TKOG Who crashes the party

GUYS! Today I have a guest post up at sandyb’s blog! Sandy is, like me, a woman on a self-improvement mission: she has a list of goals to accomplish before she turns 30 this August (and she’s a fantastic writer to boot!). She asked me to make my own list and — look, guys, it isn’t pretty — I may or may not have stripped down my defenses and admitted a few goals that I had been afraid even to voice to myself. So. You can read it, but you can’t make fun of me afterwards, okay?

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NTKOG #98: The kind of ethically ambiguous social butterfly who doesn’t let a bouncer, cover charge or guest list get in the way of her attending a private event.

I am: completely happy curled up in bed watching House; if I have to go somewhere, fine, but I’m not going to go out of my way to bust in.

I am not: subtle enough to pull off insinuating myself into upscale private fetes.

The Scene: BU Alumni Winterfest, late afternoon, a wine and chocolate tasting that has been sold out for weeks. WINE, guys. And CHOCOLATE. Finances, ethics and doorcheck mortification be damned. After a long afternoon in the biting Massachusetts weather, I imagined myself creeping in like a saintly orphan from a Victorian children’s novel, begging an elegiac old chocolatier named Jacque to spare me a single truffle, hand-dipped in finest chocolate and dusted with desiccated fairy wings. Later, he would adopt me and, after a few endearing mishaps, I would teach him to once again let love into his heart.

Uh, the point is, I was craving some chocolate. Apparently to the point of delusion.

Sister, Hot Hands and I, along with a few other people, headed down to the event room, the door of which was — curses! — flanked with event organizers toting color-coded guest lists. Our group split into small factions to test the waters, but when a girl asked if there was any chance of coming in or buying a ticket at the door, she was immediately rebuffed.

“These tickets have been sold out all week,” a gentleman who was, honestly, too old to be wearing a lanyard grimaced down at his clipboard. “Try again next year.”

While Sister discussed our options with her group of friends, I boosted her wallet from her purse and stole two dollars. I was halfway to the clipboard crew when Sister grabbed my elbow.

“No! No! Whatever you’re doing, you need to stop it. You’re going to get us kicked out!” she blurted, restraining me with one hand.

“Dude, I’m not trying to bribe my way in. I’m not an idiot. I had a really good plan.” She furrowed her eyebrows in disbelief. “See, if I can’t get in, I thought I could get chocolate out. Hey, clipboard lady, George Washington and his twin here want to know if you can liberate a few truffles. See?! Not embarrassing at all!”

Fortunately for me, Sister was too busy fussing over her ransacked wallet to punch me; unfortunately, she wasn’t so busy that she loosened her deathgrip on my sleeve.

“I guess we could try the back door,” shrugged one of the girls we came downstairs with. “Maybe someone will open it when they leave.” An apathetic grumble went up from the group, ’cause surely an event with such rigorous chocolate policing would think to post a sentry at all exits — surely the door would be locked — surely … shit, we were in. That was easy.

Anti-climactically easy, in fact. Sister refused to enter, citing some sort of alleged principles, but Hot Hands and I barged back in and bee-lined for the chocolate tables. Which were, honestly, disappointing. Not one single sea-salt truffle, hand-dipped by my fantasy Jacque du Chocolat; no edible gold or decorative piping; there wasn’t even that much chocolate. To wit: small vats of irregular chunks of broken Lindt bars in various cacao denominations. Hot Hands and I gamely conducted a blind taste-test to see which of the four percentages of dark chocolate we liked the best (50% dark was the mutual selection), knocked back two Dixie cups of wine (“The bouquet is so — uh — fruity? Look, do you know anything about wine?” “Nope. It just tastes like wine to me.” “Me too!”), and sneaked out as inauspiciously as we had entered.

The Verdict: Huh, turns out that the Little Rascals trick of loitering by the exit is more than just a vaudeville trope. I kind of want to try this in other venues now, like concert halls or — more likely, considering the level of intrigue in my daily life — to sneak into Trader Joe’s after they’ve stopped letting in new customers for the evening. On the whole, though, the event wasn’t worth all the excitement and subterfuge of our entrance; I wouldn’t have been psyched if I’d had to pay the $10 cover charge. So, moral of the story? Next time I’m on the fence about an event with a cover charge, I might try this again, if only because it adds a flavor of adventure to even the most routine proceedings.

Also, must use the George Washington’s twin brother bribery line somewhere, if only to spark a debate over GW’s family tree.

Tagged as: boston, boston university, chocolate, hey if any event organizers read this: sorry for slaggin' your event because it really did seem quite pleasant and to be fair we missed the powerpoint, not even a keystone copes-esque chase scene!, wine tasting