The Party Begins

The text messages and phone calls were flying just like beads from a Mardi Gras float. A.D. even insisted Olga have her very own float by which to make her grand entrance into The Osiris Ball. A.B. stocked a treasure chest full of any adult beverage imaginable, for who knows the chosen elixir of a Traveling Bra. B.F. took time out of her overflowing schedule of parties to travel from New Orleans to make her acquaintance. And A.M.H, with swatches for bridesmaids dresses in one hand and a list of references for photographers in the other, tossed everything aside to enjoy in the revelry. Olga even had her very own Mardi Gras mask! Now A.E’s involvement was by being the hub of communication. If someone had an idea as to how to entertain Olga, or an update on her whereabouts she would immediately send text messages to the rest of us so everyone was in the loop. (Besides, how can someone with the reputation of not being able to keep up with a $60 pair of Spanx offer anything but uneasiness and discomfort to a Traveling Bra?)

I offered myself up as Olga’s chaperon, where I would be hostess to the world traveler for an undetermined period of time. I would show her a good time, perhaps teach her a thing or two about my fair city, (thus also making me an ambassador of sorts). The sense of responsibility along with the many hats on my head was starting to weigh on me. I went grocery shopping for the first time in probably two months. (There aren’t many trips for me to the grocery store when I can get all of the items on my diet at the Rite Aid around the corner. That diet consisting of beer, cereal, milk and Doritos) I dusted baseboards of which I know have probably been tended two once in the last year. I scrubbed toilets. I swept. I mopped. All things that I can assure I do not do. I have a plaque hanging in my kitchen that reads: “I understand the concept of cooking and cleaning, just not how they apply to me.” Lately I’ve been seriously considering canceling my cable so I can get a maid. I swear, to me it would be worth it.

So the first week of February finally came around. From my last post, you know how sensitive I am to the notion of a visit of someone or something special. I was beside myself, and I honestly think the rest of the girls were too. There was a point in time the closer it got to The Ball that it dawned on me that we were more excited about the visit from Olga the Traveling Bra than we were about the Osiris Ball! So as the preparations continued and there was still no sign of Olga, we were starting to get our feelings hurt. Good Lord, we’re about to be stood up by a bra! Oh, the shame!!

As we raised our champagne glasses in unison and offered a toast to the notion of a safe arrival of Olga, there was a Let-Me-in-the-Door-NOW kind of knocking on the front door. We all looked at eachother in amazement that our alcohol induced prayer (ain’t that really what a toast is afterall?) was answered. We ran to the front door, opened it wide and there she was! She made it--A cigarette in one hand and a fifth of whiskey in the other.

“Where’s the pisser in this joint?”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“You heard me. I gotta pee.”
“Ummmm, well, come on in. It’s the second door on the left.”

She took a long pull off the bottle, five bubbles to be exact, and wiped her mouth with the back of the hand. With a long final drag of her Camel Unfiltered, she flicked it onto the front porch and with the angry twist of her ankle preceded to grind it into the outdoor rug where a large cigarette burn remains today. She tossed the whiskey bottle over her shoulder and said, “Outta my way,” as she blows the remaining smoke in our faces.

We scurry behind her. A little shocked at what just happened yet super excited that our guest had arrived. We couldn’t wait to hear about all the fabulous people she had met and all of the beautiful places she’d been in her travels. Through the door we heard the most awful coughing and hacking one could imagine. She must have been in the restroom for ten minutes before she emerged.

“Olga, we’re so glad you finally made it. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Yeah, gimme a shot of Wild Turkey and a Tequila chaser. And my name ain’t Olga”
Wowza, I thought. This is one helluva broad. I thought for certain she’d be a wine drinker, being from California and all. But who was I to judge…y’all know what I drink. And if her name isn’t Olga, then what is it? I am certain A and I exchanged emails with the blog mistress of OLGA. Unfortunately I have a bad habit of not just coming out and asking, “I am sorry, but what is your name again?” We all know the window of opportunity to clear up any type of name mix up passes quick. Delores. Need I say more?

The next two hours didn’t get any better. Comments like, “The last place I visited was much nicer than this house” and my favorite, “Do you think you’re gonna fit your fat ass in that dress” were interrupted by belches and gas passing. Although we were appalled at the behavior of this Traveling Bra, we were gracious hostesses and went ahead with our plans.





“Olga, you’ll be happy to know that A.D. came up with the great idea to build you your very own Mardi Gras float. We thought that would be the proper way for you to make your grand entrance into the ball tonight. Whatta ya say?”

“I say to hell with that float. I ain’t gettin’ in it. You get it in it! Besides, I told you my name ain’t Olga. It’s Ulga.”

I’d had enough. Damnit I don’t clean my baseboards for just anyone. This bra was about to climb into the float my friends made just for her and she was going to ride in it. She may not have liked it but when someone does something nice for you, you should be gracious and thank them for their efforts. This bra was wearing out her welcome and it was only 5:00p.m.! And I swear I thought the bra that was coming to visit was named Olga. Maybe I had it wrong all along. Due to the supposed mix-up, we had to make modifications to the float because it was personalized for “Olga”, not “Ulga”. (No trouble really for an “O” and a “U” are almost the twins of the alphabet family.) In hindsight we would have never taken the time to build such a grand Mardi Gras float for an ungrateful bra, but you live and learn.





Fun and fellowship ensued that afternoon and before we know it was time for us to get ready for The Ball. Sure, we were distracted every so often by Ulga barking orders to “Bring me another sandwich” and “Don’t you see my glass is empty? I need more Wild Turkey!”. It would take a lot more than a rude bra to break the spirit of the evening.