Man I've really screwed the pooch on this blog. It's really hard and busy being an alcoholic, procrastinating single girl with no life whatsoever.
Ahh New Years Eve. Such big expectations that are often shattered by drinking to much to early on in the night, wearing uncomfortable shoes or being forever alone.
This year, or I guess last year now, my friend and I decided to hit up a "masquerade" type NYE partay. Which in hindsight was one of the more random/kinda weird decisions we've made. But we figured it was better then how we spent last New Years. Which was stuffing our faces with popcorn and making bags (I know, you're probably wondering...what the hell does that mean? I can't really explain it, you had to be there). Not that I didn't enjoy that.
So anyways, we buy these ridiculously expensive tickets to go to this thing. Its at some hotel and it is serving probably the best spread I've ever had on New Years Eve. Granted most of the time on New Years Eve I've been alone watching movies, eating cereal, wearing PJs, and falling asleep at 11. Point is, this party is going to be the swankiest NYE party I've ever been to. And I'm 22 years old. This is the legacy I will leave my children. And this "party" all came at the price of selling your first born to Satan.
So NYE rolls around. I can already tell it's gonna be a weird day. I'm having some sort of panic attack about what to wear. The pressure was all to much. I can't do my hair, my nail polish doesn't work and I hate the shoes I have. Which then escalated into thoughts of being unattractive which would drive men away, no one would kiss me at midnight, I'd never get married, I'd live by myself forever and what would I name all those cats? My mother came home to find me holding the straighter in one hand and cradling myself with the other trying to self-soothe. Not my finest hour. And this was before I had even dived into the boos.
So, as usual my mom slapped together some outfit for me that I could never have thought of. She put my head under the tap in the sink and washed my hair and made me blow dry it. Crisis averted for the time being. NYE was really off to a great start already. Only one huge emotional breakdown, I consider that an achievement on such a day.
Now my friend and I had rented a hotel room in the same hotel to you know, support the idea of no drinking and driving. So I packed all my crap into one bag and headed into the city. Stress was already running high at this point so I decided to blast One Direction in hopes that the sweet siren calls of beautiful underage men would soothe my frayed nerves.
It worked by the way. Their soulful voices really put a girl in her happy place. But that's beside the point.
So I finally arrive at this "palace of dreams and masquerade". No parking. I get waved into some sketchy back lot that is covered in with knee deep snow. So after almost dying trying to park I finally drag all my shit out and trudge through the snow to get to the lobby where I meet my friend. Turns out the party was already happening.
We walked in and it was like stepping into some weird alternate universe where everyone is wearing cheap masks and the smell of old people and buffet food was thick. We check in. We get a voucher for free brunch the next day. Perfect, that would surely make up for anything bad that would happen that night. The voucher became very important later on.
We head up to the hotel room, full of blind optimism and with the hope that the two bottles of wine we brought would last us the night. It was a small hope, but it made us strong. Within five minutes we cracked open the wine, exploded our girly shit all over the place and somehow had glitter in every crevice of the room. I'm not really sure how, but it was there. Glitter is just like the herpes of the art world, always showing up when its not wanted and it just stays there forever.
We raced around the room deciding exactly what to wear to dinner, sweater or no sweater, mask or no mask, desperation or no desperation? As these questions filled our head the hour of dinner quickly approached. So we put on our uncomfortable heels and limped down to the party.
We were seated in an area called "The Club Masque" or some other name. It was exactly what one would expect a club with tables for dining to look like. Music pumped, there was a huge dance floor in the middle and a lot of old people wearing outfits that were covered in "I hope this will make up for the fact that if I get lucky with one of these young people I will have to take a Viagra/will hide my wrinkles in all the wrong places". There appeared to be some young people, although all of them seemed to be decked out in their douchiest garb.
So we sat at our table. It seemed like anything could happen. The night was young, the drink tickets were $10 each and we felt free. Totally ripped off...but free none the less.
It's okay! We'll meet new people at our table! The night is young! With so much promise, how could the night go wrong? We sipped our over-priced wine and took the obligatory selfies wearing the various masks laid out on the table.
The first "couple" sat at our table. It was two ladies and one of them was already way to drunk. It was gonna be one of those good ol' fashioned NYE for her. This lady also thought she was a comedian. Now I'm totally all for self-deprecating humour, as you can tell by the self-loathing tone of my blog.
