Friday, February 26, 2010

I'm One of the Un-Inked

If you get eleven women together for a dinner party, how many of them will have tattoos?


How many of them will have at least three tattoos? Three.

How many of them will have parents who still don't know about their tattoo? One.

How many of them will have left their home state (S.C.) because tattooing was illegal and gone to a neighboring state (GA) to be tattooed? One.

When we weren't discussing ink or displaying body parts, this group was opening endless bottles of wine and eating a fabulous repast prepared by both tattooed and ink-free women.

Our meal began with a multi-cheese course, hummus, and a lentil salsa that dazzled everyone with its flavor and texture.

Then we adjourned to the dining room for Chicken Marbella (chicken quarters with prunes, garlic, olive oil, capers, olives, wine and brown sugar), superbly seasoned roasted veggies (red pepper, onion, eggplant, potato and probably something else I'm forgetting), Hungarian sweet and sour braised cabbage and bread.

Dinner talk centered around wedding vows, crying at such ceremonies, the use of "till death do us part" and the difference in dating younger men and men with some life experience behind them (the latter were the clear favorite).

We also touched on how to try on wedding dresses in front of your mother without revealing your tattoo (see above).

As you would expect in a room with nothing but X chromosomes, most of the guests chose to try both desserts, one a delicate but creamy rich citrus cheesecake and the other an obscenely rich multi-layered chocolate torte.

Between the two offerings, close to a dozen eggs and a pound of butter were sacrificed, not that anyone was keeping track, except to justify coming back for seconds.

With the exception of me and one other woman, everyone else at tonight's soiree works in the theater world.

So they're stylish, project well and tell great stories, but our evening was completely drama-free.

Maybe it was just the huge amounts of food and wine we consumed while dishing on girly subjects that kept everyone placated.

Maybe it was the thickness of the estrogen in the air. Maybe Cyndi Lauper was right.

Something must explain why the hostess' boyfriend was afraid to come home while we were all still there.

Smart men know their limitations.

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