Saturday was our school auction, an event I attended mostly sober last year because of the early stages of Trying To Conceive. That, my friends, was a mistake one doesn't make twice. This year I had a few people over beforehand to get the drinking started. Then off we headed to the big event, with agreements made between all of us that we would rescue one another if we got stuck in corners with certain parents. You know the ones.
As mentioned before, Mondale was my date, since Wes is nowhere near crazy enough to accompany me to this sort of thing. To be honest, my impression of Mondale's extracurricular life is that it is one long drunken party - he is far too busy, for example, to EVER have brunch with Wes and me. So I was not surprised when he showed up to my house LATE as hell, having gone drinking with his man-crush, Mr. Glen instead of coming to my gathering as promised. In any case, he got there.
He was a good date for the most part, except for one thing. When I sent him to get me a drink, he came back with the wrong one (vodka tonic instead of vodka and cranberry). He was unapologetic, being a beer drinker and very dismissive of anyone wanting a PINK drink.
After eating and more drinking and a bit of schmoozing and looking at the pathetic bids on the silent auction items, we headed for the live auction. Last year our borough president, this crazy uber-Brooklyn sort, was there helping to hock dinner with himself. I was hopeful, but he didn't show. Plus bidding was low. Sadly low. At one point, a Fire Island house for 10 was up for bid and I mentioned to Mondale that we should all get together and bid on such a thing next year.
"I'm not going to bloody Fire Island."
I scowled at him. "Why? Because everyone will think you're gay? Everyone already thinks that."
"I'm BRITISH," he bellowed and turned away in a huff as I laughed at him.
Later the auctioneer mentioned not having children (as an excuse for his inability to pronounce Pokem*n or something), and I started in. "You know, I should ask him what he DOES with himself without children. Because I really am trying to figure out what I am going to DO with myself if I don't have children, you know, because..."
"OH MY GOD," Mondale intoned. "This is NOT bloody therapy. SHUT UP."
People should tell me this more often, if I am honest.
Mondale had a long talk with the son of an infamous Vietnam general. This is one from what I call the Conspiracy Photo series:
After this, Mondale was drunk. Drunk enough, in fact, that he danced:
And after that we were all drunk. See Mom-of-Two-Boys with listmaker here:
And then in the car of Mom-of-Two-Girls with Mondale:
We went back to the home of Mom-of-Two-Boys, where Mondale started to look... bad. Apparently the knight in shining armour was Son-of-My-Boss, who never drinks at work gatherings and who saved Mondale's life when he was falling down the stairs. Here he is with listo.
One might suggest, perhaps, that I should have been the one saving him from killing himself on the stairs. I should have been the one, as his date, who put him into a cab. Indeed, I did fail in this respect. But I consider it payback for his not getting me a fricking pink drink when I wanted one.
Thank God that's over for another year.