But this lady was a special case. Her self-loathing mostly centred on the fact that she was slightly overweight and had recently been dumped. It was a serious hot mess and getting to personal to fast. Not that I have anything against people who are overweight. But you get that awkward laugh going...do I laugh? Do I say the obligatory "noo that's not true."? The night had now taken an awkward turn...and there was no going back.
So we sat, wishing the buffet was open, wishing the wine didn't taste like sugar and wishing that we had been prepared for this kind of strange social interaction.
In time the rest of our table trickled in. We were stuck with two couples. One, an older couple rolled in drunk as f. The other a cute couple, who didn't really fit into the whole strange dynamic of the night. They were kind of like Radagast in the Hobbit movie, nice and funny but over all useless to the plot line of our night.
And so, we sat.
The awkwardness of that statement should perfectly describe how awkward our arrangement was. Then came time for dinner. I won't describe the hairy details of going to get dinner, since really it was a blur of spooning to much food on my plate and my feet hurting.
It was at this point however, that we decided along with taking our buffet plates we decided to take our dessert as well. So here we were, walking back to our tables with plates piled high of disgusting food and also plates filled with dessert. When we sat down it was a grotesque showing of how much food we could put down. We cracked open our crab legs and shoved down some weird tasting shrimp. It was like we hasn't seen food all day.
Then it was dessert time. Which to be honest was let down. The chocolate dessert tasted like it had been made by the god of gluttony, the strange strawberry cheesecake was mediocre, and the cannoli were soggy (not the first this has happened if ya know what I mean) which just made me want to quote the Godfather all night a la' my English teacher Gr. 12 who made us analyze the line "leave the gun, take the cannoli" about 300 times to explore the juxtapositon between the Italian ideal of how close the mob and family ties are. To this day that's the only thing I can really remember from gr. 12 English.
Anyways I'm not really sure where I was going with that. So...
It all felt very surreal. Like a strange dream filled with food and top 40 hits. We limped back up to our room and poured more wine down our throats. At this point I think we were chasing our hopes down with as much red wine as we could consume. But our night was only just beginning...
Stay tuned for Part 2 of The Douche in the Mask.
Ahh New Years Eve. Such big expectations that are often shattered by drinking to much to early on in the night, wearing uncomfortable shoes or being forever alone.
This year, or I guess last year now, my friend and I decided to hit up a "masquerade" type NYE partay. Which in hindsight was one of the more random/kinda weird decisions we've made. But we figured it was better then how we spent last New Years. Which was stuffing our faces with popcorn and making bags (I know, you're probably wondering...what the hell does that mean? I can't really explain it, you had to be there). Not that I didn't enjoy that.
So anyways, we buy these ridiculously expensive tickets to go to this thing. Its at some hotel and it is serving probably the best spread I've ever had on New Years Eve. Granted most of the time on New Years Eve I've been alone watching movies, eating cereal, wearing PJs, and falling asleep at 11. Point is, this party is going to be the swankiest NYE party I've ever been to. And I'm 22 years old. This is the legacy I will leave my children. And this "party" all came at the price of selling your first born to Satan.
So NYE rolls around. I can already tell it's gonna be a weird day. I'm having some sort of panic attack about what to wear. The pressure was all to much. I can't do my hair, my nail polish doesn't work and I hate the shoes I have. Which then escalated into thoughts of being unattractive which would drive men away, no one would kiss me at midnight, I'd never get married, I'd live by myself forever and what would I name all those cats? My mother came home to find me holding the straighter in one hand and cradling myself with the other trying to self-soothe. Not my finest hour. And this was before I had even dived into the boos.
So, as usual my mom slapped together some outfit for me that I could never have thought of. She put my head under the tap in the sink and washed my hair and made me blow dry it. Crisis averted for the time being. NYE was really off to a great start already. Only one huge emotional breakdown, I consider that an achievement on such a day.
Now my friend and I had rented a hotel room in the same hotel to you know, support the idea of no drinking and driving. So I packed all my crap into one bag and headed into the city. Stress was already running high at this point so I decided to blast One Direction in hopes that the sweet siren calls of beautiful underage men would soothe my frayed nerves.
It worked by the way. Their soulful voices really put a girl in her happy place. But that's beside the point.
