Unfortunately, I did not rise to it.
I was lucky enough to get my hands on tickets to a fancy dinner for The Nature of Words, Central Oregon’s premier literacy event. Nature of Words is a multi-day smorgasbord of workshops and readings from renowned authors, culminating in a dinner that included actor Sam Waterston as the keynote speaker.
|My not-so-fabulous photo of Sam Waterston.|
I was a Literature major in college, and a big fan of many of the authors attending. Anne Lamot, Barry Lopez, David Whyte – I was delighted to rub shoulders with them all. I wore a lovely dress and red lipstick and looked as classy as I’m capable of looking.
That’s pretty much where the class ended.
Pythagoras and I were joined by a male friend, and there was some initial trouble getting all three of us seated together.
“If it helps,” I joked to the hostess, “I’m happy to sit on Sam Waterston’s lap.”
She smiled. “He’s my uncle.”
I slunk away to drink wine. Once we were seated and the event got underway, I was spellbound – and respectfully silent – as Michael Dickman read his poem “My Autopsy.”
I was not so quiet when the emcee declared how glad she was that we could all “come together.”
Pythagoras and our friend weren't much better when she announced, “let me tell you about the lay of the night.”
We eventually got control of ourselves and stopped snickering for the author readings. This was right about the time the woman seated beside me introduced herself.
At least I think she introduced herself. She was slurring her words so much it’s possible she was challenging me to a cage fight in the parking lot.
Within the first five minutes of our introduction, she complimented my hair, shared details of her sexual exploits with several men in the room, and offered me a discounted facial.
Her husband looked bemused.
Mine looked curious. “Is she groping your knee under the table?”
“Maybe she thinks it’s yours?”
When it came time to go, I noticed one bottle of particularly good wine remained nearly untouched on our table. Everyone else began to clear out, leaving it behind.
"Good wine should never go to waste," I insisted.
I rolled up a cocktail napkin to make a makeshift cork and then I hustled over to the coat check to stash the bottle under my jacket.
“Classy,” Pythagoras said as he held the door open for me.
“Shut up and drive the getaway car.”
So that’s how my fancy evening unfolded at a fancy literary affair. Hey, it could have been worse. At least I didn’t dance on the table.
What did you do this weekend to embarrass yourself? Please share.
I would offer to share my wine in return, but I’m not that nice. You'll have to steal your own.