Do You Have Some G-U-M?

BrooklynDon’t you just love surprise parties.  The lying.  The scheming.  It’s such an evil trick for others to make you feel like no one really gives a s*** about you, or your raggedy birthday.   Then suddenly, “SURPRISE!!! Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you……”  YEAH!  Everyone loves you.  Unfortunately you also feel like an idiot because of the lame excuses you fell for.  You should’ve known something was up when your best-friend said she couldn’t celebrate your birthday because she had a date….you usually are her date.

Saturday night I attended a friend’s surprise party at a local jazz cafe.  For some reason, I don’t even remember hearing any “Live Jazz Music,” and I bet no one else does either.  As I sat and waited for the guest of honor to arrive, my bladder began to get heavier and heavier.  Not wanting to miss the big “Surprise”, I forced myself to “hold-it.”  Holding it, holding it, holding it, holding it—-“Surprise!!!”  Damn!  I thought he’d never get here. 

ME: “Excuse me guys.  I have to pee.”  Not real lady-like, but hey, I was on a mission.  Random guest at party: “Watch out on your way to the bathroom.   Some dudes were trying to fight.”                                                                                                                  

GREAT!!!!  So on my way to the bathroom, not only do I have to strangé pass the bar——that is without falling and while at the same time attempting to look flawless, but I also have to avoid a pack of heathens trying to romp.  So much pressure!  Make it stop!  Luckily, I made it to the ladies room safely.

As you could have guessed, Saturday nights mean long lines in the ladies room.  However, I didn’t mind waiting because I was in store for some classic entertainment.  Like most women, when I wait in the line, especially at a club, my eyes instantly go to the outfits.  This is for two reasons only: 1)To go tell your girlfriends how horrible the girl in the red dress looks in the light, and 2)To steal a really cute style, ie. “Excuse me, where did you get that belt?”  Sad to say, I didn’t steal any fashion tips that night. 

I stood in line between a woman that was sloppy drunk and an older lady, probably around 45 or 50.  I could tell she didn’t go out much by her outfit: black, crushed velvet skirt and matching shirt, black church hat with pink flower, and a gold-lined tooth.  You know what I’m talking about.  Only the exterior of the tooth is outlined in gold—not completely, just the outline.  We all stood in line, silent—that is until I got nervous and had to say something.  Note to readers: Silence in public places makes me uncomfortable.  So I pulled out my wild card, a compliment: “Wow, I love your…..”   thinking, thinking, thinking…..   “your necklace.”  Everything else was just too horrible to compliment.        

Ms. Crushed Velvet: “Oh really! I made it myself.”   

ME: “Oh, okay.  It looks nice.” 

Ms. Crushed Velvet: “Yeah, this piece used to be my mothers and then I just took one of my necklaces and…BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH…. and I could make one for you too.”      

Why did I have to say anything?  Now I had to pretend that I was actually interested in the conversation.  I hoped that the torture would end, but then I noticed that the damn line wasn’t moving one bit, and so did drunk girl behind me.   

Drunk girl: “Oh, Lord I can’t make it. I gotta go!”       

A lady at the front of the line informed the rest of us that there was only one stall working.  Drunk girl, in her disbelief, opens the vacant stall and surveys the damage.  

Drunkgirl, “It’s only some tissue.  They got a plunger right here.  I bet I can fix this.” 

Why do drunk people always offer assistance and advice?  Better yet, why are drunk people so confident?  So Drunkgirl tested her plumbing skills, and of course failed.  However, as soon as the next stall opened up, she cut in line and finally relieved herself.  Drunkgirl: 1 point  Everybody else in line: 0. 

Now that drunk girl had made her way through the line, I was stuck next to a girl who started rambling on her cell, and Ms. Crushed Velvet who continued to add in bits of unwanted conversation.  Mid conversation, Cellphone girl looks at me, while still on the phone, and asks, “Do you have some g-u-m?”  ME: “No.”  Then to Ms. Crushed Velvet, “Do you have some g-u-m?”  Why didn’t she just say gum?  Why did she have to spell it out?  Irritated, I just stood in the line listening to Ms. Crushed Velvet ramble, while I  replied, “Oh really…Uh huh…What?!?!…Girl, stop!” 

Finally, I made it out of the ladies room, strangéd once again pass the bar, and joined the party.

So what have we learned today:

  • Crushed velvet should only be worn in two cases: 1)If you’re auditioning for the lead role of the Wicked Witch of the West, and 2)If you’re a pimp
  • If your best-friend says she has a date and you’re usually her date, then she’s probably lying and is up to something.
  • Strangé is not a real word, not even if you spell it “stranjay.”                              
  • Drunk people are not good plumbers.

  • The restroom in no place for a spelling bee.

Sincerely,
ty!

P.S.

Thanks to T and F for being such gentlemen to all the ladies.  Your mothers taught you well.

P.S.P.S.

After reading the blog, two people who also attended the party have been hounding me about the fact that they did indeed hear the live jazz music.

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