Our biggest event is coming in about six weeks -- or is it five? Shit. Since the disaster last year, I've learned to just get out of the way if at all possible. And I thought I dodged a bullet this year when another person said she would love to host -- thank you! Thank God! -- and was willing to do most of the grunt work in planning the party.
As president, of course, I still have a role -- namely bankrolling the food. Gulp. And when I asked the host how are things going she asked me what kind of budget are we talking about. Budget? What the fuck is the budget? I have no clue. I can tell her how much money the club has. Isn't that the budget? And didn't she already ask me this question before? I thought I told her, and I though that that meant I was able to duck that uncomfortable conversation for a while. Guess not.
We have not been able to raise as many funds as I wanted to through the small number of events we've been able to set up. I was afraid this was going to happen as soon as I said yes to assuming the role because no one else wanted to. At the time I was ready to just fucking throw money at the club so we could fund scholarships and events like this. But that's before my old car really starting to take hunks out of my checking account and I, well, discovered I liked getting blowjobs.
I was sitting OK until my old car got fixed and I needed to pay up, in cash. So learning that money may indeed be an object with our alumni club event is something that suddenly isn't wise to backstop. But what the fuck am I supposed to do then? Cancel the event? Go to the grocery store to pick up deli meats and get cake at Dairy Queen? That was totally fine by me, but no, we have to get all fancy-schmancy now. And I don't know if I have enough money in my account to even pull that off.
So I have no choice but to tell her how much money the club has and pray that that's enough. Because I don't know how all this catering shit works.
No comments:
Post a Comment