catholic school auction

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Auctions. These events are like skydiving – a rush of exhilaration, joy, and pocket emptying.

This past weekend we attended our daughter’s school auction. It was a beautiful affair. People were dolled up, alumnus came back to their old alma mater, and everyone got buzzed and nutty over a blanket made out of t-shirts.

I have only been to a few of these shin-digs, however, I have noticed two things: 1) You need to go into the event with a plan and budget; and 2) People lose their marbles at these events. Myself included.

Out of all the wonderful auction items, I had my heart set on only one thing. Even now, thinking about how special this item is and what it means to my daughter and my family, makes me tear up.

I had my eye on the prize, and I won it. A two-fer. I helped out a great school and obtained something with tremendous meaning for my child.

Here’s how I did it, illustrated a la marble count:

1) PLAN – Talk to husband and decide on a budget together. We were not going over X amount of dollars.

RESULT – I ignored the budget and went rogue. MARBLE LOSS: 10

2) PLAN – Act like a lady and raise my bidder number.

RESULT – Stood on chair with high heels screaming. MARBLE LOSS: 5

3) PLAN – Clap and smile if win item or shrug it off if bid was too high

RESULT – Did the cabbage patch dance when won item. MARBLE LOSS: 25

While I did act silly during the bidding and probably ended up with -15 marbles, isn’t that what it’s all about? Having fun and raising money for good cause/good school?

Apparently not.

While most attendees either didn’t care who won what, or were happy people were bidding and helping out the school, a number of people reacted in an odd way (more marble loss).

After winning the item, some people felt it necessary to bequeath my husband and me with bizarre questions and comments such as: “What are you going to do with _____?” Or, “Wow, you sure did spend a lot. Must be nice.” Or one of my favorites, No dialogue – Insert glaring at us up and down, then turning away in disgust.

I’ll be honest, the cattiness really bummed me out. These are parents from our child’s school, our community, our church. These are people I look to in times of need, both for my family and my child, and I the same for them. This is our village of role models for my young daughter.

I couldn’t understand it. Were people upset if they did not win the item? Were they concerned we would not use the item in the proper way? Did they think we had a secret money tree in our backyard, supplying us with endless funds so that we could nap all day?

Nope, no tree. But my husband and I did have a “spirited” conversation on the ride home about what we spent.

Whether we won or lost the item, or rolling in the dough or not, who cares?

What I looked like after the live auction.

If there is one thing this life has taught me, it’s that you can’t control how people act, treat you, or feel about you. You can’t stop living your life, or curb being who you are because of it. And while yes, snide comments hurt, it’s really not worth the time to try and change someone’s opinion of you. Because it won’t.

Bottom line: It’s your life, no one else’s.

I will always be that short, loud, crazy lady in the back of the room raising my flag and having a good time. It’s who I am.

So the next time someone says to me, “Wow! Can’t believe you did that. What are you going to do with it?”

I’ll say, “Anything I damn well please.”

They’re my marbles anyway.

So I am kind of like a puppy: easily excitable, a little yappy, and small. When I hit the town, I take with me this verve. I am so excited to be out socializing (always have been) that I need to run around the block a couple of times to burn off some energy. Back in the day, this vigor worked to my advantage. I used to go out all night, pop right out of bed the next day, and head to work. Then do it all over again the next day.

I am smidge older now and “the town” I’m hitting is more of the gown up variety – events. While my joie de vivre is of the same caliber, my tolerance is clearly not.

I’m a two drink Charlie, a cheap date if you will. I really should not have more than two drinks – period. But something happens to me when I am out. Maybe I am thirsty from all my chatting about my daughter, dog, how all these kids were crying at the beach, or re-enacting scenes from the Rock of Ages movie (it really is awesome). Maybe Prosecco just tastes so good on a hot day. Or maybe, I forget that I am a grown-ass woman with a low tolerance.

My husband and I recently attended a fabulous surf and turf dinner on the beach with three other couples. We won this event at my daughter’s Catholic School Auction (another white wine debauchery). The dinner was put on by great people and we had a fabulous time.

Then we went to a bar.

Having already ingested copious amounts of dink, I really did not need that vodka and soda. I knew it, but it was handed to me, so that was that. If you had been there you would have seen had your eardrums busted by a tiny blonde woman in a rain-soaked and dirty sundress doing the following:

– Making best friends with the bartender

– Inviting said bartender to a cookout (which I did not attend)

– Trying to freak-dance with my husband to a song by Poison

– Husband trying to shake wife off his leg

– Giving the bartender sh*t about his hair/shirt/the weather and most likely calling him the “p” word in the process

– Hiccups

Then we went home (my husband drove – don’t worry – even I’m not that much of a do-do) so I could pay the babysitter and try to have a lucid conversation about her going to college. I know I told her I had a bit too much to drink by using bizarre hand gestures and facial expressions akin to a Bell’s Palsy patient.

Then I puked for ten hours the next day while my husband said things like, “Did you learn your lesson?” and the dog licked my face.

Classy, I know.

While my abs are much tauter after a day of heaving, the moral of this story is for me to keep it in check. I can still be that little puppy excited to be out socializing with all the other little puppies, but I don’t have to “get this party started” by ice luging some Woo Woo shots. “Open Bar” doesn’t mean I have to run up to it like the Mister Mouth game. I’m a lady for chrissake.

That and if you see me reaching for a third drink, slap my hand like a Biggest Loser contestant going for a Tasty Cake.