I was too much of a nerd to be there. Or maybe I was just too uppity. The longer I stayed there, the more I realized that it was both.

It was 11 p.m. on a Saturday night, and I was sitting in the middle of a small club in North County. I was watching my hairstylist and her friends chicken-head and nina-pop to a song that I recognized but could not name. A woman in dark glasses and a Rick James-esque curly ‘do was running in circles and screaming into the DJ’s cordless mic: “Throw your hands up! Throw your hands up, dammit! It’s my girl Lisa’s birthday!”

Lisa followed her friend to the mic with her remix to another rap that was familiar to me but unnameable: “Cause I’m popping Moet, and I can’t be stopped …”

Yes, indeedy. This was not the place for me.

Lisa had invited me to her mid-thirty-something birthday party earlier that day. She told me that it was downtown, but her sister said that it had been relocated (as a surprise) to a smaller club nearby. The birthday girl was scheduled to arrive between 8:30 and 9:00.

I was thankful for the change in venue. The new spot was five minutes from my house, sparing me a 25-minute drive. Lisa is notorious for being late, so I planned on getting there after 10.

I turned onto the parking lot at 10:45, and I could make out the lyrics to “In Da Club” as I walked toward the door. That was a bad sign. If a place is crowded, you can only hear the thump of the bass line.

The guy at the door who checked my ID was wearing black sweats and a disinterested look. “Enjoy yourself,” he mumbled as he handed my license to me.

“Thanks,” I replied.

One of Lisa’s friends stopped me as I headed toward the corner that her guests had staked out. “What are you drinking?” he asked. “I’m good, thanks,” I responded. He didn’t call me a nerd, but the look he gave me said plenty.

Now don’t get me wrong. I enjoy a good time. Kettle One and Cranberry are friends of mine. But this party was a combination of all of the things that I hated about the club scene. So, for your reading pleasure, here is my list of pet peeves. Or better yet, let’s call them The Diva’s Club Rules.

Dress your age. Most of the people at this party were in their mid-thirties (or older), and at first glance, you would have thought that it was a group of 20-year-olds. I had seen a version of most of these outfits on 106th and Park.

It is okay to be trendy. It is not okay to look like you are wearing your daughter’s clothes. It doesn’t make you look younger; it makes you look sad. Oh, and make sure that the clothes fit, too. The only thing worse than wearing clothes that are too young for you is wearing clothes that are too young for you and too little.

Keep up with your own stuff. One of Lisa’s friends proclaimed herself “The Paparazzi” and took pictures of everything. Whenever she was ready to dance, she left her camera with whoever was willing to hold it for her.

Even if you are kicking it with a wallflower, give her a little respect. Do not ask her to watch your purse, your coat, or your drink. What if someone asks her to dance? Carry a purse with a shoulder strap, or put your money in your bra. If you can’t kick it on the dance floor with your new Louis Vuitton, then Louis needs to stay at home.

Keep a close, but unnoticeable, eye on the jerks. Lisa’s brother has met me a thousand times, but somehow, number 1001 was different. I don’t know if it was the freshly done hair or the dainty walk that I had to adopt to navigate in my stiletto boots. Whatever the cause, Tre didn’t take his eyes off of me.

His stare gave me the creeps. It was the “I didn’t notice you before, but now that I have, when can we sleep together?” look.

If you get this stare, and you suspect that the person giving it to you is a jerk, you don’t have to humor him. Run. Hide. Do whatever you have to do to steer clear of this person. Unfortunately, these types usually don’t take no for an answer, so it’s best to not give them the opportunity to ask.

Drink (or don’t drink) whatever you want. Grey Goose and Bailey’s was the drink of the evening. I don’t know who started that trend, but cough syrup sounded like a better drink to me. I saw a few people with one, but I didn’t see anyone finish it.

This is a lesson in basic economics. Top shelf liquor is too expensive for you not to drink something you like. Experiment with the cheap stuff.

Don’t drink (get drunk) and drive. I know it sounds like a public service announcement, but we are way too old for that mess.

After an hour of chit-chat and a obligatory spin on the dance floor, I went home. I doubt that anyone other than Tre noticed that I was gone. I checked on my daughter, put on a pair of PJs, and went to bed. The partygoers stayed out until the wee hours, I’m told.

I was glad that I went to wish Lisa a happy birthday, even though I didn’t really enjoy the party. This was one time that I was more than happy to be a nerd.

The Christmas list is my family’s time-honored tradition. The late-October arrival of the JC Penny Christmas catalog signals the start of the holiday shopping season. As kids, my brother and I would take turns eyeballing every page so that we could craft a well-rounded collection of wishes.

My mother always asked me to have my list ready by the beginning of the month so that she could use it to choose my birthday present. My brother and I were able to amend our lists throughout the month, but Momma did not accept any requests after Dec. 1.

Our lists were pages long, mostly filled with things that we had no chance of getting. I remember the year that my brother asked for gold bricks.

Our lists became more reasonable as we got older. And thanks to the advances of technology, we now e-mail our lists to one another.

