Let’s Try this Again
Except this time, instead of having to fight off the grown-up advances of Assistant Golf Professionals and eye insulting Mr. Rodgers sweaters, I’ll be forced to mingle with high-ranking military types and their spouses.
The good news is that Justin is taking me to a pre-party so I can fully prepare for an evening of fake smiling ’till my mouth hurts. (aka. Get just tipsy enough so the fake smile appears real enough to be convincing, but not so much that I forget to address his superiors as “Sir” or tell his boss – again – not to refer to me as “Mom” when he’s talking about me in front of my face because I am most certainly not a mom and I find his use of the endearment to be offensive at worst and condescending at best. Not that that’s happened before. Ever.)
I would probably try to beg out of the event completely except for the fact that I am so craving contact with actual people that I almost hugged the cashier at Food Lion the other day when she looked me in the eye and told me I’d saved $1.73 by using my Very Important Customer card. And I think she intentionally grazed my hand when she handed me my receipt.
Plus, I was told there would be a medley of buffet-style delicacies, including but not limited to: spinach and lollo rosso with cherry tomatoes, sweet onions and Roquefort cheese; oysters and clams on a half shell; carved sirloin with mushrooms and truffle crust; tequila and cilantro pesto crusted Atlantic salmon; buttermilk and Gruyère whipped potatoes; vanilla iced spice cake; and of course, Tar Heel pie.
And if you know nothing about me, know that I’m a sucker for decadent food I would not otherwise be able to afford if I weren’t a) attending a wedding; b) attending a work function; or c) stealing it off of the plates while waiting tables at a fancy restaurant.
So now, thinking about the food, I’m starting to get a little excited.
Although I suppose I’ll have to sew that blasted dangling button back on my peacoat before we leave. Luckily I’m a self-taught expert at button sewing. Oh, and I might need to scrounge up something to wear besides jeans, no matter how good they look. The Pinehurst Police likely have a jeans-wearing photo of me from last time and there’s no way in hell they’ll let me get away with it twice.
It’s Pinehurst, baby. Go plaid or go home.