A Thing of Grace and Beauty

This being a childless weekend, I went out Saturday night (oh please, stop laughing and get up off the floor). No, not a date for those of you who were shocked speechless, but nevertheless it was a night out. Of course things progressed in a fairly typical crazybarefeet fashion - starting with fashion. I decided to go shopping, and got to buy pants a size smaller than the last time I went shopping. I also bought a top to go with them. What can I say: if you have the time to wander around at Winners you might as well get more than one thing, right? And at least I skipped the lingerie section this time, as I was on a tight budget and really wanted a new pair of pants. Which is odd when you think about it; being a skirt girl pants don't often end up on a must have list. I digress.

So I did the usual getting ready things: bath, reading and relaxing, getting dressed. I had everything on, and was standing (no fidgeting whatsoever) gazing in the mirror wondering if I could be bothered to put on some sort of make up. I stood there for a long time, thinking that on the one hand that I don't really know how to put make up on with any sort of elan, and yet on the other hand that make up is what one does when one goes out. So there I am, dressed, and almost ready to go....when a button flies of the shirt. Yes, it flew, I was lucky it didn't go down the drain. An essential button as it happens, as my first thought was wondering if I really needed to sew it on. I did. Now this may come as a shock to you (maybe not those of you that know I've had the material for a front door curtain for more than a year) but I don't sew. Not at all. But a button? Surely I could do a button. On to finding some thread, and a needle, and maybe scissors although I could always use teeth if necessary. Found the needle and a bunch of thread in an emergency repair kit. But thread of the right colour? No, that would have been too easy. Nevertheless, I did get it fixed. (Interruption: my cell phone just rang, and when I answered it a woman asked for Barry. Nope, wrong number. To which she replied - prior to hanging up - "well, isn't that just f***ing great". Crumbs - not my fault bastard Barry gave her a fake number!)

Once I was ready to go, off to the car I went, but not without falling ass over teakettle on the front steps. OK, note to self, it is very slippery out. So I get to the club, and walk to the door with the extreme carefulness usually only seen on the raging drunk tryng to convince a cop he's sober. But I got to the door safely - no falling! I get in, make my way downstairs and on the way to hang up my coat...I fall ass over tea kettle. AGAIN. On nothing. There was no ice, no new wax, shoes weren't new, no hidden obstacles. BUGGER.

On the plus side, I wasn't trying to impress anyone and whilst I'm pretty sure I've never broken or spilled anything on Thursday nights, I think the people from the club know I'm not a thing of grace and beauty. Actually - thanks to a comment from a guy (yes, Marc, it was you) years and years ago, in my circle of friends I am referred to as "not overly bad looking".

In its entirety, the story is that this guy (yes Marc, you) was trying to figure out why he liked me. He did his figuring out loud driving me home from some youth group thing at Queenston Heights. His actual remark was "I like you, but I'm not sure why. I mean, you're fairly witty, intelligent enough (I was way overqualified in that regard given his IQ), and not overly bad looking, but I don't see why I actually like you". I just about fell out of the car laughing. Which upset him, as apprently he couldn't see the humour - or insult - in telling someone on a second date that you see them as not overly bad looking. And what does that even mean? Bad looking, but not to the point of undateableness?

I am use to not being a thing of beauty, and as for grace, well I can dance but I'm not the most co-ordinated broom in the closet. But still, did I have to do that, right there, right then? And here is a question: when I went to get a drink (Sambuca and coke - don't knock it until you've tried it), the coke spraying thing backed up on the bartender, and sprayed me. Yup, on the new blouse. So the question is - did that happen because nothing in my life can go according to plan, or because the bartenders life never goes according to plan? My curse, or his?