Friends tell me that we’ve turned gift giving into too much of a science and that by doing so, we have zapped the fun right out of the whole process. I would argue the opposite. I enjoy writing the list, and I enjoy opening a present that I know I want. My shopping is a breeze because all guesswork is eliminated. So, everybody’s happy.

Twenty some-odd years of list writing has made me a professional. I can write a lengthy wish list and divvy it up among Mike, my parents, and my best friend Erika.

At least I thought I was a pro. Erika called me on Monday. “I need a birthday and Christmas list,” she said.

“Huh?” I asked. Then I realized that it was mid-November and I hadn’t even thought about it.

“Yes, your list,” she said. “Besides, once I see yours, it will probably give me some ideas for mine.” (Over the years I had spread the gospel of the list so much that others had caught on.)

With my birthday fast approaching, I decided that I better get cracking. I stared at a blank piece of paper for a while, and then I put it away. How could I, Queen List, be experiencing writers’ block?

Then a few ideas came. An activity table. A push and play walker. A baby doll.

This is the first year that my daughter will be able to crawl around the tree and cover my floor with torn wrapping paper. I thought about how much fun it will be to watch her discover her new things. I’m looking more forward to that than anything that I would get.

Motherhood has caught me off guard again. I’m still surprised at how Elyse changed me. There are the obvious adjustments like fewer nights on the town or more trips to the grocery store. But it’s the little things that show me how my priorities have changed and how cool it is to be a mom.

As I continued to think of gifts for Elyse, I decided that I could stand to open a present or two on my birthday. So I gave the list another shot.

Eight-quart stockpot. Steam cleaner. Daniel Green house shoes.

My list is shaping up to be drier than burnt toast. Maybe I passed all of my list-writing skills to Elyse. I’ll have to wait a few more years to see if she has the chutzpa to ask for gold bricks.

Three Saturdays ago, my phone rang at 1:45 a.m. A police officer was calling to say that the truck turned up in an obscure part of town. It had been missing for two weeks by ths point; why the he couldn’t until a decent hour to call is beyond my understanding. While fighting a sleep-induced fog, I tried to make sense of the details. The truck’s front seats were missing. The steering column was destroyed. And our belongings were nowhere to be found.

By now, the thief’s mother/wife/girlfriend has shown her new bag to all of her friends. Mike’s pool stick is either in the garbage or at at pawn shop. And I, for one, am still a bit peeved. I’m using an old black bag that I found at the bottom of the coat closet. It’s too small, and the straps are failing. I absolutely hate it.

I felt like an adult for the first time in months. Mike and I were having dinner with Kevin and Sharon. Good food. Good conversation. No kids. It was a combination that I had promised myself to seek out from time to time.

We were still chatting and laughing as we walked to our cars. I was silently patting myself on the back for suggesting a night out.

“Babe!” Mike yelled. “The truck is gone!”

I hopped off of cloud nine and looked up and down the street for the light grey Dodge. Sure enough, it was gone.

“That sucks,” I said. To be honest, I wasn’t too upset. The truck was a company car, so the loss didn’t really affect us. Mike was pacing in a tight circle, furiously punching the buttons on his cell phone.

“Hello,” he growled. “I want to report a stolen vehicle.”
I didn’t understand Mike’s frustration. Sure, we were a bit inconvenienced, but at least the car wasn’t ours. I turned to talk with our friends while we waited for the police.

“Did you have anything in the truck?” Kevin asked. “Just a tote bag and an umbrella …” I began.

I started thinking more about my missing belongings. That just wasn’t any old tote bag. It was my Dooney & Burke Tassel Tote that I got for an incredible deal during a department store close-out.

Not to mention, I had dropped my checkbook (credit card included) into the bag on my way to work that day. So the thief had a new ride, the means to gas it up, and a present for his mother or girlfriend. Oh, and my favorite sunglasses were in there too.

Mike was rumbling something about his $200 pool stick and dart collection. “That was a McDermott titanium cue! I’ve had it for seven years!”

That didn’t mean anything to me, but I could feel his pain.

As I pictured some stranger prancing around town with my bag on her shoulder, headed to a nearby pub to see her man hustle the locals over a game of billiards, I got pissed. “Bastards!” I yelled. And I continued to yell that throughout the week as I called the bank and credit card companies to switch over my accounts.

I am thankful, though, that they took the car and ran. It could have been worse. My daughter could have been in the car when the thief decided to take it. Or finding the address in my checkbook could have inspired a visit to our home.

I’ve found another pair of glasses. They are similar, but not quite at cute. Mike has been playing pool with borrowed sticks, and he says his game is suffering. And my Dooney? Well, it’s long gone; the company doesn’t make it anymore.

If you are reading this, and your son/boyfriend/husband/secret admirer has just given you a light brown signature Dooney tote with dark brown trim, beware! It is quite possible that your benefactor is the no-good so-in-so who stole our stuff. Check the pockets. You may just find a pair of black rhinestone-studded sunglasses.

It’s been a long time since I’ve posted anything, so you may not even notice my blog’s title change. Concepts in clarity was a little to lofty; some days I’m not too clear about much of anything. So I decided that Diva Script was a better fit. I think that those who know me will agree. Nobody but a diva has a shoe and bag collection like mine!