So it looks like curlers, bra and undies may be the highlight of the night.
Context? Let me bring you up-to-date with whiplash speed. It’s 9pm on Saturday night and I agreed to go to drinks with a girl from work. (First mistake? You decide.)
Actually, it’s landmark birthday drinks for her boyfriend’s basketball mate and needless to say, I’ve never met these sporting aficionados. I’m already flying blind (in more ways than one), and. The girl is Sidewinder. You may consider this a Three Degrees of ‘what the fuck am I thinking? I must be desperate for a night out’ Kevin Bacon kinda … whatever.
I probably should give you greater context or insight, or whatever the kids are on these days, but. I’m sitting in my undies, listening to Wham, drinking vodka, soda and fresh limes, so.
See, I like to prepare for a night out by getting my George Michael on and booty dancing around the lounge room. (What?) Sidewinder says I’m meeting her at 9.30pm, so I work backwards and by 9pm – the face is made up, the hair in curlers and George Michael is peakin’ (like that’s never happened before). Though, the rest of me looks like a paper doll afore you’ve carefully folded an outfit upon it. (That goes on as I go out the door, see.)
Also, it’s probably accurate to note that I have a two-hour window where I look kick-ass and after that, I’m waning like a supermodel in high wind (even that might be ambitious).
Timing is everything, people.
Sidewinder sends me a text at 9.01pm: “Oh, hey! Change of motherfucken plans! Meet you later. Like, much later, you early-peaking loser. No worries if you’re in curlers & undies ready to go. Allow me to fuck with your supermodel window. Whatev’s, it’s not like it matters, yo!”
Or something to that (non-vodka) effect. I paraphrase.
So here I sit. Three sheets to the Mae West. My vodka Too Funky and taking effect whilst I watch my august window fade into the distance like the hopes and dreams of an errant child.
“Sorry, kid. You peaked early, what can I say.” (Loser.)
Story of my. The moment when I am in glorium, my hair flowing in the, my eyelashes curling like the toes of a leading-Hollywood-actress in the throes of any requisite rom-com finale, I remain unseen. Then. When the Lead is ready to run across an airport for me, the apparent-epitome of true love, where am I? Oh yeah! Asleep and dreamin’, that’s where.
Real life. It bites like an ant in your most intimate proverbial.
But, wait. What is this (at 10pm)? A text from Sidewinder, behold! The fucken hoe is ready. Let the curlers release and the night exult. And in the immortal words of Buddy Ackerman:
Avoid women directors. They ovulate.
Do you have any idea what that does to a three month shoot?