I always find it ironic that as the year progresses towards the merry season, there are more and more opportunities to catch you out and get you cut from Santa's "nice" list, writes Alana Dixon in Uptown Girl.
OPINION: Mark and I were busy trying to plan a party last month, and we basically had to change the date approximately a million and a hundred, 10 and 21 times (just to paraphrase the Flight of the Conchords. Y'know, because I'm hip with the youth, et cetera).
I think everybody who clicked "attending" on the Facebook event page regretted doing so, as they were soon bombarded with my constant messages tossing around different possibilities. Got you, suckers.
In my defence we had to change the date that many times because our weekend social calendar is rapidly filling up, and I realised that I literally had no other possible available dates because the rest of the time I am busy playing social butterfly.
I have, after all, many many friends, all of whom adore and worship me. I am convinced some of them have built shrines dedicated to my glory, complete with a diet Irn Bru can I drank out of once and pieces of my hair they have procured through a mixture of plucking my hairbrush, plucking my scalp (with stealth), and wiping down my back with a lint roller as I type at my desk, oblivious.
This is what I tell myself, anyway.
All of these awestruck friends want to spend time with me, obviously, so I am a very busy and important person with a library that smells of rich mahogany and a chocka social calendar.
As the weather warms up - or is meant to warm up; thanks temperamental Octoberian weather - party season implodes.
We welcomed barbecue season for a friend's birthday out at Riverton, then ti was Halloween (no homemade costume this year, I took the easy route and hired one), then we've got the big birthday/Christmas work extravaganza, playing hosts with the most, weddings ... You get the idea.
All of these impending occasions are not only reasons to tell people (yourself/your boyfriend) you need to buy new outfits NOW, they are also living, breathing booby-traps designed to trip you up.
Repeating the bit of gossip you overheard to somebody you shouldn't repeat it to, having too much celebratorial wine, spending all of your rent money or winding up talking/flirting with an ex as your current squeeze seethes nearby ... Socialising is fun, undoubtedly, but it can be fraught with danger.
I think Mr and Mrs Claus constructed the (non-advent) calendar this way, quite wittily, to determine who was going to receive a pony or a nice watch or an all-expenses trip to Raro (just putting it out there) and who was going to wind up with some new crockery or the dreaded socks.
Or nothing, because things got REALLY real.
On second thought, maybe I should just stay home this weekend . . .
PS: Are all of these ( ... ) in today's column as annoying as my Facebook updates? I'm guessing yes.
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