The funny part is that of course I found* my nylons. I mean, pantyhose just don’t leave on their own, ya know what I mean?
But I’m ahead of myself.
Saturday night was the 10th annual SNOball, aka the Sheridan Neighborhood Organization’s annual ball, a chance to dress up and be somebody.
Willie and I, Kathy and Kurt and Jeff and Amy and James and Becky and RD and Stephanie and Lisa and John – we all looked and smelled great.
I have pictures; and as soon as I find the cords to download the lousy three pics I took before I ran out of so-called “memory”, I will post them on the sidebar.
Until then, you'll just have to trust me.
And speaking of memory… Was it the hundreds of coats? Was it the distraction of entertainment? Was it the multiple conversations, the introductions?
Perhaps it was the beer?
Just what makes remembering the details of a party so difficult?
You know what I mean, right? You may remember what you believe to be everything about a night but like Mystery Bruises, there are sometimes details that escape you.
For example, I remember running outside of the Ritz Theater (temperature roughly 8 degrees Fahrenheit) to get from the Silent Auction area to the smoking area so as to bypass running on the stage while a band was performing. I remember Kathy and I, in our fancy little dresses, hugging each other, our high heels clicking on the stunningly cold sidewalk.
What I do not remember is where the match box of those hard little mints came from. The front is emblazoned with the words “When You’re Ready to Quit, We’re Here to Support You”. On the back is a picture of two exquisitely muscled men in tiny sequined shorts and bikini tops, one dipping the other deeply in an elaborate dance move.
You’d think I’d remember picking up something like that.
I also remember a detailed conversation with Kathy regarding the fact that the dress she was wearing had been part of our joint Halloween costume three years earlier, the one in which she was Patsy and I was Edina of the show Absolutely Fabulous. (Picture a night of us drinking from a Champagne bottle and calling each other “sweetie baby”.)
What I do not remember is offering to trade my shoes for beer (but I have it on good authority).
And I absolutely do remember digging through hundreds of coats on hangers looking for a “black wool jacket with a black scarf in the sleeve – I’m sorry I can’t find my ticket…”
Go ahead. Guess how many black wool jackets with a black scarf stuffed in the sleeve there are in Minnesota.
Which brings me to today’s mystery: after being dropped at home by Lisa at midnight (so that I’d be ready to get up for work Sunday morning), my dress folded and over a chair, my shoes conspiring in their corner with the other shoes – where were my pantyhose?
And yes, I am fully aware of how that sounds.
In the meantime, Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys) is in the kitchen and muttering something about bird seed and suet.
You don’t suppose the fuzzy little ingrate is making a birdfeeder out of a pantyhose leg, do you?
* A day after writing this post, I found them under my bed, hobnobbing with my summer clothes.
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