Monday, July 13, 2015

Canadians and compliments

It was a complimentary weekend.
There were no scrambled eggs and cereal involved (actually, I did eat some eggs), but some other compliments were thrown my way.
Including one from Dana Carvey.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I am one who loves compliments, flattery, attention.
I admit it. (Alex knows it fully, and somehow still thinks being with me is less than aggravating).
I blame my position both as a finding-herself middle kid and the only girl among three male siblings.
But anyway. On to the compliments, and the rest of my fabulous weekend.
It really, ironically, began with an insult.
I was with Alex at a party for one of his friends. We approached the birthday boy, who Alex insists I had previously met, and I told him he was lovely but that I do not remember this meeting that Alex promises me happened on a patio in Hollywood. (I wasn't under any sort of influence, I just don't think that I was actually involved in any sort of conversation with this particular man on that night. Thank you very much.)
But that wasn't the insult.
Someone else ordered a Moscow Mule and Alex asked why the drink is served in a copper mug.
"Because it's pretentious," I said.
Eyes get wider, mine included.
"YOU'RE not pretentious!" I backpedaled. "Just the drink."
Oh that comment fixed everything, Bailey Brewer.
Class. Act.
I'm sure the drink is delicious, but I'm not sure the copper actually adds to the flavor of it and thus is necessary. ... ...
But what do I know? I'm just the girl insulting people I don't really know in a bar.
So after this great start to my weekend, I moved in to Saturday, where I managed to actually fight extreme hunger and the always-there urge to cross stitch and hammer out a draft of the freelance article I'm working on.
Then I got really grumpy and made Alex buy us pizza.
And we watched Friday Night Lights while we ate, because Alex and Abby are currently being ushered into the Dillon Pantherhood, which makes me feel like this inside:
Alex admitted that he watched about 2.5 episodes on his own (i.e. without me there to chaperone and make sure the watching and the paying attention actually happened), and I just about lost it. We walked down the street and I clapped and jumped and he played it off like it was no big deal that he's getting sucked into the drama of Lyla and Riggins and Street and Julie and Tyra just like the rest of us all inevitably do because it's the Panthers and it's Coach and it's Clear Eyes Full Hearts and how can you not fall in love? 
So. Excited. about this.
But moving on.
Saturday night was a night that I really wanted to stay in and cross stitch -- I mean, work on my freelance story -- but Alex and I had signed up for a curling instruction session, and A. was reeeeally excited about it.
So I did one of those relationship sacrifice things and went to keep him company because he was so excited and wanted me to come with.
I admit I was skeptical. I wanted to get it over with so I could stitch and write and sleep at a reasonable hour.
But it turns out hurling stones across ice while your feet freeze over in your shoes is actually quite fun. It's like bocce ball on ice, which is why I think my dad needs to learn how to do it. (The way to my father's heart is to pull him away from whatever he's doing and ask him to play a round of bocce).
And it was at the Learn to Curl event where I received my first compliment of the weekend.
An opposing team member, friendly as ever and who threw quite a great shot of her own, said that she really liked my form, that I was graceful. 
All this after just a few practice shots, which weren't even put into play in the end.
Yeah, check me out with all this new lingo.
And she was Canadian.
A Canadian called my form graceful.
I considered dropping the mic on my curling career right then and there, but decided to be a faithful team member and continue through the rest of the beginners session.
Afterward we went out with my friend Rosie and our curling instructor, both members of the Hollywood Curling Club, and broomstacked, which is a very technical term meaning get a drink after a bonspiel.
I got home close to 2 a.m. So much for cross stitching and early bedtime.
It -- and the sore arms I am experiencing two days later -- was worth it.
And now finally, the final compliment of the weekend, the one we've all been waiting for and eagerly reading through this post for.
Dana Carvey -- aka GARTH -- told me I wore the Garth outfit better than him.
I know. I'm still a little shell shocked myself.
Now. I'm quite certain he was just flattering me, and on his way out the door, and while he was lovely (and adorable and tiny!) I think maybe he just kind of wanted to leave. But it was a small venue and it felt intimate enough that I did what I never do which is ask a celebrity for a picture. But I was dressed like Garth so I had to. I mean c'mon.
And so with that, I drop the mic on my doppelganger Garth career. (Only in part because that flannel shirt is a little too small on me).

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