open mouth, insert foot

Saturday night, after Mr. Risky Business and I almost fell asleep in our chairs at Otherlands (thanks to the potent combination of beer, a cozy dark room and singer-songwriter girls with songs that sound like the sleepy-time music my mom plays her kindergartners at nap time), we headed to my cousin's place for a party. Returning to the scene of the crime, as RB put it, since it was at this fabled duplex back in January that we'd first met.

The party this time around was actually for my cousin's duplex-neighbor-mate. Is that even a thing? I don't know. He lives on the other side and they often leave the doors open. That's the information I have.

Anywho. The party was to celebrate his graduation from college which apparently took just a little bit longer than it takes most folks and thus was even more worthy of massive celebration.

So Mr. RB and I are hanging out, chatting, drinking a beer, and we start talking to this guy who RB knows. They seem to run in similar circles. And at some point something comes up about music, and he asks me what I do. So I say, "Well, I guess I can go ahead and say it's my job -- I do marketing for the Memphis Music Foundation."

And he says, I shit you not: "Oh yeah? My wife applied for that job."

My whole body froze. It felt a little bit like I'd just said, "Yeah, well so's your mom" to someone whose mother had been tragically and unexpectedly beheaded the week prior in a combine accident. ALL ABOARD THE TRAIN TO AWKWARDTOWN. Chugga chugga choo choo bitches!

Turns out, it wasn't such a big deal because she didn't have any media or marketing experience and hadn't been asked to interview. She'd known it was more of a long shot. And she was pretty cool. We chatted for a while about the job and some other stuff, actually, but my memory of it is cloudy. This is perhaps because moments before, Mr. RB and I had been in the kitchen and poking around in the fridge for beer. The choices were Pabst and Bud Light Lime. Mr. RB, knowing what a snob I am, commented that there wasn't anything in there for me. But I, knowing that we were at a house party and sacrifices must be made, said, "Just hand me whatever."

This was an error. Bud Light Lime? It tastes like dish-washing detergent. Seriously. Not even necessarily the green kind. Just detergent. SOAP. The sudsy shit. I think I drank a fourth of the bottle before I just couldn't take it any more. The jug of citronella torch fluid was starting to look more appetizing.

But that one clearly had a label that said, "DO NOT DRINK," so I didn't even think of trying it. Maybe the Bud Light Lime people should consider that, too.


cheers,
elizabeth