She is my Fussy Friend because she will ask the waitress eight times if she's SURE they're out of lemon cake, then send her on an hour-long vision quest into the kitchen to find out whether or not the crust of the apple tart had any nuts of any kind even touching it while it was in the kitchen. She's not allergic or anything - just fussy.
Satisfied with the waitress's dissertation on the start to finish construction of the apple tart starting with its life in the orchard, she orders it, takes one bite, hates it, and then eats my cheese.
She is from New York.
I was excited to go, mainly because the show was in the casino I was not allowed to enter two weeks ago because I was "visibly drunk", whatever that means.
Well, ok, we all know what that means.
I wondered if the bouncer would recognize me sober and feel awful that he didn't permit someone of my stature and poise into his gambling establishment. I would publicly shame him and tell him that no, I will not spend my hard earned money, err, Nick's hard earned money in this filthy arm pit stenched room and he will regret the day he kicked ME out of his casino as everyone within earshot stops in their tracks to chant my name and high five me as I walk away doing the dance to Beyonce's All the Single Ladies.
We were running late and so we decided to valet. Of course when the valet finally made his way to our car we found out that we had to be Triple Fly Supersonic Five Comet members to valet that night. Apparently the old balls with the walker crawling out of the '82 Buick held together with duck tape in front of us had lost enough money in this casino to qualify for valet parking.
With five minutes before show time, we entered the parking garage to find it was completely full and at least three cars were in front of us circling like vultures looking for a spot. This sort of situation makes me extremely anxious for two reasons:
1. I hate being late, especially to something I've paid for, and
2. I become extremely agitated in situations that involve fairness and taking turns.
It seriously takes me weeks to get over someone butting in line, or, even worse, when I've been waiting and the bartender serves someone who just walks up. Europeans are really bad at taking turns and when I was living in Europe I would be waiting patiently in line for the subway, minding my own business. The train would pull up and I would scream "manners... MANNERS!!" as the German business men would elbow me aside once the doors opened to make sure they get a seat on the empty car.
So I knew this situation in the parking garage was either going to make or break my night.
Luckily we found a spot, and arrived five minutes late. Just enough time for me to score a couple of drinks while Stacey held our spots.
"What would you like?" I asked her.
"Oh... I don't want to be fussy. How about... ummm..."
*me looking at my watch and tapping my foot*
"Ummm... just something simple. Vodka pineapple."
"Ok... well then... how about a vodka collins?"
I have no earthly idea what a vodka collins is. All I know is that it came with a cherry and if you were to order something like that in Sedalia it's grounds for a wedgie.
Oh wait, I take that back. I DO know one more thing about a vodka collins. It's what my then 15-year-old sister got very drunk on at my first wedding.
Point and case.
I was disappointed with the show but what I was NOT disappointed in was my seat neighbor and his little friend.
I swear to God that he sat there, for an hour and a half, completely stone faced with one exception. He smiled and raised his hand when when Bob Saget asked the crowd if anyone liked the movie Titanic.