A Night Ripe for Catty Critique

Arriving in Newport Beach at a respectable 5:40 for a 6:00pm wedding reception, we meandered around the complex looking for a place to park.  I was a little apprehensive about this particular affair.  The invitation did not mention how to dress, and I was worried that we might appear too casual.  Paul and I dressed in resort ware, each donning an embroidered shirt with either linen or silk pants - kinda stylish Miami-Beach.  After all, being that this was a Newport Beach affair, there was no telling what we’d be in for – a wedding on a yacht?  Or maybe a glass-walled clubhouse overlooking the bay?  Or maybe the home of yet another millionaire with an odd fixation on Precious Moments figurines, Beanie Babies, and just about everything ever produced by the Franklin Mint? 

 

As we meandered through what turned out to be a rather unexpected condo complex, we spotted both of the grooms in the parking lot – still quite grubby from carrying boxes.  “Hey!” I shouted out to the pair.  “Shouldn’t you guys be in hair and make-up right now?”  They both chuckled, agreed, and pointed to our destination – a clubhouse at the top of a big stone set of stairs flanked with huge palm trees and fountains. 

 

As we parked, I double-checked the invitation.  Sure enough, it said six o’clock.  But the grooms were nowhere even near dressed for the occasion, and it was now quarter of.  How… odd.  Yet, as we parked, there was no way that we could have possibly known what a weird time lay before us.

 

Climbing the steep stairs to the main clubhouse of the condo association, we found ourselves in a group of less than ten people, and we were easily the youngest by about 20-30 years.  The grooms are both our age, which made this particular assortment a bit unexpected.  Who WERE these people, WHERE the hell were the gays, and WHERE could I get a drink?  As we sat on some of the wicker patio furniture, feeling like one of the Golden Girls (made worse since we were surrounded by people of that age), I spotted a frenzied caterer breeze by, carrying a tray.  AHA!  There was another level to this party, and there was food.  Yeah!  Walking down a meandering set of side-stairs to a little tiki bar section, I spotted a tall glass dispenser of sangria.  Pouring a glass, I found where they brought all of the food for the reception.  Wow… cheesy crackers and hummus.  How… um….uh… Let’s see what is in the other large bowl that the other caterer brought out – Gee.  More… cheesy crackers and hummus.  How… um… uh…And the sangria?  Disappointing.  BUT, at least it was booze.

 

As we stood there starving, and standing out like sore thumbs amid the geriatric crowd, more people began to show up – clearly revealing an assembly of Newport Beach residents.  Just then, two stylish gentlemen in suits descended the stairs together.  “Oh thank the GODS!” I thought to myself.  “More gays who are probably equally confused by the weird mix of people here.”  In no time at all, the four of us began mingling together, as we observed the rest of the crowd. 

 

As more people arrived, the caterers brought out more reception fair.  On one platter, they brought out quiches.  Yeah!  FOOD!  But wait… picture if you will a big flat tray of quiche.  Now, cut the quiche into jiggly little squares.  Now, just put them on a serving tray and give the guests no forks or plates.  Crustless quiche – as finger-food?  How… fascinating (in a trainwreck kinda way).  I witnessed more than one guess try to grab at the gelatinous mess of eggy goo, only to lead to yet another sploosh of disappointment.  Of course, that particular food choice was nowhere near as fascinating as the big icy bowl of partially frozen Otter Pops that the caterers brought out next.  I have never thought of Otter Pops as being menu items at a wedding reception.  BUT, I digress.

 

How does one describe Newport Beach residents?  There are so many colorful words I could use.  But in this case, I will just limit it to two – TRANNY MESS.  While many Girls-Gone-Wild and Surgeries-Gone-Wrong walked down the stairs, NONE stood out more than a woman that we affectionately referred to as Endora.  Picture, if you will, a woman somewhere between 60 and 470 years old.  Her skin, like finely-tanned Cordoba leather, had a shine not unlike the upholstery in a new jaguar.  And her perfume?  A cross between Channel #5 and the wretched smell that you get when you walk past a hair salon. 

 

Endora walked down the stairs proudly sporting what looked like a new outfit.  Picture, if you will, this ageless (?) creature wearing a bold indigo blue sun dress, with a lemon yellow wrap, and hot pink shoes, the likes of which would make Elle Woods from Legally Blonde think, “Oh honey… that is just too much.”  But wait… it gets better.  Ya know how Phyllis Diller has that huge chrysanthemum pom-pom of shocking platinum hair?  Endora went one horrific step further.  Picture, if you dare, going all skunky-two-tone and dying in a strip of burnt orange right down the middle of the platinum white.  “Oh my god!” I said to my gay posse’.  “The peroxide she used was so strong that it leached out some of the rust from one of her artificial hips!”  Just then, we watched as Endora greeted some of the other ladies in her social circle – all of whom had lips bigger than my ass.  As she cackled and kissed each tautly tightened ancient cheek, she reached for a glass of champagne revealing, yes you guessed it, her claws.  Each nail had to be at LEAST two to three inches long.  And the color?  Persimmon?!  What ELSE could complete her colorful ensemble?  Watching in morbid fascination as the group of three or four women chatted, I couldn’t help but stare at their lips.  Each woman looked as if they had been in a collision, and the air bags had gone off on their faces.  How they were even able to move their taught lips as they spoke is beyond my scope of comprehension.

 

Eventually, the grooms showed up, each sporting loud Hawaiian dress, and bringing lays and shell necklaces to each of the guests.  “Kill me now!” I thought, wondering exactly where we would be going to dinner.  After all… man cannot live on metallic-tasting hummus, squiggly-giggly-quiche, and otter pops alone.  Just as our companions and I were wondering if food was being boycotted so that most of the guests could avoid having to purge into the planters, the call was made for dinner.  Thank the GODS!  But yes… the weirdness continues.  The dinner fair was… um… interesting.  With each slopful of something not easily recognizable, I had to wonder what was going through the mind of the catering staff .  Blueberries in cole slaw?  Watermelon mixed with pine nuts and feta cheese?  At that point, I looked all over the place to see if I would find shrimp suspended in Jello – alas, I was disappointed.  Our gay posse’ had strategically grabbed a bottle of champagne from the tiki bar, making it much easier for us to ignore the weirdness laid out before us.  But alas, any illusion of composure shattered as I watched our friend rip the foil off the top of the bottle to reveal not a cork, but a screw-top.  I began to laugh madly.  “Would you like to sniff the bottlecap?” I asked my dinner-companions.

 

The night was ripe for humor.  We met the grooms’ (not-gay) roommate, Joseph.  Joseph, (who is not-gay), sported his perfect physique in tightly fitted embroidered jeans, cowboy boots, and a very stylin’ shirt that I cannot believe came from anywhere other than (the not-gay) part of WeHo.  Hanging out in a not-gay kinda way with all the gay guys, he told us about his profession as a (not-gay) massage therapist.  And then shortly after introducing us to his (beard) girlfriend, he sent her away to introduce us to his (not-gay) friend – another tall, thin, sporty hawtie with perfect skin, the perfect haircut, perfect teeth, and stylin’ pointy (not-gay) cowboy boots that were so long and stylized as to be nothing short of 13^th century poulaines. 

 

At the end of dinner, Paul and I took advantage of the lull in the crowd to quietly make our exit.  We shook hands with our dinner companions and quietly skirted out through the side, amid a hushed degree of giggling.  And as we descended the grand staircase, exhaling a huge sigh of relief, I swear I heard the monstrous cackle of Endora.  I hope she didn’t trip and impale herself on any of her nails.  Oh well… what’s one more surgery?