Although, my resume boasts my attention to detail and organizational skills; I have to confess that I have mastered neither of these abilities. I should really edit it to read “observant enough to sarcastically point out the statements and actions of stupid people and skilled at making neat-ish piles of paper”. I have not updated it yet, as I get the feeling these catch-phrases would not make me number one on the call back list.
While I try to police my own actions and keep moronic behavior to a minimum, I am occasionally guilty of behaving like a gold medalist in the Special Olympics. I have been caught pushing, when the sign on the door clearly directs me to pull and standing under the large, blinking red sign that says “Restroom” asking for directions to the nearest toilet.
I find comfort in the fact that the majority of the population does not possess the attention to detail chromosome. Both sexes are equally guilty and oblivious. My girlfriends complain that their men folk are unconscious of their regular hair color alterations and make no mention of their dramatic weekly switch from brunette to blonde. “I just wish he’d notice me,” they whine. “Try being naked more and dye your hair a color that actually exists in nature,” I consider suggesting, although I usually go with a sympathetic head nod while raising my eyebrows.
On more than one occasion I have been in a car, driving by a very large, freshly constructed building. When a passnger seatbelted in my backseat yells “Hey!! When did they build that?!!!!”. This occupant ot my Honda, who resides very closely to the newly minted erection will usually appear to be genuinely befuddled and act as if the structure rose from the asphalt overnight with the help of a few strategically planted magic beans. “Don’t you live here? How did you miss an entire calendar year of huge, bright yellow construction equipment and busy men wearing hard hats? Did you think it was a lengthy audition to replace the Construction Worker in the Village People?” I prohibit myself from inquiring.
My whole adult life I have been on the receiving end of the declarative statement masquerading as the compliment. “Wow, your hair is really long!” and “You’re tall!” are the ones I hear most regularly. I still have not figured out the proper way to respond to these statements. Saying “Thanks” just doesn’t seem appropriate. I know I have long hair; I planned it that way. It’s growing out of follicles currently attached to my head. I always keep myself from explaining that I’m really of average height and like big shoes. It would just further involve me in an unwanted conversation that would suck precious moments from my life.
I probably don’t have to alert you to the fact that I don’t spend the majority of my free time at MENSA meetings, they don’t serve alcohol. My boyfriend and I choose to spend our nights out at watering holes in and around Fort Lauderdale, Florida. It’s a strange mix of tourists and natives engaged in drunken, illiterate conversations. Lonely, intoxicated women from places I’ve never heard of try desperately to balance on the barstools, while engaging me in unsolicited discussions about their failed relationships, and show me pictures of their cats.
Usually, about the time my new friend whips out her phone and says “And this is my little fella, Blinky,” my boyfriend excuses himself and hightails it to the nearest pool table, desperately seeking a testosterone rich environment. The next line out of the tourist’s mouth is predictably “you’re so lucky to have a guy like him” which parlays into an hour long story about how her last relationship ended abruptly and seemingly without explanation. This out of town visitor will then continue to go on at length about just wanting “foreclosure” and further pontificate that she should move here because “she loves the palm trees” and the “hibiscuits”.
Having sat through this miserable diatribe on several nights with a woman in need of aloe and a beverage that does not contain alcohol; I know that she is not implying that a bank initiated legal action to strip her of her homestead will sew up her broken heart and provide her with answers to all of her relationship questions. I also know that the colorful, flowering foliage she has fallen in love with is not made by Bisquick and is actually called Hibiscus. Say it with me folks, HI-BIS-CUS.
I do not correct these women, mostly because they are too drunk to care that they sound like idiots and I do not want to bond with them and have them look me up, should they actually pack everything up and move to paradise. I do, however, make it a point to agree with her initial observation of luck in the mate selection lottery, as I’m trying to gracefully exit the conversation.
When I am not fortunate enough to be playing bar and grille Oprah, strangers, usually of the male persuasion and channeling Tommy Bahama, approach to tell me “You look just like Jennifer Aniston”. I am consistently puzzled by this statement. I resemble her in the manner that we are both Caucasian females with a socially acceptable combination of arms, legs, hair and face. I actively point this out, but that does not stop people from calling me “Jennifer” and insisting on buying me a drink. I guess it’s just one of the many perks of looking absolutely nothing like a celebrity.
As a side note, if you have visited the greater Fort Lauderdale area in the last 12 years and returned to your home on the upper peninsula of Michigan, sunburned, with a story about how you got shit-housed at some dive bar with the incredibly down-to-earth Ms. Aniston, you were likely talking to me. Much like your stories about how your friends back home call you “the animal” because of your enormous genitalia; there is not an ounce of truth in those funny anecdotes about Matt LeBlanc and his fascination with the soft serve ice cream machine on the set of Friends. Sorry to burst your bubble.
If you’re considering a long weekend in sunny South Florida, I invite you with open arms. You can even pack some extra 30 SPF, tropical scented stupid, just in case…you never know when you might need it. If you’re planning on moving here, please donate your stupid to your local Goodwill or Morons in Distress; we already have enough to last us a lifetime.