Who Closes At 4 PM On A Saturday?

ReadBecca's dry cleaner, that's who.

This is the belated Margarita Ball recap.

ReadBecca cajoled her tailor into fixing, on a very tight schedule, a ripped seam in her black velvet jacket with the cute peplum in back, only to be stymied in her attempt to appear swanlike in her black A-line ball skirt by a ridiculously early-closing local proprietor.

I called Stefanie and told her they had my dress hostage and I had nothing to wear. ReadBecca does not own surplus formal wear. Stefanie skeptically asked if she should keep getting ready. ReadBecca says, "Absolutely. I'll think of something."

Forty-five minutes and three progress reports later, ReadBecca is in her undies and wishing the birds and mice from Cinderella would show up and start sewing something fabulous while she had a nice cocktail.

I had dressy-ish black pants purchased for the Oklahoma gig, so at least I had a base to start with. There was an attempt at going without a top under the jacket but ReadBecca couldn't pull it off. There was another attempt at a homemade tube top-esque thingie that reguired safety pins and a strapless bra that would have landed me on Go Fug Yourself. Then, genius struck.

I whipped out my pale pink satin and black lace camisole pajama top and wore that to the ball. I piled on many, many strands of pearls to serve as a distraction, and called the whole thing a tuxedo. It pays to own jammies that would make a Gabor sister proud.

Then, after all that, we were bored and there was no place to sit and we couldn't get cell reception to locate Matt the Miller Man in the sea of literally thousands of people, so we went to The Dubliner.

All the way there, we talked about how we were SO going to stand out in our finery, me in my new tuxedo, Stef in her knockout dress. (Shut up. No one thought we were gay.) It was going to kick ass how we were going to get so much attention. Then when we got there, we were totally ignored.

We forgot it was Halloween.

In any case, we made friends who bought us drinks all night, even during the extra hour of Daylight Savings Time craziness, and have determined that we will no longer be drinking shots, or staying the extra hour next year. You'd have to be drunk to agree to shots, which make you drunk, which leads to more shots. It's a vicious circle. But we took a taxi, so no one died.

To sum up, I went to a bar in my pajamas with a friend in a gown and drank shots with foreigners, and we weren't the weirdest people in the room. We live in interesting times.