Thursday, September 27, 2012
Because If This Hasn't Touched You Already In Some Way, It Likely Will
I am participating in a very important cause. Please follow this link to learn more. Women everywhere need your help!
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
You Can't Spell L-A-M-E Without "ME"
This past weekend was a sad and stark reminder of how lame I am. I always joke that I'm lame - it's part of my shtick. But as it turns out, I have been absolutely right all of these years. I nailed it all along. In fact, if there were a word that meant lamer than lame, that's what I'd be. Until I figure out what that word is, "lame" will have to do. Let me take you through the evidence.
Mike gets tickets to the Titans game through his company that they use on customers and vendors. One of his potential contracts was going to be in town for the Titans/Patriots game, so Mike and a guy who works for him decided to treat this client to dinner and tailgating over the weekend. Because it's the weekend before my birthday, this was sold to me as a "birthday trip" during which we'd eat great food and catch a ballgame. What it was in actuality, was us wining and dining (and most importantly, partying up) this guy in order to get his business. Not that I really minded that. I was still getting a fun overnight trip during this lovely cool snap we are experiencing. However, once I heard that this guy was single and ten years younger than Mike and me, I began to get nervous. Additionally, the guy who reports to Mike and his wife are also ten years younger than we are and can out "party" us even back in our heyday.
Side note - I loathe using the word "party" as a verb and therefore I never do. I loathe even hearing it used as a verb. I know that over time we've misused it and popularized the misuse of it to the point that we've turned it into a verb but really, it's not a verb. It is a noun. And the word "party" was used as a verb WAY too many times over the course of a less than 24 hour period to suit me. But I digress... BUT, since I am digressing, here's another digression -
Side note #2 - Even back in my heyday, I was never a so-called partier. I enjoyed drinking with friends, but I didn't enjoy going out to loud, crowded places to do it. I liked gatherings at people's houses or getting a table at a restaurant and listening to music while drinking and laughing. One of my favorite quotes is: "Few pleasures better than to drink and talk with those whole really think." Some friends of my parents had this etched into a cool piece of wood and hanging in their kitchen. I bragged on it so much that she got one of her friends to paint one for me so I could hang it in my house - which I have in my bar area. That's my idea of a fun way to drink - drinking and talking with friends. So, when I was in college, I preferred that to going to clubs and (gulp!) dancing in public and (gasp!) possibly making out with a random guy. That just wasn't fun for me. Still isn't which I suppose is a good thing for my husband...
So, before the evening even started things began unraveling for me. I had brought what I had hoped would be a sufficiently trendy outfit - good, dark jeans, a cute, flowy black top and a colorful, fun necklace. (If you'd like to read all about how I learned to properly dress myself, go here.) The jeans were good. Slimming. So far so good. My hair was bad but I didn't have enough time to do anything about it, so I was just going to have to rely on a decent outfit and my sparkling personality. Next I went to put on my top. It used to be too big for me so that I never wore it. It was gaping a bit at the chest so if I leaned over, you could see my bra. Really, you could see my tiny boobies since I always bought bras bigger than I needed in hopes that somehow my breasts would try and fill them up. But, in the past couple of years, the shirt has fit me better. Perhaps it was because of the difference in my chest size since having babies. It's still not terribly impressive, but it's better than the concave look I used to have.
This time, the gaping issue wasn't a problem. And the shirt wasn't too tight either. It actually fit pretty well. The problem was the fact that the buttons ended before the bottom of the shirt met the top of my pants. Therefore, you could see about a half-inch of flesh. I have no idea how this happened. It never did this before. My best guess is that I used to wear high waisted pants and only recently joined everyone else in the 21st century with the lower rise pants. Must not have been an issue back when my pants came up to my armpits. But this was no good. If I moved my arms up at all, you could see my belly button. So, I had to regroup. Luckily, I was smart enough to have brought a second choice for the evening. A casual dress that's not too dressy and pretty comfortable. When I put it on, I realized it was fine, but not really very cute. I didn't realize how matronly it actually was until later in the evening when EVERY OTHER WOMAN was wearing skinny jeans, ridiculously high wedge shoes and tight fitting funky tops that showcased their boob jobs. Whereas I looked like my eighth grade math teacher (only with worse hair).
