Are You Ready For Some Football?

Mrs. Apron and I went to a party on Saturday night.

Didn't you feel the seismic activity?

It was a relatively small gathering for one of Mrs. Apron's friends who is turning 30 today. 30 is generally a big-deal age, though I don't quite remember it being so for me. Maybe it was. I don't remember. I'm 30. I can't remember what this blog is about or why I'm wearing socks.

Anyway, I get pretty jumped up when I have to go to a party. As a non-drinker and non-socializer, putting me in a room where people are drinking and socializing is pretty much all the ingredients you need for a full-on disaster.

"What if I throw up on somebody?" I asked me wife earlier in the week.

"You'll say, 'excuse me,'" she suggested demurely.

Mrs. Apron likes to tell me that I flourish at parties-- quick-witted, polite, affable are words she has used to describe me -- but, in party situations, I view myself more like somebody's whiny, Jewish grandfather trying to seduce the editor of Vogue. The painful awkwardness is enough to actually hurt people. I'm talking like bloodshed. And nobody wants bloodshed, (or vomit, for that matter) at parties. Unless they're Roman parties. They loved blood and vomit at their parties. Oh, and lots and lots of jeet.

Fortunately, my jangled nerves about going to a party were at least calmed in one respect because the party's host deemed that this would be a "Mad Men"-inspired party, and encouraged guests to dress up. Don't you know that my wife made her dress? Of course she did. Don't you know that I didn't have to make/buy anything special? Of course I didn't. I had my pick of vintage 1950's-1960's blazers, skinny ties, fedoras, and prescription-ready chunky eyeglasses from which to choose.

And choose I did.

However, awkwardness ensued anyway, even though Mrs. Apron and I were the best-dressed couple there, down to her handbag and my Florsheims.

"Who's feeling like they have more upper body strength than me?" asked a rather broad-shouldered, Israeli female partygoer. My wife turned to me. I wanted to disappear between the floorboards.

The chick was trying to uncork a bottle of "Menage a Trois" (a white wine made from three different grapes-- how clever) and was not having much success. I sat and watched her struggle for a little while, content to not participate in something which I knew nothing about, but she turned and looked at me with a look that said, "Why aren't you coming over here to help me, you asshole?" and so I did.

I don't need to tell you that there are lots of things in this world I've never done. Like have sex in a minivan. Like ride a camel. Like watch an entire episode of "Maude." I'm sure you won't be the least bit surprised when I tell you that I've never uncorked a bottle of wine. And yet, there I was, on Saturday night, in my skinny tie, ardently working to uncork a bottle of wine.

And I did it. And I was praised. And I was sweating through my wool sportcoat.

Awkwardness continued when my wife and I sat down to chat with another couple to the left of us, when three bovine, middle-aged women seated on the sofa in front of us started making faces at us-- actually scowling at us. One of the women was a midget, her feet dangling in front of the sofa, not touching the floor, and I thought perhaps she wanted a footstool or something. I then realized that my wife and I were blocking their view of the television, which had on the Colts and Jets, who playing football or something.

"We're trying to watch the game," one of the middle-aged sows mouthed at me, gesticulating impishly towards the television.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, scooting over to the side, "I forget that some people actually like football."

What I should have said was, "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought people were here to celebrate this young lady's 30th birthday, not watch a fucking football game. If that's so important to you, why didn't you just stay home with your miserable, bubble-butt, dump-ass, midget self?"

I'm no etiquette pro, especially when it comes to parties. I routinely make off-color, inappropriate remarks, and I am loathe to eat in front of people (I had three slices of pepper, six grapes, five crackers, a bit of cake, and two mysterious, Russian cured beef slivers the entire night) but I like to think that I have enough knowledge of what is appropriate to know that you don't go to a person's birthday party to watch fucking television.

Even someone who's never uncorked a bottle of wine knows that.