“A sense of humor… is needed armor. Joy in one’s heart and some laughter on one’s lips is a sign that the person down deep has a pretty good grasp of life.” ~Hugh Sidey
Now is as good a time as any to admit that I am perpetually late. I always have been and always will be. It’s chronic and I probably should get help with my procrastination tactics and yet it just continues and manifests itself as rather flaky behavior. Thus I look like a lame ass who is easily distracted by shiny objects and is unable to tell time.
I had excellent intentions to impress Abi. Because, I presumed her to be classy and witty and she once promised to send me Trader Joe’s products, so I was hoping that if I impressed her then maybe she’d send me my beloved Macaroni and Cheese. Of course upon my ridiculously late arrival to meet her, I had to first stop and grope my best friend’s sister and then turned around and lo’ there was Abi and lo, I had failed miserably at retaining any cool points that I may have previously had with her. Truth be told I was late, I obviously am big on groping and I can’t play shuffleboard for shit.
To make matters worse, as we were departing the bar, I just HAD to stop and say hello to someone else, because I’m super important* and I generally flit my way about the city meeting and greeting and schmoozing. With a general ‘look at me! I’m fucking fantastic’ demeanor**. Actually, the person that I HAD to say hello to was Zandria. And it was on of those odd, I’ve had two beers and perhaps I’m still drunk from the night before but I swear to God, I KNOW that woman, kind of moments. I swaggered up to say hello with an abrupt “Hi, I’m Heather”. Because OBVIOUSLY, she should know who I am just by that statement. She did. We shook hands and then I saw my reflection and noted that the first impression both Zandria and Abi would have of me is a girl who wears brown tops with black flip flops and keeps her hair in some odd bird’s nest type fashion on top of her head.
So to recap: I’m late, I’m flaky, I can’t dress myself and my lord, THE HAIR.
Thankfully, some deity was looking down at me on Friday night and both Abi – who is lovely, classy and witty as hell and Zandria – who is taller than in pictures and seemed nice in the 20 seconds that I spoke to her– appreciated my oft randomness and well noted lush like qualities. And perhaps I am a fun person to meet…and you know, modest as hell.
The way I see it, despite the above faux pas, I was rather tame around these class act ladies, as opposed to the end of the evening, when left to my own devices and friends who enjoy a Miller light or Seven. Which kind of looked like this:
And that? That is what many of you have to look forward to in Chicago. I’m just going to apologize in advance.
*Borrowed from Schnozz
**For the record, I fucking can’t stand schmoozing and I’m pretty bad about it. And in addition to being perpetually late, I’m perpetually socially awkward.
How to make a black woman violent
“The more I see of men, the more I like dogs.” ~Madame de Staël
1) While at a very Irish bar in South Boston wherein there are no other black people within a five mile radius; you – being a drunk, white, male – turn to her and say “Do a lot of black women come to a pub like this?”
2) Smile like an idiot when saying it and then make some idiotic ‘heh’ noise, because you think you’re so damn brilliant.
3) Be clad in a Hard Rock t-shirt and flip flops
4) When she ignores you, because she’s too busy imagining your testicles in a Mason Jar on her desk, continuously bump into her
5) Confess that you are doing it on purpose and that she is reciprocating and “feeling it” (For the record, she has some class and standards and would rather sit through 17 hours of the fucking circus – with the clowns and everything – before touching you on purpose)
6) Ask her for her phone number
7) When she says no, tell her that you’re going to slip away for a second and when you get back, slip you the number
8 ) Not get the hint that she hates you with the fire of a million suns and you are unable to understand this until her burly boyfriend (READ: White, older, Republican, favorite drinking pal) comes up and announces loudly “So whose ass do I have to kick”
At which point you cower and walk towards the door while giving glances back at said black woman and her ‘hot’ boyfriend. It’s most likely because you’re a pussy and possibly afraid of Republicans who can drink you under the table. Asshat.