Freaks
Honestly. Do I bring out the worst in people? Can they smell something in me? Some deep, dark, hormonal phermerone-thing that brings them running from their dark, dank places into the light to come sit next to me? Or, at least, next to my friends?
We go to dinner the other night in Florida. Hole in the wall joint where the specialty is fried. Just...anything fried. Hushpuppies, grouper, shrimp, chicken, fritters, onion rings, potatoes, babies, cats, palmetto bugs. Whatever your heart desires. They have paper towels hanging from coat hangers above each table, to help blot the grease away from your fingers. Or chin. Or neck. Or gut. Wherever the grease happens to end up.
So we order our baskets of fried food and a couple of beers and start to look around. As people do. And we start talking about other people in the restaurant. As people do. The older couple sitting next to us. And the older couple across from us. And the other, even older, quartet behind me. We were easily the youngest people in this joint, and this was even after the Early Bird special. One couple was fairly put together, pretty cute in a South Florida, I'm-70-years-old kinda way. They got up to leave and we remarked upon them as they walked out the door.
"Can you believe them? I can't believe them," we hear. This is coming from the hostess.
The hostess had been drinking. A lot. From a very, very large insulated glass. Not water. Not lemonade. Unless it was the electric variety. She was pretty hammered. And she thought she looked gooooood. I thought she looked like my elementary school gym teacher. You know, the one whose sexuality was just a little bit questionable? And then she married some guy in the oil business and moved to Saudi Arabia? And all the mothers could talk about was the fact that she was going to have to wear a veil? And you didn't get the big deal 'cause, in your mind, a veil was an improvement? That one.
This woman starts talking to us like we are her very best, best friends. Telling us about how those two oldsters were actually married to other people. Or something. She was sounding kinda Paula Abdul-esque, if you catch my meaning. She seemed to be implying that they were having an affair and that we were absolutely brilliant for having caught it while just sitting there eating. Almost, in fact, as brilliant as her.
She was bananas, obviously.
She leaves and we, of course, start discussing the level of her wack-jobbedness. Comparing her to other nutcases with whom we are both aquainted. She was pretty high up there on the list, if you must know. I then attempted, in a poor call on my part, to turn around and catch another glimpse of her.
I caught her eye. I knew I'd been busted. I turned back around in time to see my friend's eyes widen.
"She just said something about us," my friend said.
"Good or bad?" I asked.
"Not good. Something about coming over here and shutting something for us."
Luckily, we were done with all the various fried concoctions and had only a bit of beer left to finish. We left crumpled dollar bills in our wake as we fled out the door. Literally. Luckily we were driving a rental, so she couldn't hunt us that way, but I was honestly afraid that she might try to track us via credit card slip there, until I realized we weren't in the local phone boo,
We used the chain lock on the door that last night.
Then, waiting for the plane out of town. Sitting. Minding our own business.
In walk two of the saddest commentaries on humanity I've seen. Two women. Big hair. BIG. Black hair. Could have been synthetic. Long and big. Rings on every finger. Several on every finger. Rings all around the ears. Camoflage pants with heels.
And Hooters shirts. That unironically read, "Delightfully tacky, yet unrefined."
No shit.
One has...a hat? A bandana with a visor? Bright orange (to match the Hooters lettering, I'm certain). With sparkles. To match the sparkley lotion. Neat. And the back of it? Is open. To let out all the hair. The fake-looking black hair.
We watch them for 27 minutes. They giggle. They text. They giggle more. They pick at their nailpolish. They adjust their bra straps.
Boarding time. I sit next to what I think is a couple or might be a man with his retarded, yoga-instructor sister. There are two seats empty next to my friend. But not for long.
Yes, the smell of hot wings soon reached our nose as the Hooters girls wandered up the aisle. They sat on my friend's bag. They encroached on her space. They littered the seats with red nailpolish chips. They offered her Juicy Fruit.
They did not, however, offer her any bleu cheese with those wings.
We go to dinner the other night in Florida. Hole in the wall joint where the specialty is fried. Just...anything fried. Hushpuppies, grouper, shrimp, chicken, fritters, onion rings, potatoes, babies, cats, palmetto bugs. Whatever your heart desires. They have paper towels hanging from coat hangers above each table, to help blot the grease away from your fingers. Or chin. Or neck. Or gut. Wherever the grease happens to end up.
So we order our baskets of fried food and a couple of beers and start to look around. As people do. And we start talking about other people in the restaurant. As people do. The older couple sitting next to us. And the older couple across from us. And the other, even older, quartet behind me. We were easily the youngest people in this joint, and this was even after the Early Bird special. One couple was fairly put together, pretty cute in a South Florida, I'm-70-years-old kinda way. They got up to leave and we remarked upon them as they walked out the door.
"Can you believe them? I can't believe them," we hear. This is coming from the hostess.
The hostess had been drinking. A lot. From a very, very large insulated glass. Not water. Not lemonade. Unless it was the electric variety. She was pretty hammered. And she thought she looked gooooood. I thought she looked like my elementary school gym teacher. You know, the one whose sexuality was just a little bit questionable? And then she married some guy in the oil business and moved to Saudi Arabia? And all the mothers could talk about was the fact that she was going to have to wear a veil? And you didn't get the big deal 'cause, in your mind, a veil was an improvement? That one.
This woman starts talking to us like we are her very best, best friends. Telling us about how those two oldsters were actually married to other people. Or something. She was sounding kinda Paula Abdul-esque, if you catch my meaning. She seemed to be implying that they were having an affair and that we were absolutely brilliant for having caught it while just sitting there eating. Almost, in fact, as brilliant as her.
She was bananas, obviously.
She leaves and we, of course, start discussing the level of her wack-jobbedness. Comparing her to other nutcases with whom we are both aquainted. She was pretty high up there on the list, if you must know. I then attempted, in a poor call on my part, to turn around and catch another glimpse of her.
I caught her eye. I knew I'd been busted. I turned back around in time to see my friend's eyes widen.
"She just said something about us," my friend said.
"Good or bad?" I asked.
"Not good. Something about coming over here and shutting something for us."
Luckily, we were done with all the various fried concoctions and had only a bit of beer left to finish. We left crumpled dollar bills in our wake as we fled out the door. Literally. Luckily we were driving a rental, so she couldn't hunt us that way, but I was honestly afraid that she might try to track us via credit card slip there, until I realized we weren't in the local phone boo,
We used the chain lock on the door that last night.
Then, waiting for the plane out of town. Sitting. Minding our own business.
In walk two of the saddest commentaries on humanity I've seen. Two women. Big hair. BIG. Black hair. Could have been synthetic. Long and big. Rings on every finger. Several on every finger. Rings all around the ears. Camoflage pants with heels.
And Hooters shirts. That unironically read, "Delightfully tacky, yet unrefined."
No shit.
One has...a hat? A bandana with a visor? Bright orange (to match the Hooters lettering, I'm certain). With sparkles. To match the sparkley lotion. Neat. And the back of it? Is open. To let out all the hair. The fake-looking black hair.
We watch them for 27 minutes. They giggle. They text. They giggle more. They pick at their nailpolish. They adjust their bra straps.
Boarding time. I sit next to what I think is a couple or might be a man with his retarded, yoga-instructor sister. There are two seats empty next to my friend. But not for long.
Yes, the smell of hot wings soon reached our nose as the Hooters girls wandered up the aisle. They sat on my friend's bag. They encroached on her space. They littered the seats with red nailpolish chips. They offered her Juicy Fruit.
They did not, however, offer her any bleu cheese with those wings.
posted by Miss Head at
7:18 AM
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