How not to be helpful

My deepest apologies to my fellow bloggers. I didn't participate in blog day. I'm an utter failure. This saddens me deeply... but I am intrepid. Onward, Christian soldiers.

Also, I know I promised you photos and recipes from the housewarming party. I would have posted them by now had I not LOST MY COOKBOOK. Yes, I remember putting it somewhere *safe* for the party. Somewhere out of the way. Somewhere I could easily retrieve it after the party. Ok. Really. It has to be here. Somewhere. The house isn't that big. It will show up. And when it does, I will make good on my promise to share recipes. Till then, see some yummy photos in tomorrow's post.

Today I have something more important to share with you. Deep breath. It is one of those stories where the retelling enrages me as though It Just Happened.

It was Saturday. I wanted to sing. Really bad. I called my favorite karaoke buddy (Jessica of the robotic trash can debacle) and asked her to join me at our favorite bar for a night of singing and embarrassment. Of course, she obliged. She truly is the next American Idol.

That evening, Jessica, her newlywed hubby, Andrew, our friend Thomas, and I rolled into the bar and claimed a sweet table front and center... though our favorite table was taken. Our favorite waitress was no where to be found. The DJ was "the mean guy." This evening had disaster written all over it.

In a predictable fashion, I filled out song requests by such famed artists as Cyndi Lauper, Regina Spektor, and Hanson. On karaoke nights, I assume alternate identities in order to protect the innocent... and well... because it's fun to be someone else for a night. Tonight I was "Rickie." I ordered a Blue Moon and finished it quickly before Jessica and I sang the duet "Time After Time." Starr, a 60-something karaoke regular who always wears a fanny pack and tightly wound bun, really enjoyed our performance. I felt the night turning around. That is. Until. The. Incident.

I took my seat at the table. An hour or so had passed and no one from our group had been called up to sing. We were being punished because the DJ thought we were trying to hog all the fun when we turned in about a dozen song requests between the five of us. Screw you, mean DJ man! We came here to rock and roll!

I ordered a second Blue Moon, and took about two sips before It Happened. My denim jacket goes flying over my head, smacks me in the face, and lands on my beer--knocking my fresh beer all over the table, my skirt, and of course my jacket.

Once what had just happened settled into my brain, I turned around to see what the hell caused this misery. A girl in her early 20s sat behind me with short dark curly hair. She screamed, "It was on the floor! What was I supposed to do?!" Blink. Blink.

"It was on the floor!" she screamed again, as though saying it twice clearly validated her impulsive move that ruined my beverage, my outfit, and my evening. (Ok not really, but I like the dramatic effect.)

She refused to apologize. Her friends were aghast. "Why did you do that?" "What were you thinking?" "It was on the floor!" was all that crazy beotch could reply.

Yes. It was on the floor. I guess my jacket had fallen from the back of my chair. So instead of handing it to me or saying, "Hey! Your jacket is on the floor!" She threw it at my face and my beer. Now, instead of a slightly dusty jacket, I had a beer soaked jacket and a skirt to match. Good job, girl! Way to be a good little helper! Next time, let the drunk singers trample my jacket. I swear it will turn out better for everyone in the end.

Jessica, completely bewildered by what just happened, just kept saying, "I can't even process what just happened!" She was definitely more pissed off than I was. She is also a little more feisty than me, so I made her ask the girl to buy me another beer. Jess made eye contact with Curly and said, "I don't care why you did what you did. I don't care if you thought you were helping or something. Can you at least buy her another beer?" Guess what? She refused.

Her embarrassed friend immediately jumped up and asked what I was drinking. She headed to the bar and minutes later reemerged with a fresh Blue Moon for me. I thanked her and confided in her a secret.

"Hey. Thanks. This kind of thing happens to me all of the time. I really can't go out without getting a beer spilled in my purse or knocked all over me..."

Curly's friend again apologized as I sipped the peace offering.

A few minutes later, Curly and her friends were called up to the microphone to sing. As the opening of the song begins to play, she shouts over the mic, "I'M SORRY! OK!? I'M SORRY!" She said it in the most "I-really-don't-mean-this-at-all" tone of voice you have ever heard. I just nodded silently as I continued mopping up the spilled beer that I just realized had formed a puddle beneath me.

Curly's friend = Classy Lady

Curly = Crazy Crazy Face

To add insult to injury, mean DJ man didn't even let me sing Hanson.

Discuss.