Dear victim Pilar,
Oh hi. Howyadoin? cough.
So! I was super honored and flattered and other things that cause my face to flush involuntarily — making my head look as though it might radiate the faint, almost bacon-y odor of seared flesh — when you invited me to tonight’s intimate dinner and wine tasting event. Mostly because it assumes something about me that, all things considered, borders on real flattery. Namely, that I am a Big Adult-type Person who can function in an appropriate and seemly manner with other Big Adult-type People in a refined social setting that involves sophisticated things like the tasting of wine(s). Really, just incredibly kind of you. But honestly, and I really hate to be the one to have to tell you this but I feel I must, this assumption was perhaps just a teeny bit misguided.
Because, to be completely frank, I’m SO TOTALLY going to embarrass the crap out of myself.
Just, you know, FYI and stuff, so you aren’t shocked or anything when it happens. And it’s not like I’m planning to do something embarrassing, believe me. I’m not sitting here plotting out the precise moment in the evening I’m going to break out a choice selection from my Personal Horror Stories To Induce Utter Mortification or anything — something discomforting about my post-childbirth episiotomy, or a little ditty about my battle with chronic constipation, or an incoherent rant about that time I said something really stupid and thoughtless on the internet and unintentionally created a firestorm of ridiculous drama and controversy (oh wait, I mean TIMES. Plural. It’s kind of a gift, really). No no no, quite the contrary I assure you. Which is what will make my inevitable faux pas all the more painful and awkward. I don’t want to suck, honest I don’t — I JUST CAN’T SEEM TO HELP MYSELF.
And I don’t yet know how my Suckitude will manifest itself, only that it WILL manifest. It might be something as simple as, oh, spilling an entire glass of red wine on someone’s white linen shirt or pants (yours, perhaps? NO MAN CAN SAY). Or it could be my glaringly inappropriate attire (do you think these Chuck Taylors would go best with a Chardonnay or a Shiraz?). It may be my inability to speak in complete sentences that don’t somehow include one or several of the following words: “fuck,” (see also: fucking, motherfucking, whatthefuck); “totally”; “awesome”; “rock”; and “omigod.” Or I may, without even realizing I’m doing it, give you The Goat after sampling a particularly righteous amuse-bouche [insert random guitar solo trilling here]. Or it might be something else entirely, something so unexpected and bizarre that there’s really no way to brace yourself for its psychologically violating awfulness. And I apologize in advance for it, whatever IT is, I do. But as someone of your station and worldliness doubtless realizes, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t stop it from spit-taking that water and then hysterically snort-laughing after telling a joke that no one but the horse finds particularly funny. God that horse is an asshole.
(Aside: Do you by any chance know where I can pick up some prescription-strength antifungals prior to meeting up for dinner? I mean, heh, not that I need them or anything! I just like to be prepared! To do battle with those wily funguses fungi! Can’t be too careful, you know! Girl Scouts’ Motto and such! cough.)
Yours in anticipatory contrition,
Tracey, aka Sweetney
PS: You might seriously consider bringing a few rolls of paper towels. Just in case.
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Not embarrassing? MamaPop’s nomination for Guilty Pleasure Blog in the BlogLuxe Awards. Please vote for us if you are pro-awesomeness and anti-things-that-are-not-awesome. Girl, you know it’s true.
