So let's talk about the Gala: Paint the Town Red.
Fabulous. Amazing. Over-the-top.
Really, it's a huge, epic production done on a shoe-string budget that brings in big names for a night of dinner and dancing at one of the most glamorous hotels in the world.
And we get to do it all over again, next year. Weeeee!
Still, I felt a little self-conscious.
Good thing I wore comfortable shoes.
Which brings me to the biggest point of the night: working a Gala is not like attending a Gala. It's like...work. In very tall shoes (five inches, in case you were curious. Five-excruiating-inches of pure torture. My pinky toes will never be the same.) We were on our feet for a solid four hours, hustling stuff here, there and everywhere. We weren't allowed to eat or drink (::sigh::) until our shift ended, and watching those catered appetizers drift by made a tiny tear come to my eye. I love nothing more in this world than catered appetizers...
Deana and I snagged a pretty cushy job, I will admit: we got to work the silent auction. While this did entail having to crawl on our hands and knees to get into the middle of the auction tables (not fun and incredibly humiliating), I had a birds-eye view as all of the guests arrived. Things got a little chaotic after the auction ended, and I learned yet another important life lesson: it's not really a Gala until someone yells at you.
And that's all I'm going to say about that.
The good news is that the event went off without a hitch (mostly) and it appeared that all of the guests ate and drank merrily. I was a wee-bit jealous as I watched a table clink their champagne glasses together as I hoofed it to the back of the room, yet again, carting around more stuff. And while working the Gala was akin to being flogged in heels, I think I might do it again next year...just with better shoes. Flats, perhaps?
I also learned that if you want to have a really fun night out, it's best not to do hours of charity work (while wearing medieval torture devices on your feet) because you are going to be really tired by the end of it. We were almost a full hour late to our dinner reservation by the time we changed clothes (and I put on my more-comfy four-inch wedges...I'm using the word "comfy" very loosely here), but it was literally heaven to finally be able to sit down.
We hit The Bank for a little dancing and then Caramel for an after-club drink. Considering the four of us are usually up by 6am everyday, asking us to stay up past midnight is almost as difficult as wearing five-inch heels. And on this particular day, Scotty had decided to wake at 5:20am. I managed to spill only two drinks (darn martini glasses are just so...upright) before calling it a night, and I think we were all ready to be done.
Town, consider yourself painted red.
Meanwhile, on the home front, Brian and Scotty had a lovely Saturday together. They did a little grocery shopping, folded the laundry, and Brian even treated Scotty to McDonald's for dinner. When I called and checked in on Sunday morning, Brian said he managed to shower after Scotty got up, since our friend Jay was in town and headed over.
"How did you do that?" I asked, wondering if he dragged the pack'n'play upstairs.
"Nah," he said. "I just took him in the shower with me."
Yup, Scotty's first shower happened at the ripe old age of 19 months. Per Brian, the Bear loved it. Clad only in his diaper (since according to Brian, "he had already made the poo-poos"), Scotty just stood in the corner and tried to catch the water. Brian toweled him off, re-dressed him, and the two went on their merry way.
Jay came over later in the day and Scotty showed him how to play the iPad.
(we were also unable to walk due to the condition our feet were in, so room service was really our only option).
And now I'm going to go soak my feet.