Last Friday, our (meaning Paducah's, not the Royal "our") gorgeous Performing Arts Center held a fundraising luncheon. Our gorgeous Performing Arts Center is officially The Luther F. Carson Four Rivers (Performing Arts) Center because they couldn't decide what name to give it so they used all they had. I did not add the (Performing Arts) part. That's the official name. Anyway it is a beautiful facility and we get to see Broadway touring shows and our own Paducah Symphony and more.
The fundraiser was a Vintner's luncheon. Wine tasting. I write a weekly column for our most AWESOME community e-calendar iList Paducah dot com, the iPet of the Week. iList Paducah bought a table, and I was invited as a guest. I'm the best guest to invite to a wine tasting luncheon, because I don't drink wine. Anymore. I miss drinking wine, oh yes I do. But with a not so great family history, and a personal history of looking forward to five o'clock starting at, oh, ten in the morning, I decided three years ago to quit while I was ahead. Dammit.
I was doing something Friday morning, I don't know what, (I'm sure it wasn't visiting blogs or playing Wordscraper on Facebook) but next thing I knew it was eleven and I was supposed to be there between 11:30 and 12:00.
Now, I know people with better priorities would have had an outfit all picked out and jewelry and shoes and maybe they would have had their hair done. I figured I had those hanging clothes I had forgotten to take to the National. Yup there they were. And that would go okay with my only pair of dress shoes, which aren't so dressy after two, three years of dog shows in the mud, dusty buildings, wet grass, etc. They are black flats with a little ballet slipper sort of faux bow. They were black once. Now they are blackish with lots of scuff marks on the toes and heels that let the gray leather show through. Stylin'!
Oh, who looks at shoes, I say.
So I quickly showered, no need to shave legs since I'd be wearing black pantyhose, and realized that I need to cut my hair. (Haven't made time for a real haircut for three or four years. I just use my big sewing scissors and hack away at it.) No time now. I needed to be at the Carson Center in twenty minutes and still had to dress, put on make up - that would entail my 3 year old mascara and 8 year old blush, do I get my money's worth or what - let the dogs out and put them up with their treats.
I couldn't find the pantyhose. I knew I had a pair. I saw the photos of the black pantyhose oh so inappropriately paired with the pale peach pants I showed Swede William in at the National. I checked the laundry (clean and dirty), the suitcase, the drawer, the closet, inside the pale peach pants in the dry cleaning basket, and then, defining insanity, I checked the same places all over again. And again. One more time for luck.
During these searches I happened upon my (formerly Bill's) trusty old black ribbed support socks. While I was gone, sweet Bill had washed them. Apparently he had washed them with dog bedding, because they were bristling with little white dog hairs. I mean every square inch of the socks had 647 little white dog hairs sticking out.
I searched again for the panty hose.
Tick, tick, tick.
Tempted to can the whole luncheon thing. Not feeling so festive. Wanting to cry. Again.
Oh Patience! You silly twit! You are a 55 year old, thoroughly married woman. Bill was in Chicago. (I don't know how that pertains, but he was.) You need to get out and laugh.
Right. On go the hairy support socks and the ancient dog show shoes. Under the lower-calf-length skirt. Out went the dogs, in went the dogs with their biscuits, Easy and Spice loose in the kitchen/dining room because that's where they are happiest, and off I drove to the Carson Center in the Warburton Whippet Wagon, sitting forward hunched against the steering wheel because I had a black blazer on and the seat back is covered with little white hairs, too.
The The Luther F. Carson Four Rivers (Performing Arts) Center is huge. They had thoughtfully stationed a volunteer outside the appropriate set of doors to direct wine tasting guests. I could see her reflection in the glass doors after I passed her. I saw her pleasant expression contort in shock and then register abject horror as her eyes swept down my retreating backside and arrived, unwillingly at the shabby shoes and hairy ribbed support socks.
So, me being me, as I greeted friends, acquaintances and complete strangers, I felt compelled to show them my hairy ribbed support socks and dog show shoes. "I couldn't find my pantyhose," I explained. As if this was a common occurrence to ladies everywhere dressing for vintner's luncheons.
But after all it was a charitable bunch of good souls. Everyone laughed good naturedly. And everyone felt better about their own appearance!
I aim to please.
hug your hairy hounds
4 hours ago