A Saucy Story: Attack at the pastry party

I was struck down last week by that lame half-cold thingy that’s going around.  It didn’t hit nearly hard enough to justify laying on the couch and moaning about life’s injustices, instead just mushing up the contents of my brain and rendering a week-long series of what political observers call ‘gaffes'.

Despite my handicap, I elected to go to a friend’s party on the Saturday night, feeling like ‘temporary stupidity’, wasn’t a good enough reason not to.  The thing about me and parties is, as I’ve gotten older and less cocksure I’ve developed a pervasive and often disruptive fear of ‘the walk in’.  I always feel like I’m going to forget the name of a good friend, or fail to recognize anyone I know, forcing that awkward, standing-around-panning-the-middle-distance-as-anxiety-rises-by-the-second kind of scenario.  The whole thing is rendered a million times worse if it’s dark, because then you’re forced to peer into an indiscriminate cluster of loud drunk people, trying to pick out which loud drunk people are your friends.

Hence the hesitancy to go in my compromised state.  And of course, my fear ended up being a self-fulfilling prophecy, because upon walking up to the door I was faced with a big fat sign reading; ‘go around the side please!’  I sighed and proceeded toward the noisy, chattering back yard.  Staring into the darkness, I cursed loudly as I noticed the costumes.  Great!  Now not only was I that girl who didn’t dress up, I couldn’t for the life of me make out who anyone was.  Feeling alternately panicked and sorry for myself, I lumbered around awkwardly until Jim, the birthday boy, saved me from myself.  

‘Hey, you!’  He beamed.

‘Oh hi!’  I noticed a large cardboard structure around his neck and pawed at it clumsily.  ‘Is this a camera?’

Now it was Jim’s turn to look sorry for me.  ‘It’s Star Trek!  The theme, Katie!’

‘Oh.’  I had nothing.

Cursing my stupid brain for forgetting the theme and proceeding to make that fact glaringly obvious to the person whose idea the theme was, I made an excuse and ran inside to where there could be no more darkness-induced incidents.  There, I hid in the corner eating chips and attempting to compose myself.  Just when I figured I was about to hit that critical mass whereupon lone-chip-eating becomes loner-eating-chips, I spied another un-costumed guy wandering around aimlessly.  Noticing me, he swanned over.

‘So, what’s your excuse?’

‘I’m sick.’  I said, immediately realising I should have thought of a better line.  He seemed unimpressed, and this set the general tone of our discussion.  It was one of those conversations that you’re only engaging in because the other option is to stand there alone.  Both of us keenly aware of this fact, there seemed to be this sort of mutual resentment developing, because we were both mildly shitty that we even had to be talking to eachother in the first place.

 

‘Do you like running?’  I asked at one point.

‘Running?’  He replied with a smirk.  ‘Are you kidding me?’ 

I can’t stand those types of responses.  It’s not that I give a shit about your feelings toward exercise, it’s because if you say something like that, it completely shuts down that line of conversation, forcing me to labour to come up with an entirely new thread of acceptable discourse, when I don’t know you and the options are limited as it is.  Anyway. 

It was into this setting that Caitlin emerged from being hidden under a cape all night and announced that she was plating up some homemade vegie sausage rolls.  Both loner boy and I perked up at this news, making a B line for aforementioned pastries.  A couple of bites in, I noticed my unlikely buddy was indulging in some seriously smushy double dipping action.  Seeing an opportunity for a playful dig, I swooped in.

‘I saw you double dip.’  I whispered in faux-disciplinarian voice.

‘What?’  He yelled, apparently having suddenly gone deaf.

‘I saw you double dip!’  I repeated, with emphasis I had not originally intended on including. 

The look he gave me caused me to check I hadn’t accidentally told him his mother was a whore.  He was silent, staring sharp daggers at me.

Concerned, I attempted to back-peddle.  ‘I didn’t mean to….’

Too late.  ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’  He yelled.  ‘You need to chill out!’ 

This would have been quite enough reproachfulness, and I was just about to open my mouth to explain when he beat me to it.

‘What is your fucking problem?’  At this point his eyes became possessed by some sort of double dipping demon, and he extended his hand, tore my veggie sausage roll from my grasp, and proceeded to smash it, saliva side down, into the sauce bowl.  He smeared it around until it was a complete mess, then, staring mockingly into my face, shoved it back into my hand.

I was in utter shock.  I looked back at him, at a loss, before whispering quietly ‘It was just a joke.’

His expression turned quickly from incredulous disbelief to mortification.  ‘Oh, um, I guess I should be the one to chill out.’  He said, sheepish.  But the damage had been done.

There was a time when I would have laid into a meany like this, but all I could feel was a weak sense of injustice.  I turned around, wondering what I had done to cause him to develop so much hatred for me so quickly, and walked off.

I’m becoming such a pussy as I get older.  In the past I would have exploded and then felt a bit guilty afterwards.  Lately, I’m becoming familiar with that you-done-me-wrong feeling, because I don’t pipe up the way I used to.  I’m not sure why, exactly.  I think it might just be that brainless confidence of youth waring off.  I guess I just need to accept that I shouldn’t go out unless I’m feeling 100%.  And if you’re reading this, tomato sauce boy, fuck you.     

PS.  Yes I did still eat the sausage roll.  It was lovingly made and I was really hungry.  Obviously I would have preferred less sauce.