You know it's going to be a bad evening when your designated driver/hubby hits the babysitter's car in your own driveway. True story. Yes, he was stone cold sober, but it was raining and dark, I had the mirror light on to apply lipstick, and we were bickering about something stupid before the evening even started. And thump. Then cusswords. Lots of them.
To make matters worse, the sitter is a former student AND the daughter of a good friend and colleague. The same good friend/colleague that kindly invited Andrew to a Jesus and Me program at her church last week (more on that later, hopefully) and who supplies us with the endless hand-me-downs of her two boys. The same good friend who gives me constant support and a friendly face every day. Talk about salt in the wound.
So, what do mature, responsible adults do in that type of situation? They drive away! Yes, we did, but it's not as bad as it sounds. I didn't want to upset the girl, or Andrew, by barging back in the house and proclaiming that we'd had a little accident. So, we drove away, bitter and angry and already wishing the evening were over. And I called my friend to report our vehicular transgression--it is HER car, after all.
She assured me all was well and that is was no big deal, but BOY do I feel like CRAP!
We should have taken it as the omen of bad fortune and gloom that it was, but we proceeded with our evening, because we were, after all, paying a babysitter (and had mangled her car), the band (The Reflex) is really good and only around every so often, and we were dressed, so why not forge ahead and have a good time in spite of the terribly unauspicious way in which the evening had begun?
The one bright spot of the evening? The BEST McChicken sandwich I have ever eaten (and from the dollar menu at Mickey D's, no less). Sure, the music was great, as always, but there were just shy of five million people crammed into this seedy underbelly of a bar, and all but three of them were obnoxiously drunk. Such as these stellar examples of humanity:
The five lovely ladies we had the good fortune to spend time with in the restroom--two of them in the same stall (yeah, really--not with my CLOSEST friends or relatives do I go in the same stall!), one holding several drinks (the sign CLEARLY states that the clientele of this establishment should leave all beverages out of the bathroom), at least one who had just finished "~smoking in the girls' room~" regardless of the smoking ban, and another who proclaimed loudly that she "liked my f-ing hair much better when I was blonde, but my f-ing hair was falling out!" for all to hear.
The petite and extremely drunk brunette on the dance floor who had to be HELD UP by her boyfriend for hours on end because she couldn't remain vertical AND dance at the same time. The boyfriend even had a pinch-hitter for him when he got tired, and boy was he working hard to keep her upright. She and I became such good friends (PLEASE hear the sarcasm in that), that by the end of the evening, when the crowd was at its peak, she rested her head on my back in touching gesture of drunken snuggliness as she continued to dance her mess around. I might actually be black and blue. I should check.
An friend/acquaintance of my sister, who upon bumping into a much larger baseball-cap-wearing-frat-boy-lookalike proceeded to talk enough trash and egg it on so stupidly that *I* was about to knock him out.
The cherubic young preppy gentleman who insisted on moving our table right out from under us so there was more room near the dance floor. He was so sweet and helpful about it.
The oh-so-smug doorman who informed me, when I politely asked if they were over their capacity, that they could let 150 more people. Yeah, sure, but only if you're going to fill the bathrooms with two to a stall.
Remind me that OUT is overrated. I don't know how I keep forgetting.