“You’re coming,” Tom said firmly.
“Do I have to?” I groaned. He had just informed me that he had a work BBQ and right when he said it I thought, “Ugh, I don’t want to go.” The thing is, I’m not the greatest at small talk. Plus Tom sometimes will start a conversation with someone and leave me to tend to the kids. Suddenly he seems to forget we exist as he jabbers on. I could probably paint I AM NOT HAPPY on the wall and he wouldn’t notice.
“You’re coming,” Tom repeated. “You’ve skipped a lot of work stuff and some people don’t believe you exist.”
Isn’t that what Facebook is for?
“I’m not making anything,” I said stubbornly. It drives me crazy when men say they have a work function and then stare at their wives expectantly. It’s THEIR work function. Why should WE have to make crap for it?
“I’m just picking stuff up at Wal-Mart,” Tom admitted. Actually, if he had insisted that I make something I’d have done the same. I’d have set a package of cupcakes in front of him and said, “There. I made these.”
So yes, I went to the work BBQ. We settled down on a bench and right away a little girl came up to me.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” I answered.
She kept watching me. What did she want? Where were her parents?
“Have a great day,” I said, which was my polite way of telling her to sod off.
She didn’t leave. In fact, it got worse. Another little girl joined her and they just stood there in front of me. What, did I have Spongebob dancing on my forehead?
Tom was talking to someone of course so he didn’t notice.
“Tom,” I said as one of the girls took a step closer to me. “TOM!”
“What’s in your purse?” one girl asked.
Huh?
“Um, my wallet. Where are you parents?”
“Around. Do you have lotion in your purse?” the girl continued.
“No.”
“Chapstick?”
Okay, purse girl needed to go away. I tugged on Tom’s arm. He had the nerve to look irritated with me. I mean, he had dragged me here in the first place and left me to be accosted by strange children obsessed with my purse.
“Talk to me so the kids will go away,” I said quietly. I eyed the room. “You didn’t tell me that Michael Phelps worked on your flight.” Seriously, some guy bringing in some food looked almost like Michael Phelps.
Tom frowned. “Huh? He doesn’t.”
The girls thankfully rushed off. Phew.
“Which girl was it that texted her boobs to the married man?” I’m not joking. Some girl on Tom’s flight texted her boobs to a married man.
Tom’s eyes bugged out of his head. “Shhhh.”
Shhh. What was this shh business? I didn’t care if Boob Texter overheard. She should be ashamed of herself. She’s lucky she didn’t text her boobs to my husband. I’d have posted the picture on my blog along with her phone number.
I drummed my fingers on top of the table. I wish I was bold enough to march up to someone and start talking. But I’m not. So I just sat there until it was time to eat. I did laugh when a young Airman strolled in and dropped off a package of 20 piece nuggets on the food table. Everyone had to bring something and his choice was nuggets from McDonalds.
“She’s there,” Tom whispered in my ear as I stood in line for food.
He meant the Boob Texter. I turned and looked expecting to see someone like Megan Fox. Instead I found a Roseanne Barr. Okay, not that bad. But still. She was nothing spectacular. I don’t think she has kids so she probably has a nice, never been chewed on rack. I’ll give her that.
I had a compulsion to shout, “BOOB TEXTER!” when I saw her.
But I swallowed it down.
Tom and I settled down to eat and guess who sat across from us? Boob texter. Tom shot me a Look.
Boob texter, boob texter, boob texter…“Is this your wife?” Boob Texter asked.
BOOOOOB TEXTERRRRR!
“Yup. This is Amber. And this is…” Tom gave Boob Texter’s real name but I didn’t care. She’ll always be Boob Texter to me.
“Hello,” I said politely. I wanted to add, “Don’t be texting body parts to my husband.”
I tried to eat neatly. I didn’t want people to tease Tom for having a messy eater as a wife. But, well, I had ribs. And it’s hard to eat ribs neatly. I ended up with sauce on my nose. I had an entire conversation with one of Tom’s work friends with sauce on my nose. Neither he OR Tom mentioned it. They just let me carry on with SAUCE ON MY NOSE. When the guy walked away Tom went, “You have sauce on your nose.” Oh. NOW he tells me.
“Are you going to try one of my cupcakes?” Boob Texter asked Tom. Um, that better not have been a sexual innuendo. The only cupcake he wants to try is mine, thanks.
It turns out she meant REAL cupcakes.
And they were gross.
I’m not being rude. The bottoms were burnt and the frosting looked weird. Maybe if she weren’t so busy texting her boobs to a married man she’d have made them properly.
In the middle of the room some people started to set up Beer Pong, which I thought was a tad strange seeing as children were running around. Plus, getting drunk was not a good idea for me because I’d totally call Boob Texter Boob Texter to her face.
I think Tom pictured the same thing because he was all, “Ready to go?”
Purse Girl started to approach me. Ack! I did not want to answer any more questions about my purse. And what if she asked me about the Beer Pong? Do I tell her about beer? Some parents are really weird about telling their kids about alcohol.
“Let’s go,” I said, jumping to my feet. I practically pulled him out the door.
“See, that wasn’t so bad,” Tom said cheerfully on the drive home.
I suppose not. I got to see Michael Phelps, dodge a strange little girl’s questions and meet the chick who texted her boobs to a married man.
It was sort of like an episode of Maury.
