...goes on the blog. Just kidding, gang.
Last night, we had a small dinner party that turned into a big dinner party, and it rocked. It did, however, get a little politically incorrect around the dinner table once the joke trading began. 10 people sitting around my dining room, all screaming the most offensive jokes you've ever heard at each other, everyone far too drunk to pretend not to laugh. In fact, there was one joke in particular, involving food stamps and work boots, that had me laughing so hard, I nearly passed out.
What I can tell you is that Big Chris has a new nickname. It's Rita "Pretty Shoes" Cullen. Chris arrived in what can only be described as "foot coverings", apparently the new Air Jordan's. God love him, I didn't know people still cared so much about sneakers. The last I heard, the Reebok Pump was all the rage. But Chris was working his shiny red Jordan's, which require one to slide one's foot into a sheath of plastic and then velcro the shoe closed up the back. Curious.
Most of you are familiar with my term "priest shoes", coined for a bad date's unfortunate choice of footwear. So Andy started calling Chris "pretty shoes." And then Kate brought along her friend Katie, who's hilarious and incidentally, kept calling everyone Rita. Turns out, that's her way of politely calling someone retarded. Thus, he's now Rita "Pretty Shoes" Cullen. Spread the word.
Pretty Shoes was, however, responsible for one of the highlights of the night. In our horribly offensive dinner conversation, we discussed at length the appropriate term for someone of mixed race, which by the way, is the appropriate term. Pretty Shoes, it seems, has developed his own term. Halfrican.
Aside from the ridiculous and obscene dinner conversation, allow me to say that the event was lovely, and should have been photographed for Gourmet, In Style, or similar. Nothing makes me happier than entertaining, although a day of slaving away in the kitchen and decorating the house, and perhaps my decision to "test" the wine at 4pm, exhausted me. Yet right on cue, after dessert we rolled into The Monkey Club, the bar down the street, for what I was calling, "after dinner drinks."
As the night wound down, I returned home and crawled in my bed, only to be joined by Kelsey, who then decided that dinner was so lovely, we needed to call our friends that couldn't make it and express our sadness. We passed out around 1 or 2, full of food and wine and appalling humor.
I love having dinner parties, especially on the fly, and last night was no different. Rock on, Ritas, let's do it again tonight.