Party pooped

I busted my hump to take Friday off. I dropped Dave off at work, came home and woke myself with coffee and the newspaper. I often heard of people that enjoyed this custom, never really experiencing it myself. I think retirees are the ones that sit down at the breakfast nook with ink-stained fingers, warm coffee and contentment.

I decided to go to lunch with Dave, but he was able to take the rest of the day off. We strolled over to a German deli next to the bookstore and took in some ham, potato soup and sauerkraut. With the day in front of us like a veritable buffett of holiday shopping and potential bankruptcy, we hopped in good ol' Gertie (Dave's Jeep Wrangler) and set out for the DVD store, World Market and later, the gym.

Flagged only by our waning bank cards, which were begging to be left at peace in our wallets, we headed home to put up our booty. We picked up a couple of bottles of vino, one bottle of Brut, and settled in for the night. (I think that's what happened. It's Thursday already and I can't remember exact details that far back.)

Saturday, we knew was going to be a little trying. We had two appearances to make, one of them being the over-priced and underwhelming annual dinner with a few of our friends (Dave's friends mostly. I'm the youngest member of this group, which is mostly comprised of old college friends, their glistening and gilded wives and a few hold-outs with no immediate plans for wedded "bliss," ie. the symptomatically single friends.)

I decided to go do a little yarn shopping while Dave took Fitzgerald out on a run. I had to get a few skeins for last-minute Christmas crafts. When I got back, we showered and agonized on what we would wear to dinner and the cocktail party later. I settled a slim-fitting, black, 3/4 sleeved wrap dress with fishnets and stilettos garnished with a long tied string of faux pearls and a gauntlet of pear bracelets wrapping my wrist.

We arrived at dinner, fashionably late, and hobbled down a spiral staircase to a private dinner in the wine cellar of a North Dallas bistro. The wine was dated and over-priced, as were the dishes. The bruschetta was remarkably fresh and well done, as was the courgettes and calamari, the small zucchini was sliced thin and fried in an airy tempura along with the calamari, which was the most perfect texture. Everything else, including the shrimp cocktail and the bottle of bubbly, was less than optimal. I'd venture to call it staid.

We drove to the next party, a heavy languor from the previous one still riffing, and we hastily grabbed glasses of a fresh, fruity Pinot Grigio as I headed to the back to shoot pool with complete strangers. I had to kick off the stillettos as the room that kept the poot table was carpeted with a thick pile, and if I had sashayed around the table as I normally do in ice-pick, 4-inch heels, the scene would be embarassing to say the least. We left the party, our night salvaged along with some espresso and chocolate truffles.

I was totally unprepared for Sunday's party. It was a lunch-time office get-together and I was completely wrecked from the night before. After an entire pot of coffee and the Sunday paper, I knew I would make it after a shower and a brief nap.

The party was office-y. The gifts were deeeee-lightful. Homemade pate and cranberry orange conserve. Hosts after my own heart!

Monday and Tuesday are still a haze. I changed my name legally and went car shopping. Still looking to get a VW Jetta, but I'm not sure if we can afford it. We'll try, though.

Anyway. There's the update. I hope to blog again soon with pictures of Christmas glee!