At least my rhinestones looked good

Tonight, another opportunity to observe myself in an anxiety-inducing social situation: a reception for major donors to the nonprofit I'm on the board of. All day I fretted and fussed over it, knowing the clock was ticking ever closer to the moment I'd have to climb in the truck and head up the mountain to the "exclusive" winery at which this by-invitation-only event was to be held. I never know what to wear to these things, and always feel self-conscious, as if everyone there is going to instantly peg me as an imposter—someone whose presence there is questionable because I'm obviously not rich and have nothing to contribute but my insight, experience, time and labor. Not that these things are not valued. But everyone knows, especially at this kind of event, that sometimes all they really want from you is a big fat check.

So I drove to the beginning of the road, then veered off at the last moment into the parking lot of a little Mexican bakery where I sat for another half hour reading the voter's information booklet the Governator sent me in the mail, and talking to my agent on the phone about when I should expect the refund for the last few months of auto insurance I paid for the car I no longer own. Then I examined my wrinkles and pores in the rear view mirror for several minutes, put on some lipstick, plucked a couple of stray hairs, and read every single name and number in my cell phone. Finally I started the truck again (startling the little kid who'd just jumped out of the car parked next to me) and got back on the road.

Once I was there I realized I needn't have been so nervous about this one. These "big number" donors were not rich scary strangers, but mostly people I already knew in one way or another. Several of them were even friends. The winery was one of those incredible small family wineries that isn't open to the public except by appointment because it's tucked away in the hills at the end of a road that's too small for more than one car at a time to pass. It was beautiful—a huge stone and heavy timber barn-like building with modest, natural-looking landscaping and gorgeous views of the sunset over the vineyards, and of the mountains west of here, between our valley and the ocean. There was a nice little jazz combo and some yummy food (my favorite thing was ripe yellow and red figs with farmer's cheese, honey, and pecans), and wine, of course. I had an outstanding Pinot (all the rage now since that ridiculous movie came out earlier this year) in one of those big giant Riedel glasses.

All in all it was a nice evening. Except that when I see people who have so much, I want more, too. I want everything they have! I hate that feeling; it's like being eaten alive. And if I, with all my comforts and gadgets and little luxuries, can feel so consumed by that horrible hunger for more, how must people all over the world feel who are suffering from real poverty, literally starving to death? Aside from trying to learn and pay attention, and share what gifts I have, what is my place in all this? Maybe if I'm going to be raising funds, I should be raising them to meet more basic needs (although I would be willing to bet that most of the people at this event are also on the major donor lists of those kinds of organizations, as well). Something I can't help thinking about at the end of another evening of excess, however slight.

On a totally different topic, did I mention yet that I did finally ask the sheriff to visit our noisy neighbors with the all-night monster metal music? Well, I did. They were quiet for several weeks after that. But I just heard them starting up again, and it's almost 11 o'clock at night. Sigh. The sheriff said that if we want an officer to go out there more than once, we have to submit a formal, signed complaint, which the neighbors will be able to see—so they'll know it was us who ratted them out. I'm not going to do that. So, earplugs it is. At least until I think of a better solution. Perhaps a giftwrapped box of dog poop, mailed to them anonymously .... Or a polite note asking them to please keep it down after ten. Some of us need our beauty sleep.