So picture this, it’s Friday afternoon around 2:30pm, almost 4 hours before the big event is scheduled to kick off and I decide to take a drive to the venue to look at the result. All those weeks of planning were about to pay off, or so I thought. I kept on picturing the venue, all decked out in white linen with silver and gun metal grey splashed in the decor, each table to have a round mirror placed in the centre with a white floral arrangement placed strategically in the middle… “to create depth and reflection”…as the co-ordinator said.
Now I paid said co-ordinator (who had insisted he wanted the money upfront) an estimated R20 000 for the décor which was to be simple yet elegant, keeping with the theme of Elegánce; and included the flowers and little gift bags for the guests. I arrived at the venue and was dismayed…the images in my head quickly evaporated and all that was left was the insipid mediocrity that stood before me. It was like nothing I had imagined and lacked the twinkle, glitter and “joie de vivre” that I had negotiated a couple of weeks earlier. Then like fuel to my raging fire, when I saw what he intended giving the guests as little party gifts I nearly flipped out. Our agreement was, “an organza bag filled with imported chocolates” for the women and a “little bottle of liquor” for the men. Being the only Muslim in the company, that didn’t bother me…but it did bother me that the incompetent bastard that calls himself a professional co-ordinator thought it appropriate to put an atrocious looking bottle that looked somewhat like food-colouring with a huge bug or beetle embossed on the cover. And if that was not enough, when I took a look at the contents of the organza bags they were filled with “Regal” sweets, the cheapest in the market…I nearly had an Aneurism!! That son-of-a-bitch was obviously walking around with R19 000 in his pocket. I hate…I repeat I HATE people who try to rip me off…
The notorious bottle:
At this point with only 3 hours left, I had to do some serious damage control. I must be the Lemonade Queen, because I’m brilliant like that. I can take the whole world’s lemons and make 13 varieties of Lemonade. Seriously. I always seem to solve the entire world’s problems…in any situation… except in my own personal life of course. As my mind raced with ideas, I rushed home at the speed of sound…did my hair, makeup and got dressed in record time…kidnapped Birdy and went to the Mall. I called Mandy on the way and told her to get her alcoholic friends to help me out by buying up all the little bottles of Nederberg Rosé and some other mini-bottles of wine in the vicinity, while Birdy and I went out to buy a Squajillion tea-light candles and a few packets of Quality Street chocolates. With the help of the venue’s staff, I managed to replace all the food-colouring with pretty bottles of the haraam stuff and Birdy took some of her precious matric-examination-study-time to help me set out the candles on the mirror centre pieces and stuff the organza bags with some decent chocolate. As we lit the candles, I realised that it’s amazing what the ambience of a candle or a couple hundred can do to a place. The venue’s head matron, Nicky then suggested that I take the petals from a white rose in each floral centerpiece and casually cascade them across the mirror between the candles. We did that and voila, instant glamour and crisis avoided…3 hours, 7 people and R1500-00 later.
I’m glad to report that the evening went off without a hitch, and Bossman was quite impressed. I was mildly annoyed that he didn’t think I could pull it off but let it slide. The DJ was pretty good, playing the variety required by the crowd. Birdy and I were in stitches for most of the night…there is nothing funnier than middle-aged drunk white men trying to “hit” the dance-floor. We were crying, that's how much we were laughing. Everyone wanted to know why I wasn’t dancing. I told them my days of demonizing the dance-floor were over. They were either too happy, too drunk or a combination of both to proceed with any further questioning. Five red Grapetizers, 3 Appletizers, 2 Cokes, two trips to the toilet, some salad and vat of chocolate mousse later, Birdy and I went home. It was already 21:30pm and we had stayed an hour too late. I don’t like attending events where alcohol is served, and I always avoid such occasions. So after handing the reigns to Ava, we hit the road.
Now onto other orders of Business. First thing Monday morning, I have to put my bitch-cap on and ask that MOFO of a co-ordinator just what the fuck was he thinking putting some beetle juice on the table when the theme was clearly stipulated to be Classic and Elegant. Or maybe he just wasn't thinking at all...Fugly bastard. Then after I interrogate him for a couple of hours, I will tell him that he has no right masquerading as a professional in the event management field, because he sucks, big time. And then after I make him cry like a little girl who's candy was taken from her, with words that I cannot use here, I will call it a day.
PS. The Blog-Meister synopsis is now posted in the third installment of the Asshole series.