Sunday, December 08, 2013

why we rarely go out of an evening

The Sober Husband's new company held its Christmas party last night, and we dragged ourselves there.  I felt like staying in, as it was very cold out and we have four very cute foster kittens and two reasonably cute children in the home.  "There'll be free alcohol," said the Sober Husband winningly.  "I can drink at home," I said loftily.  But guilt over my relative loseriness as a spouse caused me to wriggle into a glamorous outfit, exhibiting lots of lace-lined cleavage,  and strap on glamorous shoes.

Next there was a bit of conflict over transit.  I started calling for a car, but the Sober Husband looked at me as though I were an idiot.  "You do know where this is, right? Walking distance from the train?"

I pointed out my footwear and the fact that we were having a cold snap.  "You want me to go out in that cold and walk down a cliff in heels?"

Winning that little disagreement, I summoned a Lyft.  However, I then noticed my cellphone thought my location was downtown.  I called the driver and told him our true location.  He called me back and pressured me into canceling.  "I don't want to cancel because it's a five dollar fee, and I don't feel I should have to pay that," I whined, but the driver had no intention of coming out to get us, and I finally caved.

I regretted that when I then tried to call a new Lyft and learned that no drivers were available.  I started taking off my shoes and determined to stay home.  The Sober Husband balked.  "I thought we were going out; I thought we had a date."

Eventually we obtained an UberX car, one with a driver who had no idea how to reach our destination and no GPS.  The Sober Husband suggested to the driver that he could just let us out roughly half a mile away, and I snorted.  In the end the Sober Husband got directions on his iPhone and struggled to impart them to the driver.

At the large, cavernous party location, we saw a lot of lines.  Lines for the coat checks.  Lines for sushi.  Lines for alcohol.  It was cold.  We forged on, not checking our coats, and found a bar with no line in a remote, outdoor zone.  The drinks were small and mostly composed of ice.  Then we discovered a candy bar, with limitless amounts of candy and convenient paper bags.  We each filled a bag with candy with the intention of bringing it home to the children.  The Sober Husband kept protesting that we couldn't take so much, but I pshawed.  "You think they don't have more?"

We roamed about, running into only three people the Sober Husband knew.  The place was gorgeously decorated but cold, so cold.  I found a spot by a snaky duct which blew blistering hot air on my ankles, and I stood there a long time.  After about an hour total, we left.  A famous band was scheduled to play, but I wasn't interested.  "Their music is whiny," I said.  "I have nothing against them, but it's wasted on me."

We went outside to summon a Lyft home and discovered one of the three people the Sober Husband had recognized, doing the same.  "You're leaving already?" the Sober Husband asked.  We bonded, and I explained to this coworker how to use app-based car services.

At home I summoned the young people.  "Assemble!  Assemble!"  They ignored me.  "I have candy!" This brought results.  "Why, hello there," breathed the same Lola who had ignored me upon my arrival.  We dumped out all the candy on the dining room table, and our offspring were in ecstasy.  I took off my shoes and changed out of my sultry, tight clothes into a bathrobe, to the disappointment of the Sober Husband, who'd made a few admiring remarks about the view.  He soon wandered off to become immersed in a coding project, and I opened my literary horror novel.  Normalcy was restored.

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