This is a cheater post, as the event was actually two years ago, and I orginally posted on Facebook. Now, I'm about to attend the same party in two days time, so I thought it might be fun to reminisce.
While attending a Christmas party at an internationally-known nature photographer’s showcase home, filled with his friends, other celebrities, associates and other work-related folk, and quite well-off patrons of the arts:
-It’s crowded and I gently place my hand on a stranger’s shoulder and softly say excuse me as I slide around him, but am halted by the heavenly softness of cashmere beneath my palm. Being of the Heavily Tactile Tribe I turn back and pet the sleeve of his sweater, swaying happily, eyes closed, purring that it’s soooo soft, calming endorphins filling me, until I see he’s not appreciating my attention, nor is the classily-clad woman talking to him, and their coldness attacks me as I stumble my apologies, backing away in confusion, never encountering this type of reaction, as in my opinion if you’re going to wear something furry, or soft like cashmere, it’s an open invitation to be touched. By lil’ ol’ non-threatening me.
-Joe’s talking photography to another guest we’ve just met, and I step over to get some Chex Mix, because no Christmas party is complete without it, and I pop some in my mouth and face in to the conversation just as one of the little salty squares drops into my cleavage. Neither notices, but for the next five minutes while nodding and participating all I can think about is if the greasy little toasted treat is leaving a stain on my bitchin’ shantung silk-looking (Praise Polyester!) party dress. As soon as we’re left alone I embrace Joe while darting my hand down into the void and retrieve the rogue snack. I eat it, no one else the wiser.
-If you’re going to stand in front of me and load your plate up with four (4) brownies, and I flash a warm and charming smile at you and teasingly ask you Mae West-style how many of those you’re planning to eat, I expect playful banter back. Not a deadpan, dead-face “Four.” Grumpy old man. What’s a girl gotta do for a smile around here?
-When a picture of an endless sea of Japanese men clad only in loincloths pops up in the slide show, our host tells us they’re in a mad competition to find two phallic objects hidden in the arena so they’ll have good luck the rest of the year. I say under my breath “Been there, done that” and the woman next to me bursts-out laughing. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
-I’m on the outskirts of a circle of people, and Joe’s feeding me a bite of something fancy and delicious and I realize I’ve placed the spike of my heel into the heating grate. I pull up my foot and the grate comes. Out. Of. The. Floor. Hilarity ensues as Joe uses his foot to push the grate back and I wiggle my foot free. Sometimes my life is like an I Love Lucy episode…
While attending a Christmas party at an internationally-known nature photographer’s showcase home, filled with his friends, other celebrities, associates and other work-related folk, and quite well-off patrons of the arts:
-It’s crowded and I gently place my hand on a stranger’s shoulder and softly say excuse me as I slide around him, but am halted by the heavenly softness of cashmere beneath my palm. Being of the Heavily Tactile Tribe I turn back and pet the sleeve of his sweater, swaying happily, eyes closed, purring that it’s soooo soft, calming endorphins filling me, until I see he’s not appreciating my attention, nor is the classily-clad woman talking to him, and their coldness attacks me as I stumble my apologies, backing away in confusion, never encountering this type of reaction, as in my opinion if you’re going to wear something furry, or soft like cashmere, it’s an open invitation to be touched. By lil’ ol’ non-threatening me.
-Joe’s talking photography to another guest we’ve just met, and I step over to get some Chex Mix, because no Christmas party is complete without it, and I pop some in my mouth and face in to the conversation just as one of the little salty squares drops into my cleavage. Neither notices, but for the next five minutes while nodding and participating all I can think about is if the greasy little toasted treat is leaving a stain on my bitchin’ shantung silk-looking (Praise Polyester!) party dress. As soon as we’re left alone I embrace Joe while darting my hand down into the void and retrieve the rogue snack. I eat it, no one else the wiser.
-If you’re going to stand in front of me and load your plate up with four (4) brownies, and I flash a warm and charming smile at you and teasingly ask you Mae West-style how many of those you’re planning to eat, I expect playful banter back. Not a deadpan, dead-face “Four.” Grumpy old man. What’s a girl gotta do for a smile around here?
-When a picture of an endless sea of Japanese men clad only in loincloths pops up in the slide show, our host tells us they’re in a mad competition to find two phallic objects hidden in the arena so they’ll have good luck the rest of the year. I say under my breath “Been there, done that” and the woman next to me bursts-out laughing. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
-I’m on the outskirts of a circle of people, and Joe’s feeding me a bite of something fancy and delicious and I realize I’ve placed the spike of my heel into the heating grate. I pull up my foot and the grate comes. Out. Of. The. Floor. Hilarity ensues as Joe uses his foot to push the grate back and I wiggle my foot free. Sometimes my life is like an I Love Lucy episode…
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