Two things you should know first, by way of exposition.
1: I hate parties. I want to like them, I really do. I want to be nice and sociable and friendly and liked, but I’m too socially awkward. No really, I am the Black Hole of small talk. Alala’s four-step plan to surviving parties?
1 – arrive late
2 – park myself by the food
3 – only talk to people I know
4 – leave early
It’s the only way I can do it. I know, I’m a loser. I hate it, but there you go.
2: I hate to drive. Always have. I hate the responsibility of controlling a 2-ton death machine, hate having to concentrate so hard, ack. I didn’t even get my license until I was 26, and then only because we’d moved to Wisconsin, Land of Crappy Public Transit, and I had to learn to drive or starve to death. So I do drive, but only when I absolutely have to, and then only to the grocery store.
So now that you have the information necessary to understand the story, here it is:
DrBob shared his birthday party with 3 other guys we know who turned 40 or 41 this week. The party was in Munich last night. We got there at 7:30 to set up, and we had to stay to the end, which was around 3:30 a.m. It was loud and smoky and I knew very few people. There was only one person I could speak English with, the rest of my conversations were in Spanish or German. And? I agreed to drive us home so that DrBob could enjoy himself without having to worry about how much he drank, which meant I drank alcohol-free beer all night.
DrBob’s all, “hey that was fun, we should have another party sometime.” I’m all, “Just shoot me now Of course dear! When?”
Song du jour of the evening: the Hives. See Through Head