You may have noticed that I'd been shopping, practicing, and primping for a certain formal event that took place on Saturday. And if you haven't noticed, it's because you're not following me on Twitter. Which is pretty lame of you AT A TIME LIKE THIS. Of course, whether you follow me or not is not fully important since I'm just going to tell you about it all over again anyway.
So, here we go.
Phase One: Shopping
Remember that story about the dress that tried to kill me? Well, clearly it needed to be replaced. On, uhm, a fifty dollar budget. Naturally, I saved this impossible task until the point where it became an Impossible task within an impossible time frame. In other words, I spent about two weeks and six thousand dollars in gas traveling the tri-state area looking for that which does not exist. It felt eerily similar to those nights in high school when we'd drive through this one area of town looking for a tribe of midgets that lived in the woods. But that's neither here nor there. The point is that THERE ARE NO MIDGETS IN THE WOODS, KRISTINE. So, during one afternoon quest, I pulled into a parking lot to call my husband. My plan was to convince him that a $200+ dress was ESSENTIAL for my well-being, and I was prepared to alternate between SOBBING and YOU LISTEN HERE, BUDDY, in order to achieve this goal. But then I looked up and saw a magical bridal shop. Therein, I found THIS on the clearance rack. For FIFTY DOLLARS.
Of course, my boobs are nonexistent and I needed to get the damn top tailored for an extra $30, which blew the budget after all. I am not good at this shopping business. For further evidence of this, see previous frantic tweets calling for help to accessorize said dress. Seriously, glasses make everything difficult. Except for SEEING, of course, but definitely everything else.
Phase Two: Practice
Now, when I say practice, I'm not referring to any fancy dance moves or proper use of the soup spoon. No, I'm referring to hair and makeup. And lest you think I'm simply vain, I want to emphasize my incompetance when it comes to hair and makeup. As in, you would have better luck asking me choreograph, dance, sing, and act a role in an Tribute to Britney Spears episode of Glee than having me successfully apply makeup and hair product without eliciting gawkers who are compelled to cock their heads sideways.
For example, one afternoon, after watching numerous HOW TO APPLY EYE MAKEUP tutorials (no, really) I attempted something called The Smokey Eye, a look that probably jumped the shark three years ago. After what must've been 45 minutes, I walked down the hall to my napping husband to get his opinion. I startled him awake, receiving a look of equal parts sadness and horror.
Him: You look like some sort of evil action super hero.
Me: So you're saying DON'T wear this to the ball?
Him: You're gonna take it off, right? Like, right now? Before we go to the store?
And let's just say that all my hair practicing to achieve that Kim Kardashian look...well, failed.
(Please ALSO note that I'm not fishing for OHBUTYOULOOKNIIIIICE! or anything because, ICK, STOP LOOKING AT ME. The purpose here is to illustrate my incompetence in the hopes that someone starts sponsoring me. With a personal stylist. And maybe some padded bras. I'm at peace, however, with my armpits.)
Phase Three: Attendance
The day of the grand event, The Husband and I arrived at the hotel early to get dressed and scoff at minibar prices. I'd done my hair earlier that day in the hopes that it'd FALL or something, but, well, I think we've already covered that. I managed to apply some makeup to my face in way that did not induce twitching for passersby and we headed down to a friend's room for cocktails. We arrived a full hour early, people. Unfashionably, in more ways than one.
The event itself was remarkably uneventful. (Wait, what?) I had a few drinks, but not too many. I negotiated the ladies' room without dipping half my skirt into the toilet water. In other words, I generally avoided becoming THAT HOUSEWIFE, this year. However, I appear to be in contention for future events, friends. Observe.
The Husband and I were in line for drinks, trying to catch the last call for open bar. Impulsively, we decided to get TWO DRINKS EACH to last us through the next two hours of non-free liquor time. Because we're classy. So now, here's me, leaving the line, with two glasses of vodka-Sprite, a glittering, bedazzled clutch, a digital camera, and some rose that I was given upon entrance. Oh, did I mention my shoes? Right, those would be four inch heels. That I'd never worn before. And SURPRISE! slipped off my heels with every step. And you saw the dress, right? Floor length?
Now, while I didn't EXACTLY eat it as I crossed the dance floor en route to my seat, the amount of flailing, cursing, and awkward recovering was pretty much the same as a total wipeout might muster. Especially touching was when I called out for The Husband in an attempt to laugh it off and appear, um, graceful?, only to be abandoned on the dance floor, mumbling incoherently to myself for help? Anyone? My dress? Is eating my shoes? At this point, I was not only drowned out by the music but also by men speaking urgently in microphones commanding stragglers to SIT THE FUCK DOWN, WE'RE ABOUT TO CARVE CAKES WITH SWORDS UP IN HERE. So are we picturing this together? A shuffling, Elaine-style jerking stumble, with Shirley Temple curls bouncing to-and-fro, and a look of utter desperation with an attempt at the debonair? All while lip syncing my own demise?
Yeah, so I ripped my dress. All those folds in the front? They disappeared completely as I stepped on myself, leaving me with a reverse train type-thing. So, sure, the shuffling saved me from a full assplant, but I wore my Scarlet Letter for it, friends. I spent the rest of the night holding up the fluffy skirt like a prairie girl hiking through muddy fields, avoiding eye contact with any decorated Marines that might have the demote my husband on principle alone.