What I mean is that I did it again…I once again made a fool of myself. I realize this isn’t a shock to anyone, as I make a fool of myself quite regularly. It’s almost as natural as breathing for some people…or being annoying for any one of the Kardashians. Nonetheless, it happened again.
Allow me to explain. I was recently in New York City visiting some fabulous friends. Somehow, Matt and I seem to have amazing friends who haven’t figured out that we are super lame.
Don’t tell them. I don’t want them to figure it out, although I’m pretty sure my farts after every meal and my subscription to Tiger Beat are dead give aways that I’m super dorky. (Hey, I need to keep up with the younger generation so I will stay relatable.)
Our friends wanted to meet us for brunch at 1:30. Yes, that’s 1:30 p.m. Who knew that was time for brunch? In my world, brunch is 10:00 and it consists of a cheeseburger with danishes for buns and a side of Cocoa Pebbles. Now that’s a brunch…and it’s before noon…or somewhere near the noon hour.
In fact, when I eat “brunch” at 10:00 a.m., I’m ready for a late lunch at 1:30 p.m. Apparently this isn’t how New Yorkers roll. Did my friends really expect me to go until 1:30 in the afternoon without eating breakfast or lunch? They obviously aren’t as good of friends as I thought they were, as they were clearly trying to starve me.
Strike one. (Frick! I’m giving strikes again. I have no idea why I do this.)
Matt and I were late to the brunch because we underestimated the time it would take us to walk to the proper subway. I am a fricking Tom Tom machine with the New York Subway and I can get us anywhere in record speed with minimal transfers.
However, I couldn’t do much about the fact that the closest subway was several blocks away from our hotel, nor could I help the fact that my feet were on fire from walking so much.
Okay, I could have helped in that regard. It’s called a cab.
We arrived at brunch and found our friends in the back room waiting for us at a table. The four of them had already ordered drinks (because they’re awesome, and because we were late).
I immediately ran over to greet my friends. I hadn’t seen them in a few months and we had much to discuss, beginning with important issues such as Mondo winning Project Runway. (Sorry if I ruined that for any of you, but if you still have that season sitting in your DVR, you aren’t a dedicated fan.)
My friend, Gansavoort (not her real name), is super cool and works as a writer for a very popular fashion publication in New York. I like to think I’m in her same league as I write this super cool blog that maybe one or two people in New York read. Similar, right?
Since Gansavoort is in the fashion industry, she always has the cutest, most trendy clothes, and I’m always embarrassed to show up in my dress I got on clearance at Marshalls because it had a stain on the back.
Who am I kidding? I’m going to get a stain on it anyway, so why not just buy it with a stain and save some cash?
Gansavoort was sitting across the table from me and I rushed over to greet her. I was carrying my super trendy Vera Wang for Kohl’s bag, which is bulky and fabulous (and from 4 seasons ago).
I leaned over to hug her and it happened. My bag struck Gansavoort’s bloody mary-filled glass, causing it to spill all over Gansavoort’s amazing (and probably super expensive) dress.
This isn’t the end of the story. Not at all. Since I’m an overachiever, and everything I do is full out, the spilled drinks didn’t stop there. Of course not. When her glass fell, it struck another glass that was also filled with bloody mary.
Because I’m no stranger to spilling things on others, I did what I always do when I ruin someone’s dress that costs more than 5 months of my mortgage payments; I laughed and said “yeah, that happened.”
The waiters immediately descended upon our table with towels to clean up the mess. Unfortunately, they didn’t bring enough, and they had to go back three different times to get more towels to clean up the spillage.
I felt like I was watching an Exxon Mobile cleanup project, only this one wasn’t using taxpayers dollars and hiking up the cost of filling my tank.
The towels began to accumulate on the table and since the drinks were bloody marys, the towels looked like a blood bath had occurred. I considered looking around for Scarface, but figured even he wouldn’t like the site of all this red.
How do you recover from such an embarrassing incident? I don’t know. I’m not sure that I did. The rest of brunch I felt horrible about the spillage (yet another way I differ from Exxon), and I kept replaying it in my mind. Why did my purse knock over the drink?
Please recall this is the same purse that spilled water on strangers in Austin. It was obviously the purse…and obviously Vera Wang’s fault. (Isn’t it always?)
Since Gansavoort is a great person, she hid her annoyance with my spill quite well, although I’m pretty sure I am now crossed off her Christmas card list. Either way, she should feel somewhat vindicated, as less than two hours later, a pigeon did his business all over my white cardigan. I would say we’re even.