I was invited to what I thought was a dinner party this past Saturday night, an invitation I gladly accepted. Unfortunately, Joe was unable to come along because he had made plans to see Reba McIntyre and Brad Paisley in concert in New Jersey. So while he was enjoying his hootenanny, I grabbed a cab to midtown Manhattan. Because the original invitation said dinner, I had decided to eat a late lunch since I wasn’t to arrive until 9pm. Needless to say, I was pretty hungry by the time I arrived.
Strolling into the apartment, saying sweeping “hello’s” to one and all, following Ms. Posts’s dictum, I handed the host a bottle of Veuve to satisfy the obligatory hostess gift. I immediately locked my eyes on a lovely cheese and crudite platter, my mouth instantly watering at the sight. Not wanting to appear gauche, I nibbled a bit of brie and popped a couple of grape tomatoes. I was hungry enough to set up a TV tray, sit in a bean bag chair and steamroll through the entire platter but that would have been a tad inappropriate. Besides, TV trays don’t exist in Manhattan. Unless you are independently wealthy or have subleased your apartment from an elderly relative, you can see your television from every corner of the teeny tiny room. Heck, you can see the TV from the shower if you leave the bathroom door open.
Instead of eating everything I could get my hands on, I decided it best to suppress my appetite and help myself to some wine. I walked over to the bar that had been set up and started looking at the labels; mind you, I am not even remotely close to being a connoisseur of wine, but I can pretend with the best of them. Well, I should actually say, I can pretend like 90% of all the other people who tell everyone they know wine. Pack of lies, I tell you. Anyway, I chose a lovely red and thought it had a musky woody nose with a piquant flavor that reminds one of plums and orange zest. See? I just lied but I sounded like I knew what I was talking about. What I was really thinking was, “this stuff tastes like poop and makes my tongue itch, where’s the Bud?”
During that first glass, I chatted with others about the orange zest and musk, passing the time until dinner was served. No dinner yet, so I moved on to another red which had beautiful clarity not unlike a ruby in the summer sun. Still chatting, I moved on to sample a white. It had a wonderfully accessible pear quality with a lightly astringent, yet austere background of cedar. I mused that perhaps the vineyard had fermented in that particular wood choice and deemed it an excellent decision. Back again to a freshly opened red, and to my happy surprise, was a lovely discovery of various autumn fruits, with a touch of allspice.
At this point, I had several glasses of wine and I peeked at my watch. It was well past 11pm at this point and there was no dinner to be had. The hosts were happily mingling with fellow guests, all of whom were muttering about the wines and cognac. Yes, they had cognac which I hadn’t noticed earlier. Had I made note of this offering, I would have… done absolutely nothing. I hate the stuff, tastes like paint thinner to me. In any case, my stomach was rumbling and I was getting a tad woozy (read: buzzed like a college freshman at a Rush Week kegger). So, with my massive intellect, what do I do? Move back to the bar and have another glass of something that tasted like fermented apple juice on a good day. No idea what it was, didn’t care, I just drank the sucker. Moving over to the cocktail table, I spotted the remnants of the cheese and crudite platter that was, at one time, quite lovely but now looked like a mini-Saigon. Didn’t care. I grabbed the last cube of cheddar, barely remembering to take out the toothpick and shoved it in my maw alongside a piece of something that was green and smelled like a lawn.
I had decided that it was time for me to leave at this point, my stomach just couldn’t take the lonely feeling it was experiencing any longer. I had my heart set on some pizza and an ice cold beer. Moving towards the bedroom to grab my coat, I was taken by the arm by… someone… and was introduced to… someone. The first someone said, “Oh Rick, you have to meet (someone), you both have so much in common.” So I had to chat some more. Please God, no more wine. But the second someone handed me a glass and told me she just knew I would enjoy it because I had apparently loved some glass of something I had earlier. I politely sipped and smiled, what’s a guy to do? I was trying to think of adjectives, fruit, spices and wood grain that would be an appropriate lie to offer when I was stumped. I merely uttered, “Good stuff” and tried to make my leave. Nope. Another glass was thrust in my hand from some other someone who said that I clearly didn’t like what I just had since it didn’t seem to grab me. So I sipped, smiled, sipped and felt woozier. The third and second someone looked at me with enthusiastic anticipation, so I had to think of something to say. With a bit of a slur, I looked at them both, “Doesn’t taste like wood…”
Yup, time for me to go home definitely. I’ll skip the pizza and beer and just eat left over Chinese while standing over the sink. So after a couple of more attempts, I finally got my coat and did my absolutely best to move gracefully through the guests, muttering “Pleasure to meet you… have a wonderful night… terrific party… thanks for having me… I truly enjoyed our talk… I hope to see you again soon… buh-bye now.” I have no doubt that I probably sounded like, “Pleshrrrrtameet…. Wunnerful… gdprty…gottagobyebye….”
Stepping onto the sidewalk, breathing in the chilly Spring air, I was no longer woozy. In fact, I was stupidly, hazardously, stinking drunk. I didn’t stagger, no, not at all. I made absolutely certain of that by purposefully walking very cautiously, very slowly, and in a straight line. I know I looked like a mime who was illustrating “Man walking through pasture, avoiding cow flops.” I made my way to the end of the block and immediately hailed a cab which took my sorry butt home where it belonged.
Waking up the next morning with a dog doing the pee dance, the sun streaming into my bedroom, I held my pounding face, making my way to the medicine cabinet, on the hunt for either Advil or a handsaw to cut my miserable head off. Advil won out. Alcohol is a miserable beverage. It not only hurts the next day, but your eyes swell to twice their normal size, you have indoor outdoor carpeting growing on your tongue and idle thoughts about food make you gag. I’m never drinking again… or at least until Thursday when I meet up with a friend for a cocktail after work.
And I never did get any dinner the night before. What is up with that?
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