Thursday, July 26, 2007

Lip gloss can be used as a tool

I've begun to wrap things up at work, and am alternately nostalgic and fed up, depending on who I'm interacting with at any given moment.

Tonight, we had a staff dinner at the local Chevy's. Several underage employees were, apparently, behaving in a suspicious manner before I arrived, but I was blissfully unaware of this fact when my co-worker asked me to come to the bathroom with her.

Now, I'm a girl. As anyone who has seen a horror movie knows, it is extremely important that we go to the bathroom in packs, so as to prevent our being killed by deranged psychopaths while we powder our nose. As such, I assumed I was called in on a moral support/bitch session moment, and trotted unknowingly into the women's room.

Much to my dismay, the co-worker in question flung open the door and began firing questions at the pair of feet under the stall. Guns a-blazing, she started off straight to the point: "Do you have alcohol in here?" The feet, perhaps more interested in peeing than proving their sobriety, tentatively denied it. The feet's companion turned red and looked uncomfortable by the sinks.
"Are you sure?"
The feet were definitely sure that there was no alcohol in that large, heavy purse.

Questions answered, my helpful co-worker spun on her heel and flounced out, as I stood there with my mouth agape. I considered the situation, and ill-advisedly tried to justify my presence. The internal monologue went something like this:
Well....I'm here. I need a reason to be here, besides being a wingman. This is uncomfortable. I'm uncomfortable. My hands are sticky.....Ah ha!
So, after copiously and somewhat inexplicably washing my hands (all while two underaged and mortally embarrassed teenagers looked on), I decided I needed to buy more time, until the feet & her companion left the bathroom. When the awkwardness of hand-washing became too much, I primped in front of the mirror, and applied nearly half a tube of lip gloss.

Because, clearly, I need to primp for my employees, right?

It was awkward, awkward, awkward.

Then, in a gesture of what was either love or a desire to see me embarrassed, my employees told the Chevy's waitress that it was my birthday, so I am now not only awkward, but awkward and the proud owner of a sombrero. Rock on.


All rights reserved to my snotty and generally self-deprecating writing. And if your comments bother me, I'll delete them. That's right, pumpkin.
...How dreary—to be—Somebody!
How public—like a Frog—
To tell one's name—the livelong June—
To an admiring Bog!
-- Emily Dickinson