White Trash Halloween Party November 7, 2007

Last week, I took the baby to a Halloween party. It was hosted by a gal who runs a parents’ meetup group that I joined a while back. This party was only the third event we had attended, so I had high hopes for really digging in and meeting some people. Oh, and the baby looked ADORABLE in her butterfly costume.

The night before, I stayed up until 11:30 p.m. making and frosting cookies. My friend was still here from Chicago (thank god), and she helped me. The baby (should I call her toddler now?) and I are the first ones to arrive. The organizer and I make small talk, and I am trying not to judge her for how fucking filthy her hovel…excuse me, I mean, house is. Whatever. We’re not moving in.

According to the RSVPs, there were to be 10 moms total. Four of us showed, and I’m counting the host. The other two are younger than me, leaning towards the trashy side, and completely devoid of social graces. They barely speak, even when spoken to. Okaaaaaaaaaaay. The actual party was held in the screened-in porch, which was cool, until I saw how dirty that area was, too. Oh, baby, don’t touch anything. We all go out in the yard for a bit, then it’s time for the festivities (cheap-ass snacks and…well, that was pretty much it). As I’m coming back to the screened porch, I am walking backwards while trying to manage the door and hold the baby. Well, I tripped and fell onto a step that leads back into the house. Aside from scaring me and the baby to death, it hurt both my ass and pride. Thank god I did not drop the baby. No one said a word. Finally, the hostess/organizer spoke up: “Please don’t sue us, we don’t have any money.” No “is the baby okay?” No “are you okay?” Nothing. Don’t sue us. I told her that I was too embarrassed to think of any such thing, and let’s be honest: she obviously doesn’t have money for cleaning supplies, so she must not have it for anything else.

We stick around so the baby can be around other kids that she’ll never see again. At one point, I ask to use the restroom. Of course, I take the baby with me. What, I’m gonna trust one of these trashy bitches with my child? I think not. We find the bathroom, the toilet is stopped up, and the floor is covered in tools just ready to severly injure an unattended child. This is such a fucking joke. So, I surmise there might be a bathroom off of the master bedroom. Ta da, there is. It’s slightly cleaner than the out-of-service one, and I beg the baby not to touch ANYTHING.

Shortly thereafter, we leave, but not before the baby tries to pinch some of the insulation-looking material between the step into the house and the actual house. I say, “ABSOLUTELY NOT!” The hostess/organizer says, what is she reaching for? I say, “Some insulation-like stuff.” She says, “Yeah, my baby tries to put that in her mouth. I guess we should cover that up.” At this point, I can no longer hide my disdain, and I say, “Yeah, at the very least.”

Later that day, I quit the group. Once we get settled in whatever house we buy, I’ll start my own goddamned group, and it will be awesome.

Me, Booze, and Cab Drivers Don’t Mix November 7, 2007

During the same weekend as the laughable wine tasting, my visiting friend and I boozed it up in downtown Nashville. Just so you know:

• The martinis at Boundry are horrible (if I’d wanted a vodka straight up…I would have ordered one, ahem).
• It’s way too fucking crowded at Tootsie’s to remotely enjoy yourself.
• Beer Seller remains one of my favorite bars of all time. You can still smoke in there (some loophole, thank god), it’s never packed, the staff is friendly (one of the bartenders is my hairdresser, actually), and the jukebox is killer.
• Two of the three cab drivers we encountered that night were clueless douchebags. Well, the second one was clueless; we spent $6 driving around in a circle only to walk from just about the place he picked us up. The last cab driver, the one we paid to drive us the 20+ miles back to my place, was just an asshole. Let me explain.

He kept the meter running while we were in the Jack-In-The-Box drivethru, then proceeded to order food for himself. I then asked him to turn off the meter while we waited. He complied. When he gave us our drinks, my friend asked if he had straws. He said yeah. We leave the parking lot. He actually does not have any straws. Fucker. Once we get on the highway, he is purposefully driving so slowly that we’re being passed on all sides. I inform him that we only have $21 between the two of us, so he needs to pick up the pace. He does not take kindly to this assertion, and proceeds to pull over and stop in the middle of where two interstates converge. I repeatedly tell him that he needs to GO if he wants to get any money at all, and finally, he begins driving again. It occurs to me that as two inebriated women, we are not in the safest of situations. For the duration of the drive, my eyes are glued to the highway, and I’m praying for a safe return to my wonderful husband. Indeed, that’s how it plays out, although we have the fucking cabbie drop us off a few houses away. I don’t want this psychotic foreigner knowing where I live. He has the balls to ask me what’s up with the money I hand him (don’t even START on why you’re getting a whopping 20 cent tip, motherfucker), and then he realizes it’s all there.

The next day, I internally freak out about how close my friend and I came to a really dangerous situation. I may eat my words, but I would rather stay at home and drink on the deck than deal with the expense, crowds, and cab driver hassle that is downtown…anywhere. Chicago is slightly different in that everyone takes cabs, so the drivers, by and large, don’t get uppity and try to fuck you like a tourist. Here, it’s different. Everyone still drinks and drives who is local. I can’t take that risk anymore. There’s too much at stake.