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January 17, 2005
New Year's Eve or "We really are too old for this."
I know I'm doing this out of order. (I haven't finished up Christmas yet.) That being said I need to tell you the story of our New Years Eve.
Mr. Racetrack decided a month or two ago that he wanted to treat some of us to a night on the town. He offered to hire a babysitter for the kids, retain a limo to ferry us around and treat us to a big New Years celebration. Neither Fabulous Babe or I could remember the last time we were out at a party for New Years like this and had been really looking forward to it.
The evening started out with some snacks and drinks at the Racetracks. Jack and Kate were pretty good and settled down before the babysitter arrived. Although one of the other couples had to back out there were 6 of us headed off into the cool night air: Mr. and Mrs. Racetrack, his friends the Married with Kids and Fabulous Babe and myself. The ladies looked hot and, well, the husbands just tried not to look too dorky. (Mr. Racetrack trumped all of us in an Armani shirt but then refused to wear his pimp glasses when we initially laughed when we saw them.)
The first stop was St. Paul to have drinks. The bar was packed with people having a great time in the low lights the booths and tables offered. The tone of the evening had been set earlier when, in a discussion of bad drinking habits, Fabulous Babe claimed that her college days had been spent drinking at a "Big Ten" school. Indeed the Married with Kids were having their first night out in a long time and after the first round proclaimed they weren't used to drinking like that. By the time we loaded into the limo to go to the club we were all in good spirits.
When we got to the next place we saw the line to get in which Mr. Racetrack assured us was for those NOT on the guest list. Leaving coats behind we followed him up to the bouncer who, checking the list, ushered us in.
It was then that we discovered that Mr. Racetrack had worn his flashy attire for good reason. Being far hipper than any of the rest of us he had scored us V.I.P. seats at The Lounge. (www.theloungempls.com)
This is what we saw when we walked in:
Oh yeah. We see THAT in the burbs every day.
This place was packed with beautiful people. Wall to wall. It was like when I went out with the guys in Toronto and we would head to Industry and get home at 4 a.m. reeking of smoke, beer and the assorted miasma of the club scene. I instantly felt old which must be a sure sign of parenthood.
We were escorted to our private booth which was veiled in gauze. The seats were covered in shag carpeting and the drinks were even more potent. At that point we all bowed to Mr. Racetrack as the ultimate host.
The next few hours saw the ladies dancing their butts off. I tried my hand at dancing for a bit, had some drinks and laughed myself sore watching the antics of the young and intoxicated. (The mens room had more women than men in the line at one point.) It was a blast and a wonderful glimpse into a life that, having a small child, isn't quite what you're capable of every night.
Strangely enough someone at the Lounge realized how hip Mr. Racetrack was and captured his image on film, that's him on the lower left. (I'm certain it was the women dancing that inspired the photo but whatever works.) Mrs. Racetrack is directly to his right lecturing their friends with the righteous fury that only a few cocktails brings. There are other photos on their site you can cast an eye on but none of them have any of the rest of our group.
At around 1:30 the women came back to the furry couch and crashed. Realizing it was time to go we called the limo driver and started to head back. That was when it hit.
In leaving it was obvious that Fabulous Babe, wearing her outfit with the really styling leather vest, wasn't feeling so good. (Neither was Mr. Racetrack's high school buddy.) I asked the limo driver what the emergency vomit procedures were and he handed over several empty plastic ice cream tubs.
Not a moment too soon.
My wife, a former member of the college drinking team at "a Big Ten" school, hottie mom of my gorgeous son, was horribly ill. I do mean horribly ill. Soon after so was Mr. Married with Kids. At one point I was bookended by folks being sick.
After letting them get everything out of their system I had the driver pull over so I could dump the buckets. (I had enough of this in high school.) By the time I got back in they were sprawled out in separate corners of the limo almost asleep with amused spectators watching.
We got home without any further events of an upchuck nature and soon were walking across the street with me carrying Jack and Mrs. Racetrack helping Fabulous Babe. After tucking Jack in I tucked my spouse in and put my head on the pillow.
The next morning I was up with Jack when Fabulous Babe came downstairs.
"Good morning Mrs. "Parties like a rock star.""
"I'm still drunk."
"That explains why almost every hour you woke me up last night to tell me how awesome the bongo player was at the club."
"Oh."
"Do you realize how ironic it is when the person bragging about drinking in college was the first to be sick?"
*FB sticks tongue out*
That's it. We're officially old and busted. No more new hottness, just old busted parents.
That being said...
He really was a great bongo player.
Posted by Jim at January 17, 2005 12:10 AM