Those of you who have the pleasure of knowing me live and in person are perfectly aware that a more elegant dame has never strutted across this earthly stage. But lately even I have amazed myself at how I have managed to exceed even my own apex of savoir-faire.
Let me elaborate.
The day that I got my bar results, I partook of a few beverages with some friends in a little bar off of Bourbon Street. I was perfectly fine until the few mysteriously climbed into the double digits. At that point, while my friend propped herself against my shoulder to keep me on the barstool that seemed intent on avoiding my ass, I pulled the life story out of a plaintiff’s attorney wearing a muscle shirt whilst smoking all of his cigarettes. I was flying very very high. In fact, so high I took the leap of going over and whispering something very sexy in a fellow bar-passee’s ear. At least I hope it was sexy. It probably was just a drunken mumble along the lines of “want to buy me a suspicious-looking hot-dog?” But he was all for whatever it was I said. We walked outside, gazing at the sky and holding hands, swept away by the romance of the moment.
I then toppled into a lamp post.
I stayed drunk for two days. The following morning--or rather afternoon--I decided my dogs might have to go to the bathroom since I had been passed out for awhile. Without thinking, I let them out into the yard. While I banged around my kitchen looking for something to ingest that might sober me up, it occurred to me that it had become mysteriously quiet. Knowing what had probably happened, my suspicions were confirmed when I looked outside to see that once again the water man had left the fucking gate open and Magda was on the loose. At that point, I began walking around the vicinity of my house in my pajamas, swearing and calling for my dog at the top of my lungs. After ten minutes of this, I began to despair of seeing my dog ever again. In fact, I despaired so much I decided to go back to bed.
Of course, that was the minute the phone rang. Someone had found Magda wondering around on Magazine St. Probably looking for a mother that did not have to crawl up the stairs to her apartment. I ran into the bathroom and threw on whatever happened to be lying next to my tub. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed that I did indeed have mascara circles, but it all paled in comparison to the plight of my dog, homeless, lost amongst strangers. I hurried down the street.
On the way, I passed the large Korean family who lives around the corner as they were washing their car. As I made it to the corner and prepared to cross, they all began yelling at me and slapping their bottoms. My perplexed look made them yell even more loudly. I reached behind to pat my bottom in case this were some sort of greeting and realized my back pocket was unbuttoned. Why this seemed to be cause for so much concern escaped me, but to humor them I buttoned it, and waved and smiled my gratitude. But they kept doing it. I knew that the other side was probably unbuttoned as well, but I didn’t give a damn about placating people who were so obviously uptight about other people’s wardrobe malfunctions. I made a mental note to never take my dry-cleaning to them again and crossed the street.
A blonde middle-aged couple held Magda lovingly on the opposite corner. As I gushed my thanks exuberantly, they smiled and told me what a good dog she is. And then, in tandem, the both looked at my ass. And kept looking.
“Jesus Christ,” I thought. “These people just hung on to my dog for a few minutes, and now they want to be rewarded with a view of my derriere. Geesh.” I cut the conversation off with enough politeness to make it clear that I would never be interested in a future threesome and began to make my way back home.
And then I felt it. A slight tickle perched on the lowest bit of my left hip. I slung my hand around and grasped something. I took a close look at it.
It was my sexiest, laciest, make-a-man-swoon-just-by-talking-about-them red satin thong panties.
I was a little disturbed. My face was wrinkled in consternation, still staring at this strange little lamprey as I walked down the street. And it was at that point I walked past the three cops lounging against window that had been boarded up since Katrina.
“So, glad you found your dog,” one of them said. And then they all turned their buzzcuts to the tantalizing object in my hand. I nodded, scuttling away like a newly-shaved dog. And fell over a crack in the sidewalk, skinning my knee. Of course, they came to help me up. Of course, they had to find a way to do this without touching my left hand or the scourge in it. It took a little while.
I made it home, locked the door, popped an Ambien and went to bed.
Flash forward to yesterday morning. Despite my problems with equilibrium, the bar-passee and I had a nice breakfast in the quarter before I went to spend some time with my Mom, who is here once again supporting Harrah’s. It turns out he was getting his hair cut at a place right next to her hotel, so I gave him a ride over on my way to her room.
As we were breaking away from a very cute little “I’ll miss you, but not that much because we’re not really in a relationship or anything since this girl is a weirdo” kiss, a strange look came over his face.
“That’s weird,” he said. “There was this woman who just came running toward you, and then turned around and ran away.”
I turn and look, and there, trying desperately to hide herself behind a column in a navy jogging suit, white socks and Birkenstocks, puffing madly away on a Virginia Slim, is my mom.
Class is obviously genetic.