i only wear white when it rains

because blogging is cheaper than therapy

no great exit

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Saturday evening I attended the Great Explorations Museum fundraising event aboard the StarLite dinner cruise ship. Normally I eschew any venue that employs “for a dazzling night out” as their signature slogan. But since

What ruins this picture more: the blinker or my cropping job?

my dear friend Penelope knows that no matter how many dirty martinis she drinks, I promise to do something insane enough to make even her look sober, she gave me one of her boarding passes. It seemed only fair that I make the effort to determine what is “cruise casual” when we are experiencing highs of 47 degrees.

Which brings me to my friend the Ringmaster and what cruise casual is not. His lion-taming wife may be able to rock an open-backed nautical tank, but she needs to crack her black whip the next time he picks out a rayon/polyester blend floral number better suited for braiding palm frond hats at the Nealwater (sic) Pier.

But in all fairness to the Ringmaster, most of us completely ignored the dress code. Just as we overlooked the fact that 300 people were crammed into a mirrored, neon lit, floating equivalent of a Motel 6 Lounge complete with a band that played “La Bamba.” Twice.

Everyone has their exit song. For my brother, and, well, most of the earth, it’s “The Electric Slide.” But La Bamba is right up there with “Funky Cold Medina” on my: hear-it-and-I’m-out playlist. It was during the second “Ay, Arriba, Arriba” that I realized the pure genius of hosting an event in quarters close enough to allow inadvertent anal sex with strangers. We. Can’t. Leave. What a brilliant plan by the Great Ex board, which is in large part led by my favorite (espresso) drinking partner (in crime) and gossip-mongering Yenta.

Because I could make no Great Exit, I had to endure more than a few painful discoveries:

  1. Sometimes when you bid on an autographed Bucs football in the silent auction, you are too intoxicated to put your bid number on the correct bid sheet and end up buying a baseball signed by someone you’ve never even heard of.
  2. Being introduced to a man who jokingly acts like he already knows you and even dated you in high school is cute and flirty. If he’s not 73.
  3. You’re better off eating the side dish accompanying the filet mignon than you are being a complete pain in the ass and ordering the vegetarian harvest. Unless you want to be the only stupid bitch on the whole boat who is eating squash floating in ketchup for dinner.

In an effort to entertain myself and horrify friends, I decided to dig out a life preserver and put it on over my Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress that is as close to cruise casual as I’m going to get without shuffleboard and an all-you-can-eat midnight pasta buffet. This plan is only amusing if I can keep a straight face as I socialize, peruse auction items and eat my zucchini while looking at everyone like, “What? Just trying to be safe.”

Enter my friend Murfreesboro who has beauty pageant good looks and Southern grace, but also is the type of girl who will jokingly wrestle your 240-lb personal trainer and accidentally rip off his arm. You do not want to mess with her. So when she jabbed her pointer into my life preserver hard enough to break a rib before pushing it down on my breasts so forcefully a mammogram seemed gentle, I realized the life preserver needed to go. After I recovered from my punctured lung, she pushed me, Grey Goose spilling, into an alcohol-induced set up with a still-technically-married, handsome in a Bee Gees sort of dreaminess guy who would have been all the more attractive had I not known for a fact his wife was waiting back at shore with a machete ready to give me a haircut. I once wore a headband for a year trying to grow out an unfortunate bangtastrophe. I was not taking any chances.

The night culminated with fireworks (romantic only if your date is not a slice of amaretto cheesecake) and a makeshift rickshaw ride by Murfreesboro. She pushed me down into a wheelbarrow at the marina and gave me a not surprisingly bumpy ride back to the Vinoy. Where, I’m pretty sure, my uterus is still lying on the sidewalk.

Notice the Murfreesboro poke hole

Written by I only Wear White When it Rains

November 10, 2010 at 1:49 pm

One Response

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  1. Carline never seemed so short!!!! Hurr-reee write something else !!!! 🙂


    November 10, 2010 at 2:55 pm

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