So what do a youth minister, a PhD. and I have in common?
We all like Project Runway and are somewhat, if not greatly, frightened by my antics.
Lately my girlfriend has been hosting a Project Runway night every Thursday at her apartment. This has made me very happy as I love Project Runway but refuse to get TV. PBS and snowy ABC through my bent bunny ears are just fine with me.
Plus, I am always game for a good girls’ night.
For as many times as I have moved, I have long-since figured out that the key to making it in any city is a hefty pack of estrogen. Some girls move to a new place and immediately start looking for a man. Not me. I have learned better. First build your posse, your support network, your outlet for cheap happy hours, borrowed blouses and the always necessary shoulder to cry on. Then you can look for a man. Reversing this order will leave you resentful, lonely and inevitably alone – at least that has been my experience.
So I will always take up an invitation to meet more friends and hopefully triple my shoe supply. Add to that an evening with booze, treats and gay men sashaying, “Make it work!” and you have yourself a recipe for a good time.
However, sometimes even taffeta, Milano cookies and a finely executed Mojito are still not enough to melt the ice of an oddly mixed crowd.
I pride myself on being adaptable, on molding my flare for the dramatic to fit the appropriateness of the situation but sometimes my radar is just slightly defective.
I did not realize this until I made a snarky comment during the first episode about the recovering meth addict being ‘a p*ssy’ for crying within the first fifteen minutes. “I mean really, he “can’t handle the pressure” and he hasn’t even started sewing yet. You have got to be kidding me!
Okay, I suppose that was a little heartless but you would have thought I said I like to drown puppies for sport.
It wasn’t until I took account of the dropped jaws and bulging eyeballs that I realized, “Toto, I don’t think were in LA anymore – we are in freakin’ KANSAS!”
There are those moments when you realize that you have taken a big fat step into it and there are very few options for recovery. I chose to keep my mouth shut – as shut as possible for the rest of the evening until I could better assess the situation. Everyone seemed nice, very nice in fact and I felt like a miscreant.
Later I talked to the host and found out that I was dealing with a group of very good girls – the work for GOD for goodness sake. She assured me that they weren’t the judgmental kind but I still couldn’t help reevaluating every word that came out of my mouth in their presence.
I made a vow that the next week I would be better.
Better. I am not even sure what that means.
Unfortunately, tonight came around and work had kicked my ass this week and I was in the mood to vent. I needed booze, a hug and a group of girls to share my pain. I was a little skeptical how my high strung, tornado of drama entrance would be welcomed but I was pleasantly surprised. Turns out even chicks who work for Jesus understand the stress of a bad day.
They were pretty cool and I did my best to keep the f-bombs to a minimum. I am not sure if I succeeded but I did notice a notable lack of jaw-dropping and eye bulging, except that directed at latest designer to get the ax.
Now that was bad.