thing to do to gin or vodka? Water it down with sparkles?
I mean, who does that?
...so I went with a white wine.
I'll tell you, I nearly fell into the dining table loaded with food, because of the above mentioned, private party two nights before.
Then it hit me, I was standing in a room full of people and I simply had to sit down, pass out, or fall over into the dining table which was loaded with food.
At this point, the hostess saw that I was struggling so she grabbed my arm & whirled me around her new flat. She showed off her bed linens and new-paint samples as I oohed & ahhhh'd over her art collection, dust ruffle and one particular lamp that I noticed. It came from a local, and very-expensive store in Savannah called, One Fish, Two Fish.
I had eyed that very lamp myself, a few seasons, back.
I threatened to steal the lamp and she threatened to keep an eye on it.
So, back in the living room void of the party, I decided to make my stay. I simply plopped down on the over-sized white sofa and was delighted with a rather cheerful abstract over the fireplace.
I decided to focus on that for a moment & catch my breath. There was a coffee-table book of Georgia O'Keeffe and a vase filled with yellow tulips. The colors of choice she used in her flat were: light-gray, dark gray, a metallic blue-gray, white, silver, robin's egg blue and dabs of yellow, here and there, with black accents. Absolutely yummy colors.
Everyone else was in the kitchen, the dining room, the outside patio and entryway or front porch.
I just sat in the living room all by myself and I started thinking: I'm going to just sit here, steady myself, and see how long it takes for everybody to feel sorry for me and join me here, in the living room.
I am simply not going to get up.
Well, one by one, someone would walk by on their way to the potty or to check out the new flat, and they would ask: Why are you sitting here, all alone, in the living room when there are 60 guests in the other parts of the house?
I just waved them off, "No need to worry about me, darling, I'm just sitting here minding my own business, enjoying the fresh air... la, de da, la, de da. No sirree, don't you worry about me, it won't be long before someone joins me...
And sure enough, after a while, I drew enough attention that people started to meander into the living room, and I had my court. I had posed myself comfortably on the over-stuffed white davenport with gray and olive-drab pillows, and allowed people to smoosh-in next to me.
"Come darling, sit here... right next to me" I said, to one particularly handsome man, and then another.
Now, what's your name again? Oh, I remember, you're Mark and you're Patrick? Oh poo! I have that backwards, don't I?
Let's see...you're Patrick and you're Michael? Mark? Yes! Mark, I knew I would get it right, sooner or later.
A circle of about 10 people enveloped me, the two really-cute gay guys and a mix of married couples and a few single women, which, unfortunately for them there were no available handsome straight men at the party who weren't totally *ucked, as it were. Oh, but there was one handsome straight guy, but he was so boring that he started talking about: film & music... but he only wanted to talk about his favorite film & music.
Instead of yawning, I burst out, pointed at the guy next to me and said, "Doesn't this handsome may-un remind y'all of someone famous?
People started calling out guesses: Rock Hudson? Tab Hunter? No that's not it... John F. Kennedy Jr. perhaps? Or, some-kind of Kennedy, maybe?... but no... that's not it.
Then it hit me...
Carter Oosterhouse! Yes! That's it! Carter Oosterhouse!
Luckily, the very handsome & yummy-looking man was in fact, a gay guy, and he did, he looked just like Carter Oosterhouse...
after a few cocktails!
Only, he was the gay version of Carter Oosterhouse. I kept telling him he looked just like Mister Oosterhouse half-the-night long which made him oogle, giggle, flush and continuously say: Would you stop saying that!
He had a huge dimple in his chin and two on his rosy cheeks, wavy black hair and a smile that could dazzle a giraffe.
He had heard that I had a boat & so he told me a rather long story about how he was in the Hampton's or Boston or Martha's Vineyard or someplace on the upper East Coast and, (frankly, I couldn't have cared: where) he was on a boat and got a line from a crab pot wrapped around his engine prop. The boat prop seized up and they were stuck, drifting in the Atlantic. It was late at night and he said he and a friend of his had to paddle 150 yards to the marina.
Well, I thought he had said 150 miles to the marina and I was picturing this very handsome, virile, but all the while: sissy-Mary, paddling for 150 miles (the wine had hit me by now) and the story grew funnier and funnier because, just as I placed my hand on his leg to give him an:
"Oh Carter, that is so...
H I L A R I O U S ! "
...I noticed his pants were BLACK VELVET, so I lightly caressed his leg and said:
Excuse me, but are your pants BLACK VELVET???
And he looked at me with puppy-dog eyes and a smile that could simply kill, and said, "Yes, why not?"
Just then, a rather plump, older lady in a black ruffle outfit wearing sneakers, sat down in an empty chair next to me. She made a HUGE sigh and a HARRUMPH!, said LOUDLY, "I must kick off my sneakers!"
& then she interrupted us to join in the conversation, only...
she changed the subject abruptly.
Which brings me to a thought and a suggestion for folks at cocktail parties: When two people are engaging in a silly conversation (with a slight buzz) and one of them happens to look like Carter Oosterhouse in black velvet pants, and the other happens to be me, DON'T INTERRUPT.
I rolled my eyes only twice that evening. Once at the black velvet pants and pretty boy, dimpled face, and once at a woman who interrupted me to tell me she is a disciple of Jesus, because she no longer accepts Christianity at face value.
Yeah, a disciple of Jesus. So, I rolled my eyes and thought: Honey, don't you see I'm busy talking to Carter Oosterhouse?
Other than that, it was a lovely cocktail party.
And how was your Saturday evening?