Recommended wine for today’s entry: Today I am going to recommend a Woodbridge chardonnay. Now I know that it’s not an exciting, upscale selection, but it is reliable and one of the few not-too-sweet choices that is available in a cute little four-pack of individual serving bottles that are so handy for tailgating. It’s football season, and one doesn’t drink top of the line out of a Dixie cup on a concrete parking lot. I’ll be very pleased with my well-chilled wee bottles of Woodbridge on Friday night!
I have a tendency to irritate those surrounding me at sporting events.
See, it started about five years ago. I was celebrating a big birthday at a college football game, and my friend Tippi was kind enough to bring a large and potent pitcher of cosmopolitans to salute the occasion. They were perfect because the team’s colors are red and white, so a red drink at the tailgate festivities was just the perfect touch.
Except very soon, ie: before the game started, my nose was the same shade of red. That is a clue that I am not totally in control. See, I think I’d forgotten to eat that day, and as I am not used to hard liquor, well…
So I promptly put on my birthday tiara, my birthday sash and oh, yeah, the little purse with the stuffed chihuahua sticking out (yes, we were going with a Legally Blonde theme) and I climbed the stands, WC Fields nose and all.
Well, sitting right next to me was Mitch McConnell, the Senate Majority Whip. I am a big fan of his. After perching my little dog on my lap, slipping my sloshing beer into the cupholder and adjusting my plastic tiara, I garrulously (yet respectfully) began to recount my days of working on one of his earliest campaigns while just a high school student. He appeared to be listening, so I probably went on to tell him about the cosmos, my 45-year-old housewife analysis of the quarterback’s handling of the option, and possibly the pet count in my household, as I recall that I found a wad of cat hair somehow clinging to the tinfoil birthday sash.
He was very, very interested. He just watched me, wide-eyed, then he smiled politely and turned up the sound on the radio he had strapped to his belt.
That’s when I noticed his headphones.
Hmph. What if I’d had something really important to say? Not that I ever have, but just what if…
Then, flash forward five years later, to last week at the World Equestrian Games. We are packed into the bleachers like sardines in the only bar that serves kids under 21 in a college town.
Next to me is a large Dutch woman. Really large … not fat, but built like a broodmare. Luckily for me, she was generating enough heat that even after the sun went down and I needed to put my jacket on but was unable to move my arms to do so, she warmed the whole right side of my body. She did notice that every time a horse went over a jump (13 multiplied by about 40 times) I tensed my whole body and shot my elbow into her midsection. I say she noticed because she said something that sounded pretty darn Dutch and pretty darn testy to the rest of the Netherlands contingent.
But she wasn’t even the one who was mean to me. My friend Kim and I were having a deep conversation about something very important like a rumor that someone was a sex addict and/or someone was stalking someone and/or someone was cheating on someone — just know that it was important — and this chick, who, I might add, was ugly, turned around from the row in front of us and SHUSHED us.
Well, listen up wench, I could have asked YOU to take off your stupid pointy hood that really didn’t need to be tied tightly around your stupid little pinhead when the day started at 85 degrees. AND, just in case you thought you were looking good, not only was the stupid hood ugly, but it was covered in dead leaves, like perhaps you’d just taken a nose dive on one of the scenic paths surrounding the horse park. Or maybe someone shoved you down because you are bossy and annoying.
But we didn’t say anything. We just shushed. Well, we rolled our eyes and shushed. Oh, and I might have given her the finger and rolled my eyes and shushed. But we did shush. NOT NEXT TIME, though, because I am not going to be Spectator Doormat after I turn 50. I fully intend to start losing my filters, like everyone does as they age, and begin to pipe up when I feel slighted.
Like, I could have said, when pinhead in the hood (now layered with a baseball hat) suddenly swooned and plopped her beer down and splayed out across her bleacher with the back of her wrist covering her eyes:
HEY IF YOU WEREN’T SUCH A MEAN BITCH, I WOULD ASK YOU IF YOU ARE ALRIGHT! BUT AS YOU CAN SEE, I DON’T EVEN CARE IF YOU’RE ALRIGHT BECAUSE YOU SHUSHED ME. MAYBE WHATEVER IS CAUSING YOU TO HAVE THE VAPORS IS GOD’S WAY OF TELLING YOU THAT YOU DON’T OWN THESE BLEACHERS AND YOU SHOULDN’T BE RUDE TO THE MIDDLE-AGED HOUSEWIFE WHO ONLY GETS OUT OF HER STUPID HOUSE ON RARE OCCASIONS AND MAYBE SHE WAS JUST TRYING TO HAVE AS MUCH FUN AS SHE COULD BEFORE SHE HAS TO GO BACK HOME AND CLEAN CAT PEE OUT OF HER SHOWER. DID YOU EVER THINK ABOUT THAT, HUH?
I wish I’d said it.
Next time. Definitely.