MonkeyPants

Fabulous Party.

Last night, we went to a party thrown by one of E’s guitar students. We approached the gorgeously remodeled house, E with a six-pack of Stella, me with a bottle of wine.

When Wayne opened the door and ushered us in, I felt like we’d gone to the wrong house. The first thing I did was trip over someone’s Prada purse they’d left negligently in the foyer. Then someone handed E a glass of eighteen-year-old scotch. We are both uncomfortable in groups of strangers, and money makes me nervous as well. We stood as though paralyzed until Wayne’s wife invited us to look over the house.

The house is spectacular, but I wouldn’t want to live there. It’s all multi-level and cream coloured. Skylights abound. There is a rooftop deck that overlooks the city. Kitchen: Granite countertops? Check. Brushed stainless-steel appliances? Check. Chef-size range with an oven that could fit two turkeys? Check. I was gobsmacked. The bathroom had Moen fixtures and a custom paint job. The leather sofas in the music room (Baby grand, four guitars, drum kit) are worth more than everything I own. They sure didn’t come from Ikea.

The house inspection couldn’t last all ngiht, so I decided to slug back some wine and make conversation with the multitude of parents in the house. Yes, that’s right. I think E and I were the only kidless ones. And the only ones who weren’t absolutely swimming in money. I talked to a woman about whether the local Catholic school was giving her child the best prechool early start. I commiserated with some guy (Hugo Boss sweater) over the problems of owning a time-share in Cancun and how difficult it was to travel there with kids. I commented intelligently on someone’s acquisition of property on Thormanby Island( a cool three mil). I was proud of myself. I was passing myself off as one of them!

A roast dinner and some more wine later, E was jamming in the music room on one of Wayne’s expensive guitars. Wayne was on the piano and a fat guy in khakis was on drums. I was making small talk with a woman in a Diane Von Furstenburg wrap dress and Balenciaga (I think) boots, who’d just quit her job in order to let her husband support her, when the chief of police walked in. Yeah, he’s one of Wayne’s neighbours.

At this point I was feeling comfortable enough that I wanted to talk to him about Vancouver’s homeless situation, but he was cornered by a guy in a rumpled Armani jacket who was allegedly a high-powered defense lawyer, so I didn’t get to talk to the chief of police. Too bad.

So, I guess I can either masquerade as one of the Entitled People, or else they are too polite to point out that I’m not one of them. Either one is fine by me.