Thursday, February 15, 2007

The Holiday > The Jim Brickman Song

I hope all of you had a lovely pseudo holiday yesterday, and that none of you followed the path chosen by my sister Runtie's latest patient who was admitted to the hospital mid-afternoon with a delicate condition known as "foreign object in the vagina". The patient appeared at the end of Runtie's shift, so she clocked out before learning what said object was, but I do hope it was something original, like a bottle of Tide, a birdcage, or the Travelocity gnome.   I also hope that this woman is in a committed relationship because if it was 2 p.m. on Valentine's Day and she was alone trying to determine whether or not to be intimate with a garden trowel, well, let's just say she's made me feel much better about my life.  

Last night I was invited to a party in a neighborhood that, like my own, is notable only because of the recent panic-inducing graphics on the local news showing the frequency of sexual assaults in the area.   I parked on a street that had been marked with a giant exclamation point on WXII's map the night before and hoped that either my personality or my haircut would deter any would-be attackers the same way they've deterred any would-be dates, job offers, or invitations to family events.

The crowd was mainly composed of students from the art school. Despite having a theatre minor, I felt incredibly uncool because I had actually, um, purchased my clothing and had not created an outfit from various items procured from thrift stores, the costume department, or that guy that sleeps on the steps at the library.   Art students are like Asian girls; they can combine any articles of clothing, various appliances, and a handful of glitter and make it look adorable.   If I tried that, I'd be approached by an off-duty police officer and asked if I needed a ride back to the group home.

Although I didn't know anyone but the hostess, I tried to appear friendly by pointing out the pieces of candy I'd licked and placed back in the box; by asking other guests what they were studying before politely laughing and saying that it sounded stupid; and by offering a book of matches to anyone who went into the bathroom.

I also stepped in the cat's bowl, violently spilled a bottle of wine, stained the curtains, and told a story about food poisoning that no one seemed to appreciate.  

As I sat on the sofa trying to casually pick bits of imitation crab off the hem of my pants, I overheard someone's phone ring.   A girl wearing a shirt that appeared to be made of pipe cleaners pulled a sticker-covered Razr out of her purse, looked at the number, and casually dismissed it by saying, "Oh, it's just that guy I used to fool around with at Yale."   This is one of the phrases that I'll never say, right up there with "I love my job", "I'm not bitter", or "No, the overtanned woman you left me for doesn't look like a catcher's mitt wearing eyeshadow. Not at all."   I never fool around with people from the Ivy League.  I'd have a hard time pulling tail at the bowling league.   Probably because I'm not coated in Cooler Ranch seasoning. Oh, and because I'm obnoxious.

I was apologizing to the hostess about the curtains when a tiny Rachel Bilson lookalike wearing an outfit that may have been stolen from a Goodwill drop box but somehow looked perfect on her walked in, talking to a hipstery handsome guy whose "Join the Strokes Starter Kit" must have just arrived in the mail.   She fluttered her big Disney eyelashes at him and talked about how, like, weird it is that every time she goes to a bar she is approached by men who want to buy her drinks or give her their number or buy her a chalet.   And she, like, really hates it because, shyeah, like she's going to date a guy she met at a bar.  I thought to myself, "Finally!" It was such a relief to meet someone with the same problem I have. Every single time I go out to clubs and stuff, I'm approached by a number of men.  They tend to wrap me in a blanket, tag my ear, and release me back into the wild.

I left before the party ended.  In fact as I was walking down the steps, another carefully disheveled couple was parking their car. I headed home, cleaned the remaining cat food from my feet, and turned on the news.   There weren't any ominous-looking arrows or terrifying graphics last night, but a homeless guy downtown was missing a flannel shirt. Police are following a trail of glitter.     

2 comments:

Where's my mom? said...

I saw Jim Brickman in concert once...there's really nothing more to it...I ran into some middle-ageed homosexuals I knew, they had an extra ticket and I had nothing else to do on a Saturday night. I hope we're still friends...

Matt the Great said...

Um, today is 2/21, and the last post was like, a trillion days ago. What gives? I've been getting so much work done at work, and really, it's sickening.