Given the number of family members and impressionable young people [okay under 50] who read Mrs. Linklater's blog, it would behoove her to modulate her entries with a suitable dose of decorum.
Last night Mrs. L went to a damn fun party and got home way past bedtime on a school night. She had attended a celebration for someone who lost her job in a corporate housecleaning. As the guest of honor's mother said in her opening remarks, "I've never been to a party for someone who just got fired." Point well taken. Speaking personally, Mrs. Linklater, with good reason, can't ever remember dancing the night away when her own butt got kicked out the door.
A new CEO came in and eliminated the celebrant's position. We don't need no freakin' VP in charge of making us money hand over fist. The woman in question is a rock star, if you judged by the number of people who came in from around the country to party with her last night. I was honored to be included on her list of invited guests, since it was quite an auspicious crowd.
The guest of honor was wearing a short, black off the shoulder number that was probably a famous designer dress, but Mrs. L only recognizes North Face and EMS so she can't share any fashion statements. Except to note that she herself was a bevy of blackness, topped with a shiny jacket that looked like a patent leather lizard had sacrificed its life to make Mrs. L look good.
A gay acquaintances confirmed an unexpected effect when he whispered, "We're looking rather like a dominatrix tonight, aren't we?"
One of Chicago's sleek new restaurants was shut down for the evening so we could roast and toast the party girl over squash soup, duck risotto, prime rib, and an assortment of wines I actually enjoyed beyond the first sip. Very swank.
You know the chef is good when the appetizers and desserts are teeny weeny. What those little bits of food lacked in size, they made up for in plentiful variety and good taste. There must have been twenty different appetizers, all so small I had to put on my glasses to see what I was eating. My faves were the ridiculously small plates with four tiny sauteed scallops clustered in the middle. Without actually confessing to a final count, let's just say I left a stack of empty miniature platters in my wake.
The desserts were so small, they lulled me into a sense of caloric immunity. How much damage could I do to myself tasting a few iddy biddy half inch five layer cakes, puffs, and chocolate squares. As long as there was one left, I figured I was good to go. There was also a doll sized cylinder of chocolate mousse, or so I thought, but it turned out to be blueberry something, the only disappointment of the evening. Nothing tastes worse than blueberry when your tongue is twitching for chocolate.
After the food fest, there was dancing in a secret downstairs disco, which was still going strong when the clock struck midnight, then one, then two. Mrs. Linklater preserved her energy by limiting her bootyshake to chair dancing, a necessity after hurting her knee in a failed attempt to get out of bed a couple of weeks ago.
When the DJ played Flash Dance she attracted quite a crowd with her reenactment of that memorable back lit chair scene from the movie, narrowly avoiding a splash dance when one party goer attempted to pour an entire pitcher of water over her, hoping to capture the exhilaration of the finale.
Earlier in the evening, Mrs. Linklater noticed one young man [way under 50] who, had she been a mere twenty years younger, would have had to blowtorch her from his side.
As everyone began to head downstairs to the disco, she bumped into him by accident. No really. Instead of someone telling Mrs. L to back off and leave the poor guy alone, she was introduced to him instead. Ever meet a person who gives you a look that lasts long enough to ignite a significant level of thermal warming? Even after you demurely try to look away? Okay, maybe not demurely.
But old age has a way of preventing regrettable personal disasters, so Mrs. Linklater simply stored that moment of heat for her scrapbook, got some refreshment and sat down to enjoy the music, watch the others, and bob her head up and down in her chair on the edge of the dance area. Several people came over and tried to do spin moves with her while she was seated, but they soon realized that was a dumb idea and returned to the tangled web of dancers on the floor.
And then, the unthinkable happened. Or in Mrs. Linklater's case, an unexpected dream came true. Was it the frenzy of the music, the number of libations on his part, the flashing lights from the mirrored ball, or just a cosmic moment that caused Mr.Thermal Warming to approach Mrs. L, looking like Tom Jones about to collect a pocketful of panties? He was clearly on a mission in her direction. Just to be sure, Mrs. L turned around to see if there was someone behind her.
Thermal man had already revealed his considerable salsa chops earlier, putting the Latino guys to shame demonstrating his excellent Dancing with the Stars moves. Now he was in front of Mrs. L, his belt at eye level, his legs straddling her, all the while dancing in a manner that good taste and restraint prevent her from describing here. [Call me.]
Let's just say Mrs. Linklater had her own private dancer. And today she's feeling in a holiday mood.
NOTE TO FAMILY -- when the time comes to take me to the home, tell them I'll put up with the bad food and patronizing attendants. But please skip the high school singalongs and Mah Jong games. If I have to spend the end of my life strapped to a chair, let it be with a Chippendale dancer in my lap.