So I finally arrive at this "palace of dreams and masquerade". No parking. I get waved into some sketchy back lot that is covered in with knee deep snow. So after almost dying trying to park I finally drag all my shit out and trudge through the snow to get to the lobby where I meet my friend. Turns out the party was already happening.
We walked in and it was like stepping into some weird alternate universe where everyone is wearing cheap masks and the smell of old people and buffet food was thick. We check in. We get a voucher for free brunch the next day. Perfect, that would surely make up for anything bad that would happen that night. The voucher became very important later on.
We head up to the hotel room, full of blind optimism and with the hope that the two bottles of wine we brought would last us the night. It was a small hope, but it made us strong. Within five minutes we cracked open the wine, exploded our girly shit all over the place and somehow had glitter in every crevice of the room. I'm not really sure how, but it was there. Glitter is just like the herpes of the art world, always showing up when its not wanted and it just stays there forever.
We raced around the room deciding exactly what to wear to dinner, sweater or no sweater, mask or no mask, desperation or no desperation? As these questions filled our head the hour of dinner quickly approached. So we put on our uncomfortable heels and limped down to the party.
 |
| remember this movie? Yeah... |
We were seated in an area called "The Club Masque" or some other name. It was exactly what one would expect a club with tables for dining to look like. Music pumped, there was a huge dance floor in the middle and a lot of old people wearing outfits that were covered in "I hope this will make up for the fact that if I get lucky with one of these young people I will have to take a Viagra/will hide my wrinkles in all the wrong places". There appeared to be some young people, although all of them seemed to be decked out in their douchiest garb.
So we sat at our table. It seemed like anything could happen. The night was young, the drink tickets were $10 each and we felt free. Totally ripped off...but free none the less.
It's okay! We'll meet new people at our table! The night is young! With so much promise, how could the night go wrong? We sipped our over-priced wine and took the obligatory selfies wearing the various masks laid out on the table.
The first "couple" sat at our table. It was two ladies and one of them was already way to drunk. It was gonna be one of those good ol' fashioned NYE for her. This lady also thought she was a comedian. Now I'm totally all for self-deprecating humour, as you can tell by the self-loathing tone of my blog.
But this lady was a special case. Her self-loathing mostly centred on the fact that she was slightly overweight and had recently been dumped. It was a serious hot mess and getting to personal to fast. Not that I have anything against people who are overweight. But you get that awkward laugh going...do I laugh? Do I say the obligatory "noo that's not true."? The night had now taken an awkward turn...and there was no going back.
So we sat, wishing the buffet was open, wishing the wine didn't taste like sugar and wishing that we had been prepared for this kind of strange social interaction.
In time the rest of our table trickled in. We were stuck with two couples. One, an older couple rolled in drunk as f. The other a cute couple, who didn't really fit into the whole strange dynamic of the night. They were kind of like Radagast in the Hobbit movie, nice and funny but over all useless to the plot line of our night.
And so, we sat.
The awkwardness of that statement should perfectly describe how awkward our arrangement was. Then came time for dinner. I won't describe the hairy details of going to get dinner, since really it was a blur of spooning to much food on my plate and my feet hurting.
It was at this point however, that we decided along with taking our buffet plates we decided to take our dessert as well. So here we were, walking back to our tables with plates piled high of disgusting food and also plates filled with dessert. When we sat down it was a grotesque showing of how much food we could put down. We cracked open our crab legs and shoved down some weird tasting shrimp. It was like we hasn't seen food all day.
Then it was dessert time. Which to be honest was let down. The chocolate dessert tasted like it had been made by the god of gluttony, the strange strawberry cheesecake was mediocre, and the cannoli were soggy (not the first this has happened if ya know what I mean) which just made me want to quote the Godfather all night a la' my English teacher Gr. 12 who made us analyze the line "leave the gun, take the cannoli" about 300 times to explore the juxtapositon between the Italian ideal of how close the mob and family ties are. To this day that's the only thing I can really remember from gr. 12 English.
Anyways I'm not really sure where I was going with that. So...
It all felt very surreal. Like a strange dream filled with food and top 40 hits. We limped back up to our room and poured more wine down our throats. At this point I think we were chasing our hopes down with as much red wine as we could consume. But our night was only just beginning...
Stay tuned for Part 2 of The Douche in the Mask.
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