Actually the party had no real worship purposes, but it was still like entering a Charlie-and-the-Chocolate-Factory limbo of multicolored weirdness to be at a church function with alcohol. With so much alcohol.
Not that it was even in the church building; it was at one of the member's homes. A Dixon-esque kind of home, with more open spaces in the middle of the rooms. The only kind of alcohol they didn't have was port. As Jen the hostess was showing Marianne and me where to find the food and drinks, she said, "Cider's on the counter. There are a few nonalcoholic things in that cooler, but not many." So it was alcohol or water, baby.
The truly Gene Wilder effect was the overwhelming presence of small children. Mostly toddlers, running around underfoot and rooting through people's purses, while their parents made moderately merry all around them.
No drunkenness that I noticed, which made me feel more relaxed; these were laid-back people gathering together to yak and have a good time. Rather like all of our clandestine alky festivals at the Grove.
But still, coming from a Baptist background where I have to fight for my God-given right to drink alcohol, I found the perfect comfort with the stuff oddly disconcerting.
Needless to say, I'm still attending.
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