And It Wasn't Even Open Bar

"Will you please go with me to Callum's Christmas party? It's black tie and at Le Colonial and Callum is so good looking and I'd really like you to meet him."

This, from my mother, who met Callum on one of her trips to Nepal or Peru or Hallatassee or wherever it is she goes when she disappears for months on end. She has told me no fewer than 37 times over the past several years just how good looking Callum is, despite the fact that he is closer to her in age than to me, and that I would never EVER date someone who calls himself a "friend" of my mother's. Because, you know, I'm sane. Somewhat. And love my privacy. Mostly.

Nontheless, I decide to go to the black tie party because I know it will make her happy and how hard it is to slip on a sexy sequin dress, three inch heels and a smile? Especially when there's champagne involved?

So there I am, with my mom and her boyfriend and my glass of champagne when my mom grabs her boyfriend to go hit the dance floor.

"You just stand here alone and see what happens," she says to me, clearly hoping that my future husband is standing in the distance, eyeing me, just waiting for his chance to swoop in and steal my heart, all so that she can have a grandchild come next Christmas...

"Ok," I say. Because, let's face it, my options were: 1.) go dance with my mom and her boyfriend and then kill myself or 2.) stand there alone and drink my champagne.

And so she and the boyfriend go get their groove on to Justin Timberlake and I stand alone sipping my champagne.

And I sip.

And sip.

And resist the urge to check my iPhone.

And sip.

And wait.

And sip.

And wait. And sip some more.

And then I chug the rest of my champagne and collect my belongings from the coat check.

And this, my friends, is why I have nothing to blog about. So sorry.