A Mad and Faithful Telling

I promised my mother I'd eat pancakes today

And I meant to, I really did (not that I'm a good Catholic girl or anything), but the evening got away from me.

But not the celebrating, which began with an overdue happy hour with a theater type.

We met at Heritage by default because she was parked near it, but I knew better and should have changed course.

Instead, I walked right up to it, passing a man by the door who said, "Those are great tights," without ever breaking stride or making eye contact with me.

Since Heritage got two stellar reviews, it looks to be busy every night I drive by it.

Which is great, except that means no more happy hour prices and why would anyone be drinking for full price at 5:45 in this town?

It had been over a month since Maxine's daughter and I last met up, so as soon as I got my Virginia on with a glass of the oh-so-smooth Breaux Vineyards Equation Merlot X, she insisted we order something off the menu that boasts, "Chef/ Daddy Joe Sparatta."

I'd say congrats were in order.

We chose the Virginia cheese plate  (Mountaineer, Appalachian, Grayson) to go with the local wine along with a charcuterie plate.

Tasso ham, beef summer sausage, lomo, Berkshire lardo, and duck ham sat next to pickled quails' egg halves, pickled veggies and pimento cheese.

Pick-up food allowed us to grab bites between stories about dated plays, gun talk at parties and storytelling with a mic.

And that was just her.

Meanwhile, the restaurant was filling up non-stop, making our stools valuable real estate.

A man came in and eyed one stool next to her and one next to me.

After requesting us to move down, I agreed but asked what was in it for me.

"A glass of wine?" he offered. My backside slid over in no time.

By 8:00, the joint was jumping, we'd both been debriefed and she was off to have dinner with her husband.

What else was there for me to do but get myself to a Mardi Gras party?

If not today, I was going to have to wait a while for another opportunity to laissez les bons temps rouler.

It was being hosted by two of the Richmond Symphony's finest, also known as Treesa and Matt of Goldrush.

So, right there, that assured me I'd know a bunch of people plus there'd be symphony types.

Hell, yea.

Walking up the sidewalk to their abode, a neighbor came down her steps, stopped and complimented my tights.

One of the guests socializing on the front porch stopped me on the way in and insisted on putting beads on me so as to be spared an attack by Treesa, apparently tonight's bead pusher.

The guy got one strand around my neck before I let him know that I'm really not the jewelry type, even on Lent eve.

Inside, I learned that Matt reads my blog when he told me, "I hope other people don't read your blog like I do. Blah, blah, Matt, blah, blah, Goldrush."

I think it's safe to say they do, Matt.

The party got dancing in earnest when M.J.'s "PYT" came on, but Matt stopped it toward the end and settled into a slower groove.

"Classy, huh?" he asked me, pointing at me. "I changed the music for you."

I was fine, I told him. I like "PYT."

You see, Matt and I have a history when it comes to the music he plays at his parties.

At their housewarming extravaganza two summers ago, I'd blogged some harsh words about his party mix. Something exactly along the lines of:

Prince, Janet Jackson and Rick Astley (the evening's wild card and actually a treat to hear after so long) I could handle, but Journey and Billy Joel made my skin crawl. But it wasn't my party.

I'd completely forgotten what I'd written but during a Nas song, Matt sidled up in his hat and mask and when I said I'd been expecting an eclectic mix from him tonight, said, "Apparently you aren't the only person who doesn't like Rick Astley and Journey."

You don't say?

Still, if I can do my small part to enrich parties at Gold Manor, I know I will sleep better at night.

Because I'd arrived midway through the party, the jambalaya was pretty much gone.

I was offered some bourbon punch, a concoction of bourbon, ice cream, fruit juicy red Hawaiian Punch and god knows what else.

I demurred because I don't drink bourbon, but the best assessment came from a music-loving girl I know from shows.

Gesturing toward the punch bowl, she said, "That would be a horrible thing to puke."

It was never even an option.

King cake was brought out and while I didn't give a fig about finding the baby in the cake, I did enjoy several slivers of it while chatting with a favorite drummer about the importance of dating someone whose musical passion matches your own.

As expected, the party was full of musicians and friends I knew and symphony musicians I didn't.

One, a handsome and new-to-the symphony violinist, walked up to the host and inquired, "Where are the single women?"

No question, men outnumbered women, so I felt his pain.

Luckily, he didn't have to suffer at an all night party.

Our hosts had informed us that they had to be up at 6 a.m., so they wanted us partied and out by midnight.

Fair enough.

By that time, Treesa had draped me with additional pink and green beads she deemed more coordinated with my outfit.

Matt had me laughing like mad when he lectured me about longevity, saying, "Don't give me that, "Back in my day we had cell phones stuck to the walls" bullshit!"

The guitarist had raved about the recent Milkstains show and how good they'd sounded.

The drummer had kindly invited me to his upcoming birthday celebration.

The music lover already knew what upcoming shows I'm going to, thanks to Facebook (I'm hoping).

And, Mom, I had enough king cake (i.e., flour and sugar topping) to make up for the pancakes (also known as flour and sugar topping) I promised but never ate.

So maybe I'll start Ash Wednesday by stacking 'em high to make up for it.

I'll even wear my beads while I eat them.