Never underestimate the lengths to which an overworked, overstressed mother of twins will go to get out of the house.

Creative Loafing has a new website and I’m one of their contributing writers. They invited me to their launch party and I thought it’d be fun.

That’s what I get for thinking.

I put on my hot mama jeans, did my hair, and even applied some goddamn makeup. One of my favorite Republicans, Jim Johnson, said he’d meet me there so I stuck the boys with my mom for the evening and took off for South Tampa.

Pulling up to the party, I immediately felt a sense of trepidation. No, it’s not because I had to circle the block a few times before finding a parking spot between two dumpsters and a guy named Wizard selling incense. It wasn’t because I then had to walk two blocks in high heels with only the half-lit street lamp lighting my way. It wasn’t even the Public Enemy song booming from the warehouse that passes for an office building.

The trepidation came when I got inside and spotted more tattoos and piercings than smiles. I know the future of print media is in the crapper, people, but come on. Where’s the love? Even the DJ scowled.

Not easily daunted, I slapped on a nametag and mingled. Jim Johnson? Nowhere in sight. Dawn Morgan? My girl had to work. Wayne Garcia? I dunno – maybe they didn’t allow cigars in the place due to highly flammable wall paint (all the rage in 1972 when the place was decorated) and he had to motor downtown.

I recognized no one.

What’s a girl to do?

I grabbed myself a cup of wine and parked my tightly toned ass next to the beer cooler. What more do you need to meet people? A winning smile? Check. Nice rack? Double D Check Check.

And still. I got nothing.

I looked down at my Pinot Grigio in a plastic cup and prayed for the strength to stay.

I learned a ridiculous poem in elementary school: “Under the spreading chestnut tree, the homely coed stood. And stood and stood and stood and stood and stood and stood and stood.”

Tonight, I was that homely coed. Except instead of greenery, I stood under what had to be unhealthy fluorescent lighting with no doubt a ton of asbestos lingering in the air among people with names like “Niko” and “Wesley” and a guy who wrote “Rodney” upside down on his nametag with hearts around it.

And yet I stood.

After 45 minutes of feeling blue because obviously just when my hair made the turn to “acceptable” it suddenly became hip to have it grow up instead of down, I kept looking at my watch. I didn’t want to go home just yet. My kids were about to begin their nighttime routine, with complaints about an early bedtime all while rubbing their eyes and whining about how their friends get to watch ESPN until all hours and they want a cool mom, too.

I needed a break. I deserved to get out of the house once in a while.

I looked around.

Wouldn’t anyone keep me company for just 45 minutes so I could go home when the house was sound asleep?

And yet I stood.

I couldn’t even use my best Rush Limbaugh jokes because Jim didn’t show. But I don’t blame him really. He’s a Republican. Maybe a union needed busting somewhere and duty called.

Sorry. I ended up coming home early and now feel a bit on the edgy side. I swear my attitude was better a few hours ago with the first plastic cup of wine. That was before I came busting in on ESPN and two terribly pissed off nine year-olds.

See, they thought they were getting a break too.

I recited a poem learned long ago and sent them to bed.