Just Don't Breathe In

So we went to a black tie affair on Saturday night. Decent time. We were table #15. Now you'd expect that to be, oh, on the fringes of the room. So imagine my surprise when we sat down smack in front of the podium with Mr. Bigtime himself and 5 Mr. Bigtime Juniors and their wives from Beerman's company. My own Mr. Bigtime doesn't know me by sight, let alone kiss me on the cheek and wish me a lovely time on our way out. (Which, by the way, I now know why Republicans don't understand there's a recession on - They raised $383,000 in 3 hours with 400 people in attendance. And we did not bid on anything. You do the math.) Anyhow, to get ready for the event in my cotton candy pink dress, I knew I needed some color to this pasty skin. So, I went to a MysticTan booth a la Ross Gellar. Just before getting in the gas chamber, the woman says, "Try not to breathe in while you're in there, okay?" You know that just can't be good for you. Anyhow, apparently I didn't follow directions very well, because the bottoms of my feet are bright orange. Oops. At least the rest of my looked fine enough and not spray-painted that I didn't scare anyone at a non-Halloween event. But we'll be leaving this experience to be a very rare, only when necessary sort of thing.