So, you know how it is when you go out already not excited about the way you look - it affects how the rest of the evening will go. If you're not comfortable, you can't really relax and enjoy yourself. So when we met Mike's colleague and his wife in the lobby, I was already feeling awkward and uncomfortable. She, of course, looked great. Not one ounce of fat. Cute. Blonde. Boob job but not obvious boob job. Bitch. I suspected that others in the lobby must have assumed that she and her husband were going out with their parents.
At any rate, by the time we got to the restaurant, the word "party" had been (mis)used as a verb a minimum of five times. I definitely wanted a drink. But I wasn't too keen on "partying". The four of us got a seat at the bar and waited for the customer of Mike's to arrive.
Another side note - I was not the only one in our hotel room to fret over the choice of outfit for the evening. Mike and I had a very long conversation about whether or not he needed to tuck his shirt into his jeans.
I think most guys wear their shirttails out now.
Well then, wear it out.
But I don't think I can pull that look off.
Well then, tuck it in.
Everyone else will have their shirttails out.
Then leave it out.
I think the "look" is to have your shirt out. Casual.
What if you tuck it in and untuck it later if you think you need to?
Won't it be wrinkled at that point?
Ultimately, the decision was made that he would be more comfortable with his shirt tucked in. And as luck would have it, that's how his coworker was dressed as well. He made the right call! Disaster averted!
Anyway, the four of us were at the bar and in walks the customer and a buddy of his. He's young, big, and just has "cool" dripping off of him. Looks good in his clothes that clearly show that he doesn't care if he looks good or not. He's from up north, so he's got a confidence - a subtle swagger - that sets him apart from what you see here in the south. This dude is going to want to be shown a good time in Nashville. And somehow I am part of the group that's going to have to do it. How did I end up here?
So, dinner was excellent as it usually is when you go to a nice steakhouse. I had two cocktails and a glass of wine. I was beginning to relax even wearing my grandmotherly frock in which I believed I experienced 6-7 hot flashes. I ate too much as is my general guiding principle when out to dinner. So, I had three drinks and lots of dinner in me. Naturally, I was ready for bed. It was almost 9:00 so it was getting pretty close to my bedtime. It would have been a perfect evening if Mike and I could have just been done at that point. But we weren't. The party (used properly as a noun) was just getting started. Dammit!
We left the restaurant and walked about a block to the first of what would be about 10 bars we went to and stayed only long enough for me to be offered a shot (and politely decline - except for one which I will discuss in a moment) and drink half of a beer. Because we were "bar hopping", we were never in one place long enough to lay claim to a table where I could sit down and hide my bulging belly behind a table. Didn't these people realize that I don't own spanx and you could see my steak gut protruding through my dress? I am now 39 - I've stood enough in my life. I'm ready to sit. Or at least have some room instead of being smashed up next to some sweaty dude who keeps saluting the band with his beer bottle.
At long last we went to a bar where we actually did make it to a clearing and had some room. As it turns out, it was actually part of the dance floor. UGH. I was nowhere near intoxicated enough to dance publicly and so I was mainly just working on trying to not appear to be as awkward as I felt. I was gawky enough that I was very aware of my arms. They were crossed at my ribcage and I was gripping my purse; which, at this point, became a "pocketbook" since I looked like a seventy year old. I kept trying to reposition them, but every time I did, I looked even more uncomfortable than before. Right hand on hip, left hand holding beer. Both arms down by sides. Left hand casually rubbing the back of my neck as if to say, I'm too sore from all of my previous dancing to engage at this time. Both hands clasped around beer down by waist. It dawned on me that with all of the arm movement I might have looked like I was trying to perform the Macarena, so I just decided to have them settle "naturally" with one hand clutching my beer and the other down by my side.
At one point, Mike's colleague asked, "Are you having a good time?". I detected a bit of a condescending tone. Good Lord, I'm now the one in this place who's being pitied for looking so out of place. I never want to be that person. By the end of the evening, he had asked me that question about five times. I looked over at one point and there was a couple who had to be in their late 50's having a ball. They were dancing - like parents dance, mind you, but they were still having fun and looking reasonably cool while doing so. It dawned on me at that point that my age had nothing to do with my being lame. It's not age. It's lameness in its purest form. I've got it. In spades. I had it in my teens, I have it now and I'll have it in my 60's. It's who I am.
