…And a Happy Thanksgiving to all.
I’m working all day, which sucks. Thanksgiving is always my favorite holiday…Eating yourself sick, watching a little football, hanging out with the family…And you don’t have to buy anyone presents or decorate. At most, you throw a cornucopia on the table and call it a day.
Unfortunately, thanks to my position on the office totem pole – that would be at the very bottom – I haven’t spent T-day with my family since I moved to Chicago two years ago. And the shift I pulled this year is noon-6pm, happily excluding me from any dinners that I could have attended (provided any well-meaning friends took pity on me and invited me home with them).
However, after several of the regulars at Elbo begged, and I did my suprisingly effective “Puppy Dog Eyes” trick, the bar management agreed to stay open tonight. So I get to have Thanksgiving with the other barflies. I’m bringing turkey sandwiches.
I still haven’t decided if this is a soul-lifting affirmation of how a group of individuals can reach out to each other and form a community of fellowship on a day where everyone can find something to be thankful for…Or if it’s the saddest fucking thing ever. I mean, my mom almost cried when I told her I’d be spending Thanksgiving at a bar with a bunch of other lonely and desperate people.
But still, turkey sandwiches, dude! And half-priced drinks.
Guess which one I’m thankful for.
A former employer once described me to a new employee. “Nikki (her name was Nikki), you know how you’re kind of a ‘guy’s gal?’ How you get along really well with all the boys, watch sports, drink beer, etc?” “Yes,” said Nikki, wondering where this was going, I’m sure.
“Well Karla IS a guy.”
This was apparently a reference to my affinity for porn, booze and casual sex (and bragging about same), and my pathological avoidance of such womanly pursuits as commitment, healthy relationships and, oh I don’t know, knitting or some shit.
That being said, last week I totally acted like a girl. Twice.
The November booty-roll-call is as follows:
Him: Hey, do you even know what my name is?
Karla: Um…Well do YOU know what MY name is?
Karla: Uhh…Something with a “D”?
Him: It’s Brian.
Brian, Right. Thanks.
Later that Evening…
Brian (apparently): Hey, why’d you write your number on such a tiny piece of paper?
Karla: So it will fit in your wallet easier?
Brian: What’s this number here? Is that a 9 or an 8?
Karla: It might be a 3. Figuring it out will be fun, right?
Brian: Just tell me your number and I’ll put it in my phone right now.
Brian: What was that?
Karla: Why don’t you just give me your number? Here’s a very tiny piece of paper…
Granted, this was after I was declared “Incredible” no less than 5 times, so you really can’t blame the guy.
What can I say? I’m awesome.
Wednesday night I was taken to an event at a recording studio that had an open bar. Really, people who know me should know better than to park my ass in front of an open bar.
The party was mind-numbingly, soul suckingly, fingernails-pulled-out-with-pliers-y boring. The bartender ran out of wine glasses and served my cabernet in a 16oz plastic beer cup. He FILLED the 16oz. plastic beer cup. Repeatedly.
Suddenly this was the best party ever.