Pure Class.

I don't make New Year's resolutions. They are rigid and hard and very rarely fun. Instead, at the beginning of the year, I usually make some very gentle, breakable, probably not possible "suggestions" to myself. This year's crop included: learning a really great breakdance move so I can impress the b-boy kids that hang out in the park near my house, letting go of the mermaid esthetic and actually getting more than one haircut over the next year, getting the white vinyl double-album version of 'Ready To Die', buying a set of adult drinking glasses and throwing out all of the ones I stole from the bar, and my very biggest goal of all- getting invited to a party at the private club beside my house.

Oh, I haven't told you guys about the secret mystery private club three doors down from me? Well, it's a real thing. 

I first noticed something different about this building around the time I moved in. It was near to Christmas party season, and although there were many old character buildings in the area, including the building to where I live, no other building had regular valet parking. My building certainly did not. Cars pulled up throughout every evening and looped in front of the double glass doors, which I would observe on my double-nightly walks with Reggie, and a gentleman in a tuxedo would take their keys and drive into the underground parking. "Hm", I thought to myself.

The next clue to what lay inside of the sandstone and brick building was observed while strolling down the alleyway. Living downtown, I pass by a lot of dumpsters, but very few are filled with fancy pastries and lamb cuttings and Cigar Aficionado magazines and vintage Playboys (word to the wise, magazine day seems to be Thursdays). It was clear to me: whatever was going on in that building was of a higher class. 

I started observing through the windows, while waiting for Reggie to sniff every fucking thing on the entire ground. Nightly, I watched lively, well-dressed people having the time of their lives. I could spy Tiffany lamps and fine glassware and fancy pool tables (that, unlike most regular pool tables, appeared to have not been fucked on several times). Envy rose in my chest. I wanted to be in there, enjoying fancy parties instead of dragging my old, fat dog through the cold, dark sidewalks.

Then, a glimmer of hope. I did a little independent research, and found out this magical place had a name: The Ranchmen's Club. It was $2000 to get in, and you had to be approved by their board, and in a fairly affluent position professionally (examples would be: a senior corporate executive, a business owner, an engineer, a stock broker, a chartered accountant, a banker, a lawyer, or a judge). I read through the list, and wondered if they would consider a low-payed non-profit jill-of-all-trades affluent "in spirit alone", but probably not. I considered asking my hot engineer boyfriend to "take one for the team" and weasel his way in, but then I realized I was considering putting an awful lot of time and money and effort into trying to join a club where, on top of having no desire to actually have me as a member, would expect me pay $2000 to go pay for, and drink, regular beers that I could buy at any non-private club in town. 

Still, something in me burns to catch a glimpse of the inside. I bet it's sparkly and everything is really clean, there is probably leather chairs and lush table cloths, and the bartenders probably wear ties and use "sir", and "ma'am". Those old Playboys in the trash? The people in there are probably so fucking classy that not a single one has been dragged into the bathroom. I have discerned that the best time to strike is during Stampede, when everyone is drunk and their guard is down. I have yet to decide on my method, but it is between sitting out front with sad puppy eyes and really short shorts, or following behind some rich guy as he enters, and pretending to be his ignored oil wife for about three minutes before running off to explore. It's risky, but I really do feel that I deserve to enjoy a complimentary copy of Cigar Aficionado, whilst sipping a decent cognac out of a cup that doesn't have the Heineken logo on the side, just as much as anyone else in this town.

~sarah p.