And, so, these events served as an endorsement of my chaotic, selfish and free-spending lifestyle. Also, they always have karaoke at these parties, and I never say no to karaoke!
By 11 p.m., the party had crossed the soggy line between tipsy sentimentality to volcanic eruptions of marital rage. I tried to lighten the mood by dragging one of the more maligned husbands into a duet of Captain and Tennille’s “Muskrat Love,” but it only served to remind his wife of how unadorable their life had become.
And then the blizzard hit. Snowflakes the size of dinner plates turned the moonless sky bright white. There was no way I could make it home.
Every couple at the party eagerly offered to shelter me that night. But from past experience, accepting such hospitality came with a heavy price. I’d be required to stay up until dawn nodding rhythmically to their tales of middle-aged malaise while fending off their sloppy sexual advances. There seems to be only one thing that straight couples crave when drunk out of their minds, and that’s to shove their tongues down the throat of the nearest lesbian.
And, so, I did a Google search on nearby hotels. There were only two. One was so far down the hotel food chain that it didn’t dare describe itself as a motel. It was, instead, a motor inn, which suggested it might be safer to sleep in your car. Even the drawing on the web site that represented the worn lobby included sketches of stick-thin women wearing garish clothing and inhaling cigarettes. Since I’m not a prostitute, I dialed the other place, a bed and breakfast called the Auberge.
“You’re in luck,” said the innkeeper. Although it was midnight, she sounded wide-awake, as if she had been sitting by the phone at high-alert, waiting for it to ring. “Every room is available. You have your pick.”
And this, my friends, is where our story really begins.
(Tune in next time to learn if I survive the night!)