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I went to DH's Christmas Party last Friday night.
To start, let me point out that I own exactly two types of outfits. The stuff I wear normally which is t-shirts (although I have few nicer shirts that are still considered casual) and jean skirts/shorts (or sometimes the popular skort combo) or my fancy wear (velvety skirts and blouses and actual dresses). I will wear jean shorts year round, because I'm an adult and I happen to be comfortable in shorts. Yes, I know it's cold outside, but I'm usually inside in my toasty little 65 degree house so bugger off random dude at Volde-mart, I don't need fashion advice from a man in sweats and a headband. I. Don't. Wear. Pants. Leggings, yes. Pants, no. End of story.
So, dress code for this thing is civilian casual, which my little book O'Army codes says means polos/sweaters/slacks for the Soldier. According to the book, I'm supposed to use Hubby's dress code as my guide for what I wear. (Do you realize there are events that I will be expected to attend as an Army spouse that require Ball Gowns? WTF?) Okay. No help there. I finally settle on a velvety-suedy-whatever-it-is-it-can-be-washed shirt and a nice jean skirt. My chunky heeled Mary Janes toned down the nicer top, I thought. A bit of makeup, some hot curlers and I was good. Had to talk DH into putting on a sweater over the t-shirt he pulled out of some drawer, but other than that, good.
We get to the party (after realizing that between printing the map DH had and the party, the city had renamed a few of the streets, making it just a tad bit difficult to find the place) and I realize that even in the sloppy chic middle class stuff I'm wearing, with my ten minute hair-do, I'm still slightly overdressed for some of these people. Apparently, not everyone has read my book.
A lot of the single soldiers stopped in on the way to the bars, and I'm sorry but even in Manhappiness the bar crowd put in more effort at hygiene than these boys did.
We dropped off our cookie offering to the Party Police and made a circuit so that DH could attempt to find someone from his platoon so that he could prove he had attended (since attendance had been "highly recommended") and couldn't find a single person he recognized. Lovely. So we sat in the middle of a really long table, at least five chairs between us and anyone else, cause I'm not going to go up to people I don't know and talk to them and heaven forbid DH introduce me to anyone. And then more people came in. Eventually DH left to get a plate of food for us (he had already promised to take me back to the Japanese Steakhouse afterward as a reward for sitting through the party) and I ended up with a small child elbowing me in the ribs for no real reason that I could see and an obnoxious gentleman who seemed to assume that the empty seat next to me was really just an empty seat. Cause, you know, I look like the kind of gal who likes to crash these kinds of parties stag. Or not.
I informed him that he could scoot his scrawny little behind and that of his skanky ass girlfriend on down the table a bit because My Husband and I had been setting here for Two Hellacious hours already and if he couldn't be bothered to sit his Ass down before now it isn't wasn't my problem. Biatch. Only I was polite.
I did get my dinner at Shogun, though. And then I got to rent the movie of my choice, which meant something low budget and stupid with gratuitous gore. That's right, we rented El Chupacbra. For those of you who do not actually know me, let me just paint a small mental picture for you. Two nicely dressed people (the woman looking fine, if I do say so myself) standing in the Horror aisle at the local rental place. As if on cue, they both speak at the same time, with matching hand gestures reminiscent of wiggly vampire fangs near the mouth, loudly proclaiming "El Chupacbra: The Mexican Goat Sucker" and then make noises similar to Hannibal Lector discussing some fava beans and a nice chianti.
Had a discussion with DH (which I will spare you) that involved the words "whiner", "sloughing off", "sniffles" and "poopshoot". I could explain, but I don't think it would help matters any.
To start, let me point out that I own exactly two types of outfits. The stuff I wear normally which is t-shirts (although I have few nicer shirts that are still considered casual) and jean skirts/shorts (or sometimes the popular skort combo) or my fancy wear (velvety skirts and blouses and actual dresses). I will wear jean shorts year round, because I'm an adult and I happen to be comfortable in shorts. Yes, I know it's cold outside, but I'm usually inside in my toasty little 65 degree house so bugger off random dude at Volde-mart, I don't need fashion advice from a man in sweats and a headband. I. Don't. Wear. Pants. Leggings, yes. Pants, no. End of story.
So, dress code for this thing is civilian casual, which my little book O'Army codes says means polos/sweaters/slacks for the Soldier. According to the book, I'm supposed to use Hubby's dress code as my guide for what I wear. (Do you realize there are events that I will be expected to attend as an Army spouse that require Ball Gowns? WTF?) Okay. No help there. I finally settle on a velvety-suedy-whatever-it-is-it-can-be-washed shirt and a nice jean skirt. My chunky heeled Mary Janes toned down the nicer top, I thought. A bit of makeup, some hot curlers and I was good. Had to talk DH into putting on a sweater over the t-shirt he pulled out of some drawer, but other than that, good.
We get to the party (after realizing that between printing the map DH had and the party, the city had renamed a few of the streets, making it just a tad bit difficult to find the place) and I realize that even in the sloppy chic middle class stuff I'm wearing, with my ten minute hair-do, I'm still slightly overdressed for some of these people. Apparently, not everyone has read my book.
A lot of the single soldiers stopped in on the way to the bars, and I'm sorry but even in Manhappiness the bar crowd put in more effort at hygiene than these boys did.
We dropped off our cookie offering to the Party Police and made a circuit so that DH could attempt to find someone from his platoon so that he could prove he had attended (since attendance had been "highly recommended") and couldn't find a single person he recognized. Lovely. So we sat in the middle of a really long table, at least five chairs between us and anyone else, cause I'm not going to go up to people I don't know and talk to them and heaven forbid DH introduce me to anyone. And then more people came in. Eventually DH left to get a plate of food for us (he had already promised to take me back to the Japanese Steakhouse afterward as a reward for sitting through the party) and I ended up with a small child elbowing me in the ribs for no real reason that I could see and an obnoxious gentleman who seemed to assume that the empty seat next to me was really just an empty seat. Cause, you know, I look like the kind of gal who likes to crash these kinds of parties stag. Or not.
I informed him that he could scoot his scrawny little behind and that of his skanky ass girlfriend on down the table a bit because My Husband and I had been setting here for Two Hellacious hours already and if he couldn't be bothered to sit his Ass down before now it isn't wasn't my problem. Biatch. Only I was polite.
I did get my dinner at Shogun, though. And then I got to rent the movie of my choice, which meant something low budget and stupid with gratuitous gore. That's right, we rented El Chupacbra. For those of you who do not actually know me, let me just paint a small mental picture for you. Two nicely dressed people (the woman looking fine, if I do say so myself) standing in the Horror aisle at the local rental place. As if on cue, they both speak at the same time, with matching hand gestures reminiscent of wiggly vampire fangs near the mouth, loudly proclaiming "El Chupacbra: The Mexican Goat Sucker" and then make noises similar to Hannibal Lector discussing some fava beans and a nice chianti.
Had a discussion with DH (which I will spare you) that involved the words "whiner", "sloughing off", "sniffles" and "poopshoot". I could explain, but I don't think it would help matters any.
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Hope the bad movie was good.
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Friending you!
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