So I'm trying to rally up some girlfriends to go see the new Sex In the City movie next week. I thought it would be fun if we wore cocktail dresses, and then went out for some libations afterwards. My girlfriend invited me to tag along to an already existing SITC event- where they are all wearing their sassiest shoes. This reminded me of a funny story...
Back in college- Matt and I went to different schools. I was at UCLA, he was at Cal. He got a job for the sole purpose of buying me plane tickets so I could come up and visit him. He invited me to a fraternity formal, and realizing I had nothing to wear, I decided to go shopping. I fell in love with this black Karen Kane outfit. It was totally out of my price range. I had no money, and really did not deserve the Bullocks chargecard they so graciously bestowed upon me. I maxed the sucker out with the outfit, and some new shoes- and thinking I was brilliant, I tucked the tag up in the sleeve and fully intended to return it when I got back from San Francisco.
Unfortunately, I did not account for the magical destructive power of Fred's Fondue. It was this nasty fondue joint in Berkeley that we all went to for a pre-party dinner. We gorged on a disgusting Velveeta concoction that could only be made bearable by washing it down with the 1993 equivalent of Trader Joes' Two Buck Chuck. Everybody got disgustingly full, and even drunker. I celebrated by jigging around the table, and showing my class by proudly displaying my price tag and bragging about how tricky I was.
By the time we made it to the formal, I was sitting across a table from a friend who is now a serious chemist at an Ivy League institution. He played rugby, prided himself on ingesting large quantities of pork products, and mistakenly thought his iron stomach would protect him from the ravages of Fred's Fondue.
He was wrong. Really, really wrong. He propped his head in his hands, and proceeded to puke underneath the table. The splashes completely ruined my chances of a retail return, and I was suddenly sober. Stone cold sober, suddenly tragically broke, and clutching the vestiges of a fondue-laced price tag in my hand.