Underpants On The Outside

Hi readers.  Sorry for the long delay between posts - wedding planning has come to the point where the official slogan is “Y’know what?  I don’t fucking care anymore; I just want to go to sleep.”  (I actually brought up the idea that we could pretend to break up for a couple months as sort of a matrimonial “Undo.”  Wonder Woman was not into it, but let’s see how she feels by July.)

Amazingly, something happened to me this weekend that had nothing to do with a wedding: I nearly got into a fight.  And what’s really weird is that I hadn’t done anything.  No, really. (The story that is about to follow is long and not guaranteed to be interesting.  It is, however, the most exciting thing to have happened to me in some time.)

See, it’s not that unusual for people to get pissed off by the things I say.  Here’s what happens: I’m at a party and I manage to say two or three funny things in a row, then I become convinced that I’m the funniest person ever. Once I’m on a roll, I lose any self-awareness that might alert me when I no longer have something funny to say, and like Wile E. Coyote, I’m thirty feet past the cliff edge before I realize I’m in trouble.  Except with me the danger isn’t a cliff; it’s dick jokes.  (Or ethnic humor.  I’m multi-faceted.) But I always know when I’ve pissed in the punch bowl, and this time I know I didn’t say anything too bad. 

Here’s what happened.  I was at a graduation party for a friend of mine, and a woman a few seats away from me asked me about the wedding.  I start talking, and somehow get to my bit about how my vows are going to follow the theme of “Why not.”  I thought she received it well, because she offered an alternate suggestion of “I don’t have anything better to do,” which then gave me the idea of “Any other takers?”  I thought we were brainstorming, but apparently she really meant that in her opinion I was an idiot who really didn’t have anything better to do, because when I wasn’t looking she traded seats with her husband to get away with me.  For the record, I would swear on a stack of Torahs that I had not yet referred to my genetalia.

A little while later I start talking with Fran, a woman next to WW, who was probably in her fifties or sixties and had just become a grandmother a few days previous.  Naturally, I start flirting with her, because this is always a hit with the older ladies, and sure enough Fran loved it.  So I asked her if she was single, because I wanted to know what all of my options were. That’s when the first chick’s husband (to be known henceforth as “The Aggressor”, or “The Douchebag”) leans over and says, “she’s not one of your options.”   My retort: “Huh?”  I had no idea who this guy was, yet he looked very intense, and was obviously making an effort to flex his biceps under his t-shirt.   He repeated, “She’s not one of your options.  Just enjoy your meal,” so I fired back with, “Yeah, okay. Whatever.” (Since then I’ve thought of much cleverer things I could have said, like, “Why don’t you enjoy YOUR meal?”)

I couldn’t get the exchange out of my head.  It seemed like he and Fran knew each other; perhaps she was his aunt, and maybe he was just really protective of her, but did he really think I was hitting on her? And did he really think she’d take me up on it? If so, why’d he have to cockblock me? Total dick move.

The scientist in me demanded that I push his buttons a bit more, so I started listening to Fran’s conversation with WW for a good opportunity to jump in.  When I heard her telling WW to steal one of the centerpieces, I puffed up my chest, deepened my voice, and with a lot of fake aggression, admonished her to stop encouraging my fiancée to commit thievery.  I was extra careful not to swear or proposition her sexually, but even still the guy leans over and tells me that for “the last time,” I need to tone it down.  I ask him what, exactly, he wants me to tone down.  Everything, he says, because no one appreciates my humor.  I beg to differ, because if that were the case, I doubt my blog would have upwards of 30 readers…

I think my favorite line was when I pointed out that I was talking to Fran, not him, and he informed me, “If you’re talking to her, you’re talking to me.” It’s such a great tough-guy thing to say when you’re talking about someone other than a post-menopausal grandmother who is eighteen sheets to the wind and disagreeing with everything you say.  He really looked like he was going to hit me, except I know that anyone who takes themselves that seriously wouldn’t sucker-punch me.  He’d invite me to fight outside, and I’d RSVP with “Regretfully, I will be unable to attend.” (As you can see, wedding planning now controls every thought in my head.)

Just as soon as it began, the Douchebag grabbed his wife and the two of them stormed out of the party.  Meanwhile, Fran and I drank espresso and Sambuca ‘til the wee hours (but nothing happened, I swear), so it’s safe to say that I won that one. Even better, the confrontation completely elevated my status in the party.  I had started out as a marginal attendee, a friend at a family gathering where I knew almost no one, but by the end of the night I’m trading Goodfellas quotes with Uncle Charlie and everyone’s calling me “Fightstarter.” 

What a great night.  (AND I got some great ideas for my wedding vows!)