Think Pink, Remember Little

It was baptism by fire for pink lovers.

The goal was tasting 101 roses, everyone brought a bottle or a dish and we were required to wear pink.

I can't swear that there were 101 roses present, but after the first two dozen or so, who really notices?

Since I'd been on the Northern Neck all day, I'd stopped and bought shrimp to take to the party, leaving the bottle-bringing to those more qualified.

My three pounds of spiced crustaceans joined an overflowing table with pork belly, fried chicken, stuffed tomatoes and lots more edibles put out to protect us from ourselves and our pink excesses.

Walking in, I said hello to a fried chicken muncher before heading out the back door to the yard full of pink-dressed people.

That's where the serious fun began.

Naturally I began by checking in with my pink-shirted hostess, who approved of my pink dress and then attempted to one-up me by pulling out her pink bra strap.

Never one to be outdone when it comes to pink, I displayed my pink strap and offered to lift my hem and show her my pink underwear.

It wasn't necessary; she patted her backside, confirming that she, too, was pink below.

Is it any wonder this woman knows how to throw a pink party?

I only knew a fraction of the people in the backyard, not that that stopped me from having plenty of people to talk to.

Multiple coolers housed dozens of bottles of pink, including a few familiar bottles, but I made a point to try ones I hadn't.

Not surprisingly, at this point in my post-Rose memory, an Austrian Zweigelt is about all I filed away.

I don't think it's realistic to ply people with pink and expect them to retain much of anything.

After on and off again rain all day, it turned out to be a fine night for a backyard party, with people sharing Venus and moon stories about the recent skies.

Music blared from a window speaker and, for the most part, I liked what I heard.

(sound of record scratching)

Until Washed Out was followed by the Pretenders and then I had to find my charming hostess and talk music.

The starting point for the soundtrack had been Spoon, a band I'm quite fond of, but even Britt Daniel himself would have shuddered a bit at that train wreck of a musical combination.

A few swipes at a device and the music was righted to both our satisfaction.

Like any good party, people came and went throughout the night, so I gave out my phone number, updated a few people I hadn't seen in a while and just generally tried to be a worthy guest.

When I got home, it was to friend requests from new people I'd met and to pictures online from whence I'd just come.

I do recall being gathered for a mass group shot at one point. I can only hope that picture won't be used against any of the attendees.

Fact is, when you're quaffing an evening's worth of assorted roses, I don't think you're necessarily at your photogenic best.

Unless you count the pink undies and fortunately it never got to the point where they were photographed.

I think. But with so much pink, I can't be certain.