At the same bar, the buddy of the client we were showing a good time waltzed over with a round of Jagermeister - which is the worst tasting stuff EVER - shots. After my attempts at previous locations to decline this nonsense, I decided that perhaps it would be in my best interest to be drunk. I took the Jager shot (or was it diesel fuel?). Of course, I sipped at it, but it all went down. Now I was ready to party! Except that it had no effect on me whatsoever. In fact, I swear if it did anything, it actually sobered me up. I guess I had eaten enough at dinner that it was going to take a lot more than what I was doing to get me tipsy.
While I was lamenting that this horrid shot of Jager (or was it the liquid form of all that is caked in the bottom of my oven?) had done nothing to loosen me up, the band started playing. I felt like I was back in college. Really? We're still playing Sweet Caroline? Good times never seemed so good - so good! So good! So good! And of course they played the obligatory, I wanna rock and roll all night and party everyday. Boy, if I've ever had a mantra... So now, I was being reminded of how awkward all of this felt back when I was in college and here it was 20 years later and I was more awkward than ever. If the Jager (or was it a homeless person's urine?) shot hadn't sobered me up, that realization did. I was done.
We went to two more bars with much of the same result when Mike finally turned to me and asked if I was ready to go. Where were you two hours ago?!! The wife of Mike's colleague was slurring and needed to go, so I was able to make my exit under the guise that I needed to help her get back to the hotel and not because I was ready to stop partying. Cause I wasn't! I desperately wanted to keep the ol' freak flag flying! Woo hoo! But, if it was in her best interest to go, I should be a good friend and take one for the team. We hailed a cab and I was on my way to sweet, sweet freedom.
Once back in the hotel, I did what any other normal and perfectly awesome person does to end a solid evening of partying. I dove into the tailgate food we had brought for the game the next day to try and dilute the alcohol that I did have during the course of the evening, and drank a big, fat bottle of water while watching a documentary on September 11th on the National Geographic channel. Mike, who is almost but not quite as lame as I am, got back to the hotel a scant 20 minutes after I did.
The next day at the game, everyone was dragging - a sure sign of a successful evening. I was worn out, too. That is a long documentary! The good news is, Mike's company got the contract - which really was practically a done deal before all of this was forced upon me. And I did have a good birthday at home with my kids and my husband which is exactly where I'd want to celebrate it.
So, all of this to say, it was a very eye-opening weekend for me. I always knew I was lame, but I got a nice glimpse at just how right I was. You probably already knew it too, which is okay. Every group of friends has to have someone who doesn't quite belong. In all of my groupings I've never really been able to discern who that person is, so I guess it's been me all along. That's okay. It really is. Hopefully what you can take from all of this is that the next time you want to rock and roll all night and party everyday, I'm your gal.
Mike gets tickets to the Titans game through his company that they use on customers and vendors. One of his potential contracts was going to be in town for the Titans/Patriots game, so Mike and a guy who works for him decided to treat this client to dinner and tailgating over the weekend. Because it's the weekend before my birthday, this was sold to me as a "birthday trip" during which we'd eat great food and catch a ballgame. What it was in actuality, was us wining and dining (and most importantly, partying up) this guy in order to get his business. Not that I really minded that. I was still getting a fun overnight trip during this lovely cool snap we are experiencing. However, once I heard that this guy was single and ten years younger than Mike and me, I began to get nervous. Additionally, the guy who reports to Mike and his wife are also ten years younger than we are and can out "party" us even back in our heyday.
Side note - I loathe using the word "party" as a verb and therefore I never do. I loathe even hearing it used as a verb. I know that over time we've misused it and popularized the misuse of it to the point that we've turned it into a verb but really, it's not a verb. It is a noun. And the word "party" was used as a verb WAY too many times over the course of a less than 24 hour period to suit me. But I digress... BUT, since I am digressing, here's another digression -
Side note #2 - Even back in my heyday, I was never a so-called partier. I enjoyed drinking with friends, but I didn't enjoy going out to loud, crowded places to do it. I liked gatherings at people's houses or getting a table at a restaurant and listening to music while drinking and laughing. One of my favorite quotes is: "Few pleasures better than to drink and talk with those whole really think." Some friends of my parents had this etched into a cool piece of wood and hanging in their kitchen. I bragged on it so much that she got one of her friends to paint one for me so I could hang it in my house - which I have in my bar area. That's my idea of a fun way to drink - drinking and talking with friends. So, when I was in college, I preferred that to going to clubs and (gulp!) dancing in public and (gasp!) possibly making out with a random guy. That just wasn't fun for me. Still isn't which I suppose is a good thing for my husband...
