Food or beverage, spilled on this material, will likely bead up and run off.
Ladies and gentlemen, it is Saturday night. I am wearing a bridesmaid’s dress, my hair has been ratted and sprayed into submission, and I am ready to party.
What?
No, it’s not a typical Saturday, dagnabit!
It’s for charity!
I look at the program. I am listed as Bitter Friend Not Asked to Be Part of the Wedding and Liaison to Liza Bean Bitey, of the Minneapolis Biteys.
Liza Bean? I frown in confusion, then quickly smooth my brow.
My furrowed forehead simply does not go with this outfit.
Still: Confusing. I thought the striped little cream-poacher was in India.
Hadn’t she said something about elephant polo and a curry cook-off?
Oh, well. I gleefully help myself to another glass of beer. Can’t really make sense of the program, but how often are they right, anyway?
DJ Shannon Blowtorch moves from one dance-able song to the next. A dashing man holds his hand out.
“Dance with me?”
I follow him to the dance floor. “Can you follow?” he asks.
I smile. “Can you lead?”
Turns out he can, that I can, and that, 15 minutes and four songs later, we find that if one is spun out and back rapidly enough, the seam holding the back of one’s dress to its zipper will let go in tiny, exhausted pops – Pop! Pop! Pop! – until one’s back is exposed to the bra-line.
“You,” he says, kissing my hand, “are a treat. But you know that, don’t you? All the treats know they are treats.”
I hiccup in a most lady-like manner and back away, grinning, from the dance floor.
Sarah, the bride at this Bad Wedding Reception fundraiser, approaches. “Liza’s on the phone.”
I blink at her. “Liza Bean? I thought she was in India?”
She laughs. “She’s on Skype!”
Ladies and gentlemen, when a drunk woman in a wedding dress asks you to listen to a toast made by a cat in India, you do it.
But honestly, I have a hard time believing that cat was in India Saturday night.
Wasn't she in my car Sunday?