Right that’s it. I need to get myself a millionaire American husband. Taking a jaunt yesterday down ‘Country Club drive’ (I shit you not) a street of houses just casually retailing at 4.5 million dollars apiece, I decided I want in. I must have been feeling optimistic when I packed for this trip as I appear only to have arrived laden with lacy lingerie and no granny pants in sight. I figure I can make this work-as long as I go light on the Peggy Mitchell twang.I’m off to a party tonight so it seems the perfect opportunity to woo me an American suitor. I’m thinking lipstick and heels; however my criss-cross sunburn on my feet from my sandals says otherwise (jeez, it’s like I learned NOTHING from Baz Luhrmann). Falling at the first hurdle I go casual instead, hoping my well applied eye liner will draw attention away from my stupid giraffe patterned feet.
We head to a dodgy looking neighbourhood with some extremely ‘yoot’ looking people hanging around and my hopes of scoring of a millionaire mansion slowly trickle away.
However when we get there the apartment is lovely and it has the feel of a chic basement frat party. Once again everyone is extremely nice and welcoming; enamoured by my Brit status.
My friends have decided that they would like to play matchmaker given my hunt for America’s finest, and introduce me to a friend of theirs. I immediately ascertain he works for the bank which issued me my dodgy Twenty, so I confront him and ask him if he is in fact a Colombian counterfeiting mogul. I hold him entirely responsible for my misfortune and he apologises profusely; introducing himself as Eduardo. Perfect.
The night passes by lubricated with copious amounts of wine and I spend time talking to everyone here; as well as my newly intended.
Finding funny at the slightest of things-(peanut boy face and a banana anyone??…) we eventually relocate to the terrace for some much required air. We discover that alongside the BBQ there’s a new shed been built that after firm inspection from my drunken companions; is deemed both slightly unnecessary and worthy of a scene from Dexter. All it needs is the plastic sheeting. Christening it ‘The Murder Shed’ (fava beans with that Chianti anyone??), we all hang out behind it and drink even more, stopping only to fill our faces with brownies and check no one has in fact been murdered in said shed.
I’m laughing so hard with Eduardo my stomach hurts and I’m enjoying profusely another open-armed welcome to America.
After snorting my way hysterically (God I’m classy) through my umpteenth glass of wine,
it’s getting late and my friends want to call it a night. Reluctantly I leave after a fantastic evening in great company. Although I haven’t come away this evening the wife of an American tycoon, I’m left feeling a million dollars right now-and that surely beats country club membership any day.