A few weeks ago, a few friends and I were trying to decide which of the Desperate Housewives we all were.
C was easy - Bree van de Kamp, even she admitted it.
And M told us we'd better label her a Lynette, if only because her husband is such hot stuff.
But when it came to me, we were all a little unstuck. Someone regrettably mentioned Mary Alice, to which I replied that I'd read The Bell Jar, and I know how it all ends.
I wasn't Gabrielle, certainly. Nor was I the scary new neighbour who seems to wear pyjamas (or kaftan-type clothing oddly resembling pyjamas) all the time.
One of us suggested Susan, the ditzy, klutz-like one. I shook my head and laughed: pfft, I'm sooooo not ditzy and klutz-like.
After this weekend, however, I understand what my friends meant. Susan, you are my home girl.
A friend once told me (no doubt after I told her one of my many, many embarrassing stories) that somehow, things just happen to me.
If I tame my super-curly hair (by 'tame' I mean straighten by wrestling with a blowdryer) and head outside, it will rain.
If I head down to the local shops for the newspaper and a coffee on a Saturday morning, sans make-up, I will run into 5 ex-schoolteachers and the boy I had a crush on for most of my adolescence. (People, please: rediscover the lost art of SLEEPING IN. Sheesh...)
And if I am asked to make a speech at my best friend's 21st, I will screw it up.
It wasn't even a matter of pre-oratory alcohol intake. No, no, no: my gaffes were strictly my own. I cannot blame my good friends Jack, Jim or (marghe) Rita.
Luckily, someone was drunk and thus understood that I needed applause and laughter from the audience in appropriate places. It would have been great if she had anticipated those moments, though...
I began my speech with a little story about said friend and I...we were on a 'Lady Date' (copyright pending) and had enjoyed a lovely dinner and movie. My stepdad had been joking that SF's (Said Friend's) boyfriend had better not find out, especially if there was any 'backseat action.' (I'm sorry, but parents are NOT allowed to use the words 'backseat' or 'action' side-by-side. This, I believe, is a case in point.)
Aha. Hahahahahahahaa. Hilarious Dad Joke #345013.
However, when SF and I went to actually give each other a peck on the cheek goodbye, our lips headed in the same direction, and yep, you guessed it, we locked em. Pash-o-rama...(not really, but you get the idea.)
The audience thought this was amusing and politely laughed.
The rest of the speech was fine, until the very end, when SF stood up to say thankyou, and to peck me on the cheek.
Now, comedy is all about timing, I do believe this is true. With timing comes audience. If you don't have the right audience, what could seem to you downright riotous can be downright disastrous.
For instance:
As we pecked cheeks, I turned to the (mostly Italian, conservative, suburban) audience and said, "So, should we just come out and pash now?"
Cue: one drunk friend laughing maniacally. (Thanks, J.) From the rest of the audience, silence.
I now understand what people mean when they refer to "The Walk of Shame."
Walking back to my table, I felt the cringes of well-meaning friends who pitied me and my sorry outburst. To them I say, thanks, but it's ok. When one experiences as many awkward silences and cringe-worthy scenes as I do, you develop a thick skin.
And besides that, the story made my Nana shut up, and since Saturday, she hasn't asked me once when I'm going to get married.