All over the world we are the same...

Last night we were invited to a party to watch a college football game, A&M vs Penn State. We lost and it sucks, but go Penn State. Anyway I digress. The reason for the get together was really just an excuse for adult fun. Some Puerto Rican food, some adult bevs, some Guitar Hero with karaoke and a roaring fire on the front courtyard.

That's right, on the front courtyard. We were in Ladeeda Land with a capitol La. We have friends who are somebody...ARE SOMEBODY!

Again, I digress.

These friends, the couple who have this lovely home, are one part childhood friend (on Husband's side) and one part owner of one of the toniest ballet studios in the city. Read: better mind your p's a q's...and while you're at it point those toes Missy!

~large heavy walking/ballet/beating stick smacking the floor~

The Husband of this pair is Husband's goofball childhood friend. These two boys are all bodily function jokes and talk of football coaches and hunting. The Mrs. is the ballet studio owner/instructor. She is Puerto Rican. And lovely. And doesn't like the "f" word unless it's called for (WTF?!). And cocks her head sideways with dignified arched eyebrows and slightly pursed lips when listening to me answer her questions. She seems to be strongly disapproving of my posture as well.

When invited to their house the evening goes like this:

* walk in and polite yet stiff greetings all around.

* me offering to help with anything except beating of the ballet students who may be in attendance. somethings are best left to the hostess.

* hostess puts me to work. last night it was cooking all the veggies for the fajitas. i smelled like onions the rest of the night and wondered if it was in retaliation for my refusal to do dips at the mirrored wall with the dance bar.

* hostess will make the smallest of talk with me. very small. like: doing good? need a drink? (um, HELL YES...). onions done? small talk, but no eye contact.

* husband of hostess and i get along the way i get along with most men (yes, i am one of those women). our talk is laden with curse words under our breath as to avoid the beating stick and a stern lecture on when certain words should be used. we laugh and goof. good times.


Right about now you are probably thinking whyohwhy does Patti put herself through it? I'll tells ya why: once dinner has been served and the bulk of the entertaining and making sure her guests are fat and happy, Mrs. Ballet Studio starts drinking. This is when the party, for me, starts.

Last night I was totally off my game to begin with. I was quiet and slow from a Mountain Cedar pollen filled head. The din of the guests ricocheted around my noggin making me less focused than usual. I was asked several times to loosen up to which I responded, "Where the hell is that beating stick?" Not really. That was my James Frey addition to the story. Did you like it?

So while everyone offered a hand in the kitchen for clean up...I refused on the principal that because I had cooked while being ignored I had earned a by (by = sports term meaning when you have a week off from play)...I sat and watched from the group while swimming in a sinus funk.

As soon as the cleaning ended I noticed that the guests split up into three groups. One watching the college game. One watching the NFL game. And one who went to the courtyard for a fire. The group that went out on the courtyard included Mrs. Ballet Studio, and coincidentally it was also the drunky mcdrunky group.

I stayed inside floating and listening to conversations that ranged from Wii games to just how old is Paterno jokes (sorry Sue). I too had some wine, but because of my weird head/sinus thang I restricted myself to one glass.

Cut to an hour later and while I was walking by the door that led to the courtyard I was snagged by an arm that was attached to a very lit Mrs. Ballet Studio. Her accent had become pronounced as the alcohol flowed.

"Join me outside. Let's sit by the fire!"

Out we went. The stick, her stick, was no where to be found. Like the wicked witch it melted when liquid made contact. She wanted me to sit next to her and to talk. This could be fun.

She sat me down and asked, "What's your favorite movie?" Now I had the cocked head and arched eyebrows. The only difference was that instead of slightly pursed lips, mine curled into a smile. Welcome fun!

I told her, purposely to get a reaction in her toasty state, "Team America!"

Now, if you have seen Team America you know that they use the "f" word liberally and with abandon and, the best part, for no apparent reason, which we all know is not acceptable to the woman I just told.

She laughs so hard I think she may fall out of her chair. But then, silence as she remembers the "f" word usage. And I see her remembering. It is the delight of my evening. Well that and reminding her of the puppet sex scenes.

Oh my glee!

The rest of the evening is spent with her telling everyone who will listen that I recommended this movie to her and that while she used to respect my opinion that I would have to earn it back. I was mocked crushed for all to see. But every time she would chastise me for my viewing choices, and the language, oh horror the language, I would tell anyone standing near not to let Mrs. Ballet Studio fool them, that she secretly told me how much she loved the puppet sex (she didn't tell me that!). She was far enough gone into Drink Land that she would laugh at this instead of objecting.

And so the evening went, long into that liquored-up night.


Part of the reason I want to share this is because I think so many of us think that we are so different from those who ARE SOMEBODY in our communities. Um, nope, not so different. They get drunk and talk stupid smack just like you and I. They wear their mask of who they want to be instead of who they actually are as well as we do. And that lovely veneer slips to reveal the truth, which I find exceptionally more lovely, if you just stick around long enough.

Oh, and if that wasn't enough to have in my writing arsenal, I will leave you with this. Since we were talking movies we got on the subject of what we find funny. Any of you who read here with regularity know I am a fool for potty jokes. Farts, poops, any bodily function really, sends me into fits of laughter. Well, someone mentioned the bathroom scene in Dumb and Dumber (and yes, I laughed again...maybe even a snort was heard), and Mrs. B S (OMG! I just realized that her initials = her pretend self!) hadn't seen it. We were all trying to recreate the scene for her and then somehow, it wasn't me I swear, we got on the subject of how when boys are little they like to show off what the have pooped out into the toilet before sending it to Sewer Lane. Well before we know it she is exclaims, "Little boys?! My husband still does that to me!!" And then she goes into full reenactment mode playing both his part and hers.

Like the freaking Hope diamond, baby. It was the best jewel in the land! We howled and grimaced in our forbidden knowledge and then howled some more, especially when said husband made an appearance in the courtyard.

I immediately thought about how mortified she was gonna be this morning when she realized what she revealed to us.

So while I don't get much out of her when she is sober (Husband says it is because she is shy and doesn't know what to say to me when she is sober because we are very different people), it is so worth sicking around for once the wine gets uncorked.

And the best part is that I know. I know that underneath that sophisticated ballet exterior, that facade that the city looks to with pride, is a woman who is made to look at her husband's turd art.

That was so worth my evening, and I hope worth your slogging through this entry.