Because my mother goes to church in Warrenton, Va, they had enough clout to hold their new year's party at the posh Fauquier Club. (to give you an idea of what clout they have, keep in mind that Oliver North used to go there)

Although I haven't had to go to that hell hole since I was 12, I couldn't turn down the invitation to go because I could bring Harlotte along and show her the splendor I could share with her when we've built up our Nutralife downline. She enthusiastically agreed to go, and my mother and I picked her up on the evening of the 31st.

Unfortunately, my mother insisted that if we were serious about this business, we needed to listen to motivation tapes. I tried to accept their message of hard work and more hard work graciously, but I couldn't ignore the fact that these embellished middle school sermons cost $200. Not that I noticed, for Harlotte held my hand for some reason....

When we arrived at the club, Harlotte went kind of bonkers noticing the expeisive cars and labels being worn around the place. There was also the alcohol (I abstained!) and the presence of a certain Cody Edgell to distract her. He stood sullenly drinking a glass of scotch in the back corner, and looked as if any moment he would commit some outrageous act only because it was not expected. Harlotte wanted to talk to him, I think because he looked like the lead singer of Mindless Self Indulgence or something. Don't get the impression that I'm worried about this one. His replies to her questions were monosyllibilic and he ended breaking off their conversation early to get another glass of Maker's Mark.

From what I could gather in this 5 minutes, he went to The Hills (a filthy rich private school) and wanted to study engineering. He didn't specify what school he was going to apply to, so he's obviously a wayward spoiled loser who's going to be chasing the bottle over cerebral matters. I got my word in edgewise: "Well, I've applied to Oxford, Harvard, Yale, Princeton, UVA and William and Mary to study Comparitive Literature and Classical Languages." He emitted a grunt (possibly of defeat or concession) and went on his way.

Harlotte hadn't gotten into the alcohol yet, which reminds me of a digression I must make about underage drinking at these functions. Because every wealthy and powerful person in Northern Virginia is a soak at heart, the alcohol flows freely at these gatherings. People over 16 are encouraged to drink to show the maturity bestowed upon them by their parents, and if their parents forbid them to drink gossip will spread that "so and so's kid is a rowdy drunk". My mother forbids me to drink, and does not drink a drop of alcohol herself. But you must understand that we are not held up to the standards of this leauge (yet).

Now my mother was under the impression that since I wouldn't be drinking, neither would Harlotte. However, she kept getting refills of gin and tonic and was accelerating into a state of uncontrolled chaos by 10 that night. I believe that it took her about 6 drinks before we were asked to leave. I had to interrupt my mother's hobnobbing to inform her that Harlotte wasn't feeling well and that we needed to leave. (I had already put her in the backseat of the car by this point). She felt concerned until we approached the car, and saw Harlotte's vomit streaming down the side. Luckily, none got on the upholstery. Not a single word was said on the way home, to our house.

When we walked in the door, my mother told me to take Harlotte up to my room and put her in my bed, then close the door and come downstairs for a talk. She would need to sober up before we took her back to her house.

I don't quite know how to describe what happened next. She exploded into some tirade about how I had runied her reputation and how everyone would think that she harbored drunks and how she could never show her face in church again and that it was entirely my fault. Then my father came into the room.
He was angry that she had disturbed his sleep and demanded to know what could be important enough for her to go ballistic like that. When she said that the reason was because of alcohol, he took it as an affront and began arguing back at her that she was a "hypercritical bitchy self righteous uterus who needs to shut the fuck up!". I should mention that alcohol is a very sensitive subject in their relationship. That said, I left the room and went upstairs, unnoticed.

Harlotte lie there, passed out. The moonlight poured in upon her pale face. I stroked her cold hands and whispered poetry to her. She seemed barely cognizant of what was going on, and I daresay even encouraged me to go further. I stroked her soft abdomen beneath her shirt but did not, I assure you, touch her more delicate parts. She began to shudder and wince so I took my chance and kissed her! My tounge went into her mouth and burned with the gin laden vomit but it was the most beautiful thing that had ever befallen my spirit! I then ran out of the room hoping she did not notice that my trespass had planted in her a sublime, irrestible desire for ME: TIM MELONI!!!!

Harlotte disappeared while I was in the bathroom. I believe that my mother was too infuriated to deal with her so she had my father drive her home. I don't know how much she could possibly have sobered up, or what even happened when she got home. But I know this:

she has accepted my gestures of affection, and therefore she shall me mine for ever more.