Tiki Umbrella Orgy Cocktail Party

Friday night was Woodsy and Ben’s Umbrella Drink Orgy Cocktail Party. The Evite said it started at 8:30 pm, so I planned to arrive between 8:30 and 9 pm. I like to give the hostess a few extra minutes to get ready, but I don’t want to be late enough that the ice melts. Plus, Carlos wanted to go to the gym, and I needed to spend some quality time with the sofa, the remote, and a couple beers. Like most of my perfectly reasonable plans, this one wasn’t destined to work out.

Inexplicably, Carlos takes a shower BEFORE he goes to the gym. I’ve asked why, and haven’t gotten an understandable answer (I’ll wait until my Spanish is better), but it’s never been a problem, maybe he just doesn’t work out hard enough to break a sweat. Anyway, he got home just before 8 pm and was changing when Paul texted to ask where we were. Yes, at 8 pm. I called him, told him to put down the crack pipe, and said we’d be there around 8:30, when the party was supposed to start. Paul’s response was: “Everyone’s here, just get here.”

Carlos and I hadn’t eaten, so we ran drove-thru Jack in the Box, and then went down the hill to Woodsy’s. After a virtuosic parallel parking performance (fit the Benz into a spot barely big enough, and behind an SUV with a protruding bike rack) we hoofed it up to Woodsy’s.

Turns out everyone was there, so apparently I missed a memo. The party was sort of tiki-themed, so Woodsy had made up a list of tropical cocktails. Sweet, tropical cocktails. Unfortunately my pancreas is in the same shape as my liver, and I just can’t drink really sweet drinks. I had one, and then ran out for beer like the delicate, redneck princess that I am. When I got back, the party was switching over to playing “Asshole,” which apparently is a confusing card/drinking game. I started drinking beer like I meant it (I can drink without some game to encourage me) and sat down with Curtis and Carlos who were deep in conversation. Turns out Curtis was proposing a little husband swap. Now I can’t blame him; if I were dating Paul I’d want to switch husbands too. With anyone. Really, ANYONE. Paul’s a fun guy but a horrible boyfriend. The problem is that Curtis is an emotional masochist, so Paul’s shoddy treatment is actually a bonus for him. He just forgets that sometimes.

Anyway, Carlos thought Curtis was serious, and started to get worried (the joke, that Paul and Carlos are both Mexican and we’d just switch Mexicans, was lost in translation). I told Curtis that I needed the S2000 and the Discovery in the deal, plus enough food to feed Paul for 6 months (approximately 15,000 tons). Carlos caught the gist of that little exchange and decided to go mingle, but I reassured him it was just a joke.

About this time Michael (aka M4M DC, there’s a long story behind the nickname) finally showed after lots of cajoling. He was in town for the night, so I invited him over. It took some talking though, because he knows our whole group but can’t place names with faces. I told him who was there (Paul, Curtis, Woodsy, Ben, Mike, Aldritch, Jimmy, Stiffler, Tim, Carlos, and I) but he wasn’t sure if he knew them. Until he got there and realized he knew all of them. Besides, Michael’s cute and had on a tight shirt, I knew he’d make fast friends.

Around 10:30 Carlos and I said our good-byes and headed out. Everyone seemed to be settled into the card game, and I wanted to get home before I’d had too many. Of course, that didn’t work out either J On the way home Carlos suggested stopping by the Cuff, and being highly suggestible, I said sure. The Cuff was dead, but we got a pitcher (Carlos drank most of it) and had a deep conversation on attraction and relationships. Well, at least my portion was deep, he just kept smiling and nodding and I’m not sure he understood a word of it. Nick, the muscle-queen-bottom-trick who stole my glasses was there, but he just ignored me. That was a refreshing change; usually he stumbles over and says he’s going to give them back. Yeah Nick, I’m still waiting. Almost a year later.

To put the final nail in the night’s coffin, we stopped at the Eagle on the way home. Yes, I paid a $3 cover for each of us to get into the Eagle at 1 am and spend $4 on a Mason jar of beer. Lame. But Bill Sherman was there with his posse, and one of them was a cute guy wearing a shirt that said “Plow Boy.” The shirt was one of Bill’s of course (he does the Catcher and Pitcher t-shirts, among others). Unfortunately Plow Boy was drunk and cranky, and I was drunk and obnoxious, so I didn’t get a chance to hit it off with him (and deal with a jealous Carlos when we got home). One beer was all I could choke down, and we said our good-byes and made our way home to bed.