The Red Christmas Dress

The Red Christmas Dress

          It was finally happening.  I was going to The Night of Chocolate.  It is a dinner theatre for the Patrons of Art in Northeast Arkansas.  I had been anticipating the chance

to attend for a few years.  Since our grandson was a part of the cast, we reserved a table for our family.  I anxiously prepared for the pre-Christmas event. The search for the perfect dress ended with a red, crystal-speckled brocade suit.

     When the night arrived, our family gathered in our suits, ties and sparkling finery, and I was having excitement butterflies.  After we arrived and as we sat at our table, the room was abuzz with conversation.  Later, we were welcomed to the affair and then filed through the buffet line.  I noticed how people were attempting to balance a plate, drink and dessert at the same time.  I was no exception.  I made it to the table unscathed, sitting my drink and plate down.  As I leaned down to remove my night clutch from the chair to sit, I felt it.  From my remaining hand-held dish, the Chocolate Crème pie slid onto my chest.   Dark, chocolate crème pie decorated the bodice of my dress.  I promptly sat down.

     I looked down at my beautiful red brocade dress covered in a pile of goop. I looked at my daughter across the table, “Is that a look of horror in my daughter’s eyes on her face of stone?” The expression was priceless.  If I could have hung a cartoon bubble over her head, it would have read, “Elephant in the room? No, I don’t see it.” as our eyes locked in motionless stone. Quickly, glancing at my husband who sitting beside me, I saw he was oblivious to it all, I looked at my son-in-law.  He was busy arranging his place setting and was expressionless, but his shoulders were shaking-- that Inward Laughing Syndrome that you can not contain. 

     I was in disaster mode then, and, obviously, my family was so mortified they could not move.  I have to save myself.  Understand, I’m not accustomed to saving myself.  I don’t open doors or pull out chairs, and suddenly, I’m going to have to scrape chocolate crème pie into a napkin before it falls all the way down the front of my dress.  I grab every cloth napkin I can reach, and I scoop with both hands and get the mountain of deep, b-l-a-c-k  mush into the napkins.  Wipe! wipe! wipe.! It was looking better.  I was too embarrassed to look around and see whether or not people were watching.  Under a fresh napkin covering, I headed to the ladies powder room.  After washing my hands, I wet the napkin in the sink and gave my lovely new dress an emergency hand bath. 

     Surprisingly, the brocade material actually cleaned up beautifully.  I couldn’t see a bit of black crème anywhere.  It looked a little damp, but I decided I could survive that.  As I re-entered the dining hall, I was received with a standing ovation…   No, not really, but I should have received applause.  I was passable clean.  I reseated myself and had a delicious meal.  I learned an inescapable truth that night:  a person does not die from embarrassment.