I Don't Get It
I spent last night in the company of our fab upstairs neighbors, T-bag and his Mattingly. They invited us to what I thought was going to be a lovely holiday get-together for T-bag's company. I imagined finger foods, cocktails and wifeys dressed in glittery holiday turtlenecks.
WRONGO!
Turns out this here holiday par-tay was nothing more than an excuse to tie one on, get down a chili dog or nine and take home a little Thanksgiving Eve syphilis.
A full spectrum of moms in tapered jeans and strappy heels touch-stepped to the smooth tunes of a jazz funk band whose Sir Duke horn section was the only thing in the joint that seemed unaffected by the hazy atmosphere.
Everything else was was veiled in smokey low lighting, which I imagine is maintained on purpose so as not to expose what was growing on, or going down, in the corner.
To be honest, I don't know what you call this get-together and I don't really know where it was. I believe one word sums it up, Pennsyltucky.
It was a blast!
The debacle was held in a "banquet hall" and by that they mean big-ass room with a bar that could easily be replaced with a kegerator, b/c no one was drinking the $3 Jack and Cokes when there was free Miller Lite to be had!
A low stakes poker game was tucked in next to the goody table, which featured individually wrapped chili dogs, strange mayo based salads, foot upon foot of hogie sandwich and what can only be described as a MN bar (though that's not what the PA'ers would call them.)
Mattingly promptly pointed out what she coined as a faux-mullet. More than one woman had taken a potentially flattering hair cut and arranged it to look business in the front, party in the back. This truly took it to a new level.
Outside of the aforementioned syphilis, I took part in all that was offered at this shin-dig. I danced inappropriately with a super campy gay man who grabbed my boobs like I had been his hag since we were chubby outcasts in grade school.
Mattingly and I made a point to shake our Miller off a bit, and by doing so, sent the step-touchers back on their fold-out chairs.
The evening came to a close in Quack's and my kitchen. Our drunken ramblings were documented on the door-sized chalk board, which sadly had to be erased before the arrival of the rents today. Rubber Chicken anyone?
I'm not too sure of the rest of the night's details, all I remember is the four of us all on the kitchen floor in red faced laughter.
Seems to me this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.