When I got an invitation from Bob and Rob to attend their spring soiree (their term, not mine) I rolled my eyes: “Soiree” is a term that works well in 19th Century French novels but nowhere else. Then when I saw that this soiree was to begin at 5 pm “sharp” and end at 6 pm “sharp” I made the immediate decision to decline: I hate being invited to a party where they tell you in advance when to leave. Besides, as my father taught me, when you want people to leave, just lock up the liquor.
Before I had the chance to email my regrets I ran into my friend Ed at the gym. Ed was invited to the same soiree and mentioned that our mutual friend, Rich, would be there. I had not seen Rich for years so I decided to go to the party after all. “But what kind of cocktail party has last call at 6:00?” I asked, and Ed laughed.
“Bob is afraid that if the guests stay too long someone might have to use one of their new, European-inspired bathrooms.” I just stared at him and he read my mind. He nodded his head emphatically. “I swear,” he said.
I sighed because this actually made sense to me. When I first met Rob and Bob they were living in a rental apartment in Oakland Park. Then Bob inherited a small fortune from his aunt and Rob inherited a large fortune from his father and before you knew it the “vase” they bought at Target in 1993 became a “vahz.” Now they throw parties at their mock-Mediterranean villa on the Intracoastal where I know for a fact they fill the Grey Goose bottle with the cheapest Smirnoff they can find.
“By the way,” I asked, “what makes a bathroom ‘European inspired’?”
“Rough toilet paper,” said Ed.
Not long after this I emailed Rob that my partner and I would attend, and he called me immediately. He got right to business. “What are you planning on wearing Saturday night?” he asked.
The question caught me off guard; I honestly don’t spend any time obsessing over my wardrobe. The last time I put a lot of thought into my attire was the senior prom, and I ended up in a lime green tuxedo with lapels as wide as the Holland tunnel. “Why?” I asked Rob. “Is there a dress code?”
“Well,” he said, “I know you don’t like to get dressed up but, um, well, this is going to be a nice party. People will be dressed nicely….” His voice trailed off.
“I am going to wear my good cargo shorts,” I said dangerously. “And my best tee-shirt. With my new flip-flops.”
Rob laughed nervously. “That’s just the thing,” he said. “I don’t want people to talk.” I remained silent. “I mean you and your partner are a lovely couple.” (He actually said “lovely.”) “I just don’t want people to form the wrong impression.”
“Not to worry,” I told him. “Perhaps I should wear a smoking jacket? With an ascot?”
Rob brightened immediately. “Good, good,” he said. “Very retro.” Then he sounded worried again. “What about your partner?”
“He’s wearing white tie and and tails for the event,” I said; “his top hat is being steamed as we speak.”
I visualized Rob biting his lip. “Oh, no!” he said, “no, no, no! Have him wear a tuxedo; no one wears white tie before 6,” he told me.
“Damn,” I said. “Wouldn’t you know he only has a white tie?”
“Well don’t let him wear it!” said Rob decisively.
“Well then, I guess he’ll just rent a tux,” I said sharply. Now Rob was truly horrified. “Oh, God, don’t rent a tux!” he said. “This is not the junior prom. Just go to Bloomie’s and buy one.” He paused. “Preferably Armani.”
“All righty,” I said to Rob; “I better run before Bloomie’s closes.”
As I hung up the phone I made an instant decision and sent text messages to Rich and Ed. “Drinks at my house Saturday at 5?” I texted. “Dress casually.”
They both accepted immediately.