Ouch.

Saturday night, my husband and I went to a party. It was a grown-up party, the kind you have to pay money to attend (for a good cause and all that.) Unlike the bona fide adults we are, we decided to go to Bar None for a vague after-party.

1. We are too old for any after-party, unless it involves a cup of warm tea and an old episode of Law and Order.

2. Bar None? In Five Points? What were we thinking?

I should have known. The party we attended included shuttle service from downtown, to and from the Lexington venue. We took our car, because I was covering a wedding for Carolina Bride right before and got home too late to make the last shuttle. In retrospect, this was a good thing, because I am way too old to ride in a van with a bunch of drunk kids. To be embarrassingly honest, the only reason I wanted to take the shuttle was so I could have a drink. I had abstained at the wedding, because I was working and not technically a guest. Although the lovely hostess surely would have been happy for me to shotgun a glass of bubbly, I didn't want to take advantage and - if I'm completely honest - my tolerance is so low that one drink when I'm trying hard to act like the professional I am not would not be such a great idea. Anyhow, by the time I arrived home for a costume change, I was ready for that drink. While packing myself into my dress, I announced to my husband I was bringing a toter for the road. Yes, I planned to break the law, but it's a fairly new law, so does it really count? I thought he would tell me no. He didn't and I realized we were way too old to get pulled over for probable cause and get charged with the additional open container violation. Cops don't usually go after dressed-up old people in Priuses driving within three miles of the posted speed limit, all exterior lights intact. TF even uses his blinker.

As the party wound down, some people invited us to Bar None. Or maybe we invited them. That part is somewhat hazy. We offered to drive them there and removed the carseat so all three could fit in the back of the car. My age reared its head again when they had trouble locating the seatbelts. I got out of the car.

"Kids, we are not going ANYWHERE until everyone is buckled in! I MEAN it!"

And I stood there. I even offered to reach between them and dig out the seatbelts myself. I think I threw in a few words about permanent injuries changing your life and how they weren't as warm and fuzzy as they are on t.v. I may have gone off on the evils of television, too. This behavior should have been a clue. I tend to ignore the obvious after one glass of bubbly and two cocktails, no matter how light they were. We drove to Five Points, had a brief debate about the chances of getting towed from the parking lot behind a closed shop and headed to the bar. It was nice, really. Thanks to the smoking ban, some of the charm was gone, but still.

I convinced TF we should take a stroll through Five Points, for old times' sake. I felt pretty darn cute, rocking a new dress, with my hair freshly blown out by the fabulous Wesley. In fact, I felt really cute, thanks to the three drinks and my newfound love for my weathered adorable breasts*. As we walked past a sidewalk full of drunks college kids who probably have parents, one of them looked me in the eye and squalled,

"Happy Mother's Day!"

He might have even added a "ma'am" at the end. Wow. Is it that obvious? Maybe not. Maybe that kid was so wasted he couldn't see straight and we came across as old because we looked so fabulous, right? We walked on, laughing at the folly of youth. Until we approached another group of revelers,

"Yo! Pimpin' old school!"

Ouch. Seriously? Ouch. I don't even know if he was referring to TF as an old pimp or me as an old hooker. Or both. Honestly? I do not want to know at all. I still think I'm cute (enough.) I have no idea how the first guy knew I was a mother or why the second thought I was a hooker. I mean, my dress was tea-length. What kind of hooker wears a tea-length sundress? In fact, I say "Beware the hooker in a tea-length sundress, 'cause that ain't right." And, although I don't know any personally, I bet pimps do not as a general rule wear Hickey-Freeman sport coats. B*tch, pleeze.




I love that skit. It grows on you. You might not have laughed just then, but you will later. Trust me. I know these things, because I'm ancient and have loads of experience.

Namasté, y'all!

* Do you ever wonder if you've had too much to drink? If your sweet grandmother says to you in a very sweet voice, "My goodness! I know all about the history of your breasts now," your final drink of the evening is in your past. True story.