Conversation is a fascinating thing. Especially when you get stuck in those wonderful social lectures where someone is espousing how great he is, how great his wife is or how great his kid is. In general, what he's saying is he's great and you're not. If you were great, he'd ask about you, right? All the while, you're stuck. Looking for a way to excuse yourself, furiously nodding your head like a friggin' bobble head.
Oh, your preschooler knows the alphabet backwards? Wonderfullllllllll. Um, our daughter's capital A's kick ass. The other 25 letters? Who needs 'em? She's got 12 years until college (or beauty school). Nothin' but time to learn, baby.
Oh, your son is a natural at baseball and hits 'em outta the park? No shit! Well, ours smacked the crap out of the family room molding when we let him practice indoors. (Our bad.) He also hit himself in the face with the bat. No idea how that happened. But, we're sure your son couldn't do that.
Oh, your daughter's swim teacher says she's a fish? AND she can do a handstand under water while yodeling? I wonder what'll happen when I toss her into the neighborhood pool this summer? Yodelayheehoo!
This is all very scintillating stuff. But, when I'm at a party, there are only a few things I truly care about.
1. What color undies are you wearing?
2. Which spouses within eyeshot would you FMK?
3. Why do you keep insisting that you like my mullet? Stop screwing with me.
At a recent fête, I was chatting with some ladies when a nice gentleman approached. He wanted to snap a party pic. Because we were wearing make-up and our lowest cut shirts with super-duper-hooter-push-ups, we happily obliged. After my face was digitally engraved on this dude's memory card, I thought I should introduce myself. I stuck out my hand. His name was Mills. Olan Mills. I wasn't going to write about Olan, but Mike reminded me that I'm a jerk. And, jerks keep it real, yo.
Olan and I had a fleeting conversation and then disbanded. I didn't see snapfish again until much later when I had many more beers and a Vodka tonic in between to break up the monotony. I greeted Olan in the same fashion I greeted Matt Lauer and Al Roker when I saw them in the Denver airport years ago. (Way too enthusiastically.)
I noticed he was still snapping party pix and commented how nice that was. Oops. I did it again. 300 button advances later, my eyes and ears knew everything about the Mills: the family trip, the kids, the kids' friends, the house, the mouse, the gox in yellow gox box socks.
Meanwhile, Mike was four-people deep in a conversation about cannabis. I yearned to defect or for a random lightning bolt, but I couldn't exit the slide show. Mike knew I was in trouble, but did nothing to pull me out. Hosed. At one point, Mike even smiled and waved. Bastard, I thought. Tomorrow, I will wash your whites with my reds. Let's see who's laughing then, cannabis conversationalist.
No comments:
Post a Comment