Whine and Cigarettes

The other night I went to a swanky party at a high-end restaurant in my city. It was the kind of place where they serve food like you see on Top Chef, with amuse buches and amuse-geules and unamused bony maitre d's who smile pained smiles as they lord over the power of getting you a good table. I arrived in what passed for day-to-evening-wear (which, really, is kind of impossible. My fabulous hipster-librarian clothes and my fabulous party-girl clothes are really not the same thing, regardless of what Rachel Roy is trying to sell us all) and ready to rock. Except, honeys, I was tired. I had worked a full day at the library, and although many of you non-librarians think we are sitting in overstuffed wing-backed chairs and reading novels all day long with cats in our laps, I assure you that library work can kick the crap out of you by the end of the live-long day. Or even in the early part of the live-long day in some cases.

But there I was, ready to go, rocking a black on black ensemble that hopefully was more NYC than Johnny Cash (you know I love the Man in Black but I really don't want to look like him) and said my hellos to the few people I knew and started in on the many that I didn't. First off was cocktail hour. This was definitely a wine and cheese sort of crowd, and there were many reds and whites to choose from, and not much else in the drinky-drink department. I suppose I could have ordered something else, because the last time I had red wine I had formulated quite an opinion on it, but I figured I would just go with what was right there.

I picked up a glass of red off a tray that floated by me, that was attached to a white coated waiter. And I know this will subtract off some of my urban sophisticate points, but you guys. Red wine? It tastes like ass. I'm sorry, but I'm just being real. If Jenny from the Block can be real, then I can too, right? And red wine may as well be toilet water as far as I'm concerned. Please. Just admit this to me. Just between us. The Emperor has no clothes, and red wine is just a way for people to feel like they are the Earl of Fancyland. This opinion of mine may put me on the hit list of Wine International, most of Europe, and Niles Crane wannabes everywhere, but that's my opinion and I'm sticking to it. Red wine tastes like rotten grapes. Go figure.

So I proceeded to walk around with my glass of red and not take a second sip. I didn't even bother to get another drink. I was THAT tired. And after a lovely meal that was more Elia than Marcel (in that there was no foam involved) I excused myself to my friends because I needed to get the hell home and sleep my knickers off. I was the first to leave the party at the witching hour of 9pm. NINE P.M. What is happening to me? This is a crying shame, is all I can tell you.

As I made my way to the door, one of the waiters came up to me. "Do you need help out?" he asked. Help? To leave a party? No thank you. I think I can figure out how to ride in an elevator and then find the front door. "Please, allow me." He punches the "down" button on the elevator. Ok, great. Thanks for sparing my finger the effort of button-pushing. I am tired enough to actually appreciate this courtesy. When the door opens, I get in, and...he gets in too. He then pushes the L-for-lobby button. "No, really, you don't need to walk me out," I insist. "It's my pleasure, miss...how was your dinner this evening?" As we chat pleasantly in the elevator, here is my inner monologue. "This place really is swanky. They actually escort you right out the door? Unless this guy's just doing this to hit on me. But he called me 'miss.' Such a formal word. If he was trying to be social, then wouldn't he loosen up a little?"

As we walked out of the elevator and out the front door, he did loosen up. He got his loose on, in fact. As we stood there on the sidewalk, he said, "so...do you want to hang out for a bit and share a cigarette? I have one left." Share. A. Cigarette. Is this what the young people are doing these days? No more "can I have your number?" or "can I see you again?" Just an offer to suck a communal cancer stick on the sidewalk? Classy.

"No thanks." I'm way too tired for this. I think I need a drink. Where's that wine again?

Kiss the rings I'm out,
Librarian Girl