So, before the evening even started things began unraveling for me. I had brought what I had hoped would be a sufficiently trendy outfit - good, dark jeans, a cute, flowy black top and a colorful, fun necklace. (If you'd like to read all about how I learned to properly dress myself, go here.) The jeans were good. Slimming. So far so good. My hair was bad but I didn't have enough time to do anything about it, so I was just going to have to rely on a decent outfit and my sparkling personality. Next I went to put on my top. It used to be too big for me so that I never wore it. It was gaping a bit at the chest so if I leaned over, you could see my bra. Really, you could see my tiny boobies since I always bought bras bigger than I needed in hopes that somehow my breasts would try and fill them up. But, in the past couple of years, the shirt has fit me better. Perhaps it was because of the difference in my chest size since having babies. It's still not terribly impressive, but it's better than the concave look I used to have.
This time, the gaping issue wasn't a problem. And the shirt wasn't too tight either. It actually fit pretty well. The problem was the fact that the buttons ended before the bottom of the shirt met the top of my pants. Therefore, you could see about a half-inch of flesh. I have no idea how this happened. It never did this before. My best guess is that I used to wear high waisted pants and only recently joined everyone else in the 21st century with the lower rise pants. Must not have been an issue back when my pants came up to my armpits. But this was no good. If I moved my arms up at all, you could see my belly button. So, I had to regroup. Luckily, I was smart enough to have brought a second choice for the evening. A casual dress that's not too dressy and pretty comfortable. When I put it on, I realized it was fine, but not really very cute. I didn't realize how matronly it actually was until later in the evening when EVERY OTHER WOMAN was wearing skinny jeans, ridiculously high wedge shoes and tight fitting funky tops that showcased their boob jobs. Whereas I looked like my eighth grade math teacher (only with worse hair).
So, you know how it is when you go out already not excited about the way you look - it affects how the rest of the evening will go. If you're not comfortable, you can't really relax and enjoy yourself. So when we met Mike's colleague and his wife in the lobby, I was already feeling awkward and uncomfortable. She, of course, looked great. Not one ounce of fat. Cute. Blonde. Boob job but not obvious boob job. Bitch. I suspected that others in the lobby must have assumed that she and her husband were going out with their parents.
At any rate, by the time we got to the restaurant, the word "party" had been (mis)used as a verb a minimum of five times. I definitely wanted a drink. But I wasn't too keen on "partying". The four of us got a seat at the bar and waited for the customer of Mike's to arrive.
Another side note - I was not the only one in our hotel room to fret over the choice of outfit for the evening. Mike and I had a very long conversation about whether or not he needed to tuck his shirt into his jeans.
I think most guys wear their shirttails out now.
Well then, wear it out.
But I don't think I can pull that look off.
Well then, tuck it in.
Everyone else will have their shirttails out.
Then leave it out.
I think the "look" is to have your shirt out. Casual.
What if you tuck it in and untuck it later if you think you need to?
Won't it be wrinkled at that point?
Ultimately, the decision was made that he would be more comfortable with his shirt tucked in. And as luck would have it, that's how his coworker was dressed as well. He made the right call! Disaster averted!
Anyway, the four of us were at the bar and in walks the customer and a buddy of his. He's young, big, and just has "cool" dripping off of him. Looks good in his clothes that clearly show that he doesn't care if he looks good or not. He's from up north, so he's got a confidence - a subtle swagger - that sets him apart from what you see here in the south. This dude is going to want to be shown a good time in Nashville. And somehow I am part of the group that's going to have to do it. How did I end up here?
So, dinner was excellent as it usually is when you go to a nice steakhouse. I had two cocktails and a glass of wine. I was beginning to relax even wearing my grandmotherly frock in which I believed I experienced 6-7 hot flashes. I ate too much as is my general guiding principle when out to dinner. So, I had three drinks and lots of dinner in me. Naturally, I was ready for bed. It was almost 9:00 so it was getting pretty close to my bedtime. It would have been a perfect evening if Mike and I could have just been done at that point. But we weren't. The party (used properly as a noun) was just getting started. Dammit!
We left the restaurant and walked about a block to the first of what would be about 10 bars we went to and stayed only long enough for me to be offered a shot (and politely decline - except for one which I will discuss in a moment) and drink half of a beer. Because we were "bar hopping", we were never in one place long enough to lay claim to a table where I could sit down and hide my bulging belly behind a table. Didn't these people realize that I don't own spanx and you could see my steak gut protruding through my dress? I am now 39 - I've stood enough in my life. I'm ready to sit. Or at least have some room instead of being smashed up next to some sweaty dude who keeps saluting the band with his beer bottle.
