I am about to weave you a saga that rivals that of Homer’s Odyssey.
It all started in what I like to call “The Delivery.” In response to a group text I shot out to my co-dwellers, Mr. Myles “With a Y” Young granted me access to his rare, holographic Daewoo (the Bigfoot of the auto industry) on the condition that I deliver him to his DJ gig at the Boise Art Museum. Mission: Accomplished.
I pick up Aspen for the annual ROTC Military Ball. It’s like Harry Potter’s Yule Ball, but with less butterbeer. Anyway, Aspen was looking fine as ever, naturally (I wasn’t going to take just anyone), and we make an appearance. Supposed to arrived between 5:30pm and 6pm?
Photos from rebloggy
So anyway, we put on a face and pretend like we’re interested in everyone. We shake some hands, make some introductions, then get our picture taken by none other than the Susan Hessing! I served in her ward! She is most widely recognized for her popular pic of Sierra Sandison wearing her insulin pump whilst sporting her bikini at the Miss Idaho Pageant. So these pictures were on point. We haven’t received our digital copies yet, so this is just a sample of what we brought to the evening. Photo courtesy of a fellow second-squader dressed as Mr. Bean:
Aspen all of a sudden freaks. I’m trying to figure out what the heck is going on. Her high school nemesis is to my six. The Regina George of my date’s compulsory education was present and a fully-participating member of the ROTC program here at Boise State. I really tried to get them some face-time, but Aspen didn’t appreciate that. Heh.
Anyway, we went through the receiving line. In case you were wondering, I was disappointed when I didn’t get anything. I seriously thought it was food. Newp. Just some handshakes with the cadre (big words defined here).
We move over towards table 12, and who am I sitting with? My nemesis! This guy was an MSIV (Military Science 4th year). That means he doesn’t have to do anything we do. He’s basically just admin, running labs and PT tests. That’s where my hate first started festering. He was counting my push-ups on my first test and didn’t count 10 of mine for not getting my chest to the floor when the measure of an Army push-up is elbows at a 90-degree angle. So there. I hate him.
The night went on in formalities and traditions. There was a “1920s theme” which consisted of a few silhouettes of old cars or instruments, plus a couple of stars. Anyway, dinner was a disappointment. We had to place our orders for the caterer a month in advance, and they still ran out! No tri-tip for Cadet Henderson 😦
We also had to do skits. The MSIs (me) were the clear winners with our Army Strong Shake Weight infomercial.
There were some speeches, some roasting of the cadre, and we closed. We weren’t supposed to leave until the Lieutenant Colonel (the head of our program) left, so we were left with three options: the dance floor (complete with 60-year old DJ and his pop-polka music), Christmas trivia, or socialize with whomever until the LTC left. We went with the trivia, the obvious choice in the given situation, although still not ideal.
We finally left. It was my roomie Logan’s birthday, so we thought we’d get him a cake and play Just Dance on his newly acquired Xbox 360. But then, a thought that would change the entire course of the evening, nay grander! – the course of my being – floated to the forefront of my consciousness. We were going to Myles’s DJ event!
So we pull up to the front of the Boise Art Museum, knowing that Myles and Corden (my other roomie) were DJing a Christmas party for a law firm. I whisper to Aspen that it won’t work unless we’re confident, tell her to grab my arm, and we walk up to a few people standing outside. I lead with, “Hey, sorry we’re late. Where is it that we’re supposed to go?” This lady tells me that it’s just in the back of the museum and that that they’re out of food, so I need to hit up the open-bar. I thank her and give the door a tug. Locked, with a sign reading, “Private Party”. But Museum Peon #1 comes to the rescue and lets me right in. I walk up to my roommates at the DJ stand, clasp my arms around their shoulders, and say, “This is my favorite song!” They both just turn around with big grins shouting, “Yes!”
Photo from Giphy
So then we stride over to the bar. I just get Red Bull. Then I turn to Aspen and tell her that it isn’t enough just to show up and take their drinks. We need to mingle. She tells me I’m going to get us caught. There are only 20-30 people at this party. It’s not a huge deal, so the likelihood of someone knowing we don’t belong was high. Still, though, I go for it. I sit down next to this lady who was 40 or 50 and ask her her name. She divulges and asks me mine. I reply in full German accent, “I’m Stefan. I work in zhe mail room. No one knows me! I’m just trying to get to know people.” I ask what she does for the company, and she tells me her husband is one of the partners. Bingo. Just for some perspective, this company, Givens Pursley LLP, pulls in over $1 million every day. I catch a big name on the first cast. Her husband then comes over, and she introduces me as Stefan. I say hello, chat for a couple seconds, then excuse myself. Mingle: Complete. One of the partners of the company was convinced I worked for him.
Photo from Tumblr
I’m back over at the DJ stand now and can’t find Aspen. No worries. I just wander around checking out some of the art. It’s pretty dang cool. I end up back at the DJ stand, and the lady who let me in initially was standing there chatting up my roomies. I asked her (picking up the previous conversation) what’s good at the bar that night. She said she’s drinking a girly drink, like a strawberry daquiri. “Well I’m not getting that!” Then she explained how they were out of Red Bull (while I was drinking it right in front of her), so I couldn’t get an Irish trashcan. “Just get something on the rocks. You can’t f***ing go wrong with that!”. I go back over to the bar and get another Red Bull and comment, “Oh nice – Malibu. I’ll have to get that next time.” I can thank Germany with my familiarity with liquors. There were, I think, two bottles of Malibu at my 18th birthday party, among an impressive array of other hard drinks. It was my host-sister’s fav.
Anyway, after being around Corden and Myles so much, I tell Aspen that we either need to leave or dance to avoid suspicion. She says, “But you don’t dance. Do you want to?” Just then, a sudden flashback to my Mentor of Adventure, Drew Scott, and his immortal words: “Do it for the story!”. “Yes, for the story,” I declare. It lasts all of two seconds when I notice two older women, arms around each other’s shoulder, whispering and pointing at us. I grab Aspen’s arm. Time for our exfiltration!
On our way home, Aspen and I were giddy with how the night had played out. Our confidence was at an all-time high. She related it to the Impractical Jokers said she didn’t have the confidence to do that kinda stuff! I just said I don’t like dancing. We agreed on a trade: confidence for dance moves. Aww yea! We also decided to make this a regular thing. We’ll start with weddings. They’ve got the biggest guest lists, the best cake, and we can always use the “+1” or “we’re with the DJs” excuses. Corden said their company has at least four weddings every weekend and that he’d let us know where the biggest one’s happening.
And that was how a weekend changed the course of my life, bringing me one step closer to Tony Stark-dom.
Photo from MTV