At long last we went to a bar where we actually did make it to a clearing and had some room. As it turns out, it was actually part of the dance floor. UGH. I was nowhere near intoxicated enough to dance publicly and so I was mainly just working on trying to not appear to be as awkward as I felt. I was gawky enough that I was very aware of my arms. They were crossed at my ribcage and I was gripping my purse; which, at this point, became a "pocketbook" since I looked like a seventy year old. I kept trying to reposition them, but every time I did, I looked even more uncomfortable than before. Right hand on hip, left hand holding beer. Both arms down by sides. Left hand casually rubbing the back of my neck as if to say, I'm too sore from all of my previous dancing to engage at this time. Both hands clasped around beer down by waist. It dawned on me that with all of the arm movement I might have looked like I was trying to perform the Macarena, so I just decided to have them settle "naturally" with one hand clutching my beer and the other down by my side.
At one point, Mike's colleague asked, "Are you having a good time?". I detected a bit of a condescending tone. Good Lord, I'm now the one in this place who's being pitied for looking so out of place. I never want to be that person. By the end of the evening, he had asked me that question about five times. I looked over at one point and there was a couple who had to be in their late 50's having a ball. They were dancing - like parents dance, mind you, but they were still having fun and looking reasonably cool while doing so. It dawned on me at that point that my age had nothing to do with my being lame. It's not age. It's lameness in its purest form. I've got it. In spades. I had it in my teens, I have it now and I'll have it in my 60's. It's who I am.
At the same bar, the buddy of the client we were showing a good time waltzed over with a round of Jagermeister - which is the worst tasting stuff EVER - shots. After my attempts at previous locations to decline this nonsense, I decided that perhaps it would be in my best interest to be drunk. I took the Jager shot (or was it diesel fuel?). Of course, I sipped at it, but it all went down. Now I was ready to party! Except that it had no effect on me whatsoever. In fact, I swear if it did anything, it actually sobered me up. I guess I had eaten enough at dinner that it was going to take a lot more than what I was doing to get me tipsy.
While I was lamenting that this horrid shot of Jager (or was it the liquid form of all that is caked in the bottom of my oven?) had done nothing to loosen me up, the band started playing. I felt like I was back in college. Really? We're still playing Sweet Caroline? Good times never seemed so good - so good! So good! So good! And of course they played the obligatory, I wanna rock and roll all night and party everyday. Boy, if I've ever had a mantra... So now, I was being reminded of how awkward all of this felt back when I was in college and here it was 20 years later and I was more awkward than ever. If the Jager (or was it a homeless person's urine?) shot hadn't sobered me up, that realization did. I was done.
We went to two more bars with much of the same result when Mike finally turned to me and asked if I was ready to go. Where were you two hours ago?!! The wife of Mike's colleague was slurring and needed to go, so I was able to make my exit under the guise that I needed to help her get back to the hotel and not because I was ready to stop partying. Cause I wasn't! I desperately wanted to keep the ol' freak flag flying! Woo hoo! But, if it was in her best interest to go, I should be a good friend and take one for the team. We hailed a cab and I was on my way to sweet, sweet freedom.
Once back in the hotel, I did what any other normal and perfectly awesome person does to end a solid evening of partying. I dove into the tailgate food we had brought for the game the next day to try and dilute the alcohol that I did have during the course of the evening, and drank a big, fat bottle of water while watching a documentary on September 11th on the National Geographic channel. Mike, who is almost but not quite as lame as I am, got back to the hotel a scant 20 minutes after I did.
The next day at the game, everyone was dragging - a sure sign of a successful evening. I was worn out, too. That is a long documentary! The good news is, Mike's company got the contract - which really was practically a done deal before all of this was forced upon me. And I did have a good birthday at home with my kids and my husband which is exactly where I'd want to celebrate it.
So, all of this to say, it was a very eye-opening weekend for me. I always knew I was lame, but I got a nice glimpse at just how right I was. You probably already knew it too, which is okay. Every group of friends has to have someone who doesn't quite belong. In all of my groupings I've never really been able to discern who that person is, so I guess it's been me all along. That's okay. It really is. Hopefully what you can take from all of this is that the next time you want to rock and roll all night and party everyday, I'm your gal.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)