Reason No. 427 Why The Royal Family Won’t Invite Me To Dinner Any Time Soon
Posted by Moose on September 17th, 2009. Filed under: Adventures.A friend and I were having sushi tonight when an unagi roll slipped from my chopsticks and landed in my shallow dish of soy sauce, sending a dark tidal wave straight toward me. Brown splotches bloomed all over my pink shirt and soy sauce dripped from my elbow. She snickered softly while I shrugged and fished what was left of my roll out of the sauce and popped it in my mouth.
“At least it wasn’t a first date,” she said.
“Oh, but it so often is,” I replied, a bit grimly. These things do seem to happen to me. “It’s a good litmus test,” I continued. “They either find it charming or utterly revolting. It’s good information for everyone to have.” She nodded sagely. She’s watched me eat for the last 16 years.
You can always figure out where I was sitting at a dinner party, because mine is the plate with a crumb circumference of anywhere from four inches to a full foot. I’m a menace with a bread knife. I’m not sure when I escaped the barn in which I was raised, but it was obviously after I learned to handle utensils. A nice complement to my general inability to manage spatial relations. Especially as those relations relate to my limbs.
Years ago, I was going out with a very nice guy who was also a DJ. He liked his music. Actually, he had a rabid and obsessive love for it that drastically improved my own taste while also shunting me from his life forever because I couldn’t keep up with the trivia. The first time I went over to his house, I knocked a glass of water into a box of his records. He didn’t keelhaul me, or even point me toward the nearest bus stop, possibly because he has the forbearance of a saint, but more likely because the sex was so good. (Yes, I said it.) (Sorry.) (Remember what I said about my manners?) (IT’S SUCH A HANDY EXCUSE.)
To sum up: Emily Post should exile me to Siberia or I should enroll immediately in a remedial How Not to Behave Like a Rabid Dingo seminar. Because rabid dingos ALWAYS forget to pour their companion’s wine before their own. And they take the last petit fours without asking. It’s positively unsavory.
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September 17th, 2009 at 8:39 am
I vote for charming and genuine. You are just fine.
September 17th, 2009 at 9:46 am
I think it’s always charming to have quirks like that. HW cannot eat anything without making a giant mess, and I adore it. I, on the other hand, regularly fall over for absolutely no reason.
September 17th, 2009 at 9:50 am
Well, if it counts for anything, you’re a far classier eater than I…then again, that’s not saying much at all =)
September 17th, 2009 at 10:03 am
Back in college I was walking with my boyfriend back to his dorm from the food court. I tripped over my own feet and face planted in the middle of the street in a flourish of flying chicken strips and iced tea.
We’ve been married for five years.
September 17th, 2009 at 10:06 am
At least it was a sushi roll and not a pig-in-a-blanket. You’ve got class, woman!
xox
September 17th, 2009 at 10:34 am
Your record-obsessed boyfriend story reminds me of a similar thing that happened to me. I was once dating a DJ and while I was carrying out a case of rare, vintage 7 inches after his set, I dropped the entire case on the floor with a clatter! I expected him to be pissed, but instead he laughed at me and helped me clean them up, before pulling me onto the dance floor. It was pretty sweet. I guess you have to expect some level of klutziness when you date eccentric girls?!
September 17th, 2009 at 11:28 am
You and I really will get along famously.
September 17th, 2009 at 11:35 am
When I was little, my mother forbade me from eating mustard after one too many spills on my clothes. Yellow mustard is from outer space and does not come out of anything.
So, um, yeah. Right there with you.
September 17th, 2009 at 12:20 pm
Just this week I had soy sauce all over my white bedspread.
KINDRED SPIRITS UNITE (in just over a week!! YAY!)
September 17th, 2009 at 12:26 pm
My husband shakes his head and laughs every time I spill, knock over, run into, step on, trip over, or ram my bony elbows into something. I’m a walking disaster. Always have been (ask my parents), always will be.
My name shouldn’t have been Karen, it should have been Katrina.
September 17th, 2009 at 2:34 pm
My Grandma, TO THIS DAY, still talks about how when I was little and we would go to restaurants, it would usually take 2 minutes before I spilled my entire glass of water/milk/whatever all over the table. And then I would literally cry over spilled milk.
Alas, not much has changed these days. Including the time I spilled BEER on my PANTS, like in the CROTCH AREA, on a blind date!
That guy is currently engaged to some other woman now.
September 17th, 2009 at 7:59 pm
I feel your pain. Once, a place I used to work for as a receptionist was going to have a Very Important Meeting with various members of federal law enforcement, FCC directors, the whole shebang. And precisely 10 seconds before they walked through the door, I reached for my cup of ice water… and spilled it. Luckily for me, the dress I was wearing was such a dark navy, you couldn’t tell I’d soaked the front of it. Alas, however, there was also a large cube of ice lodged in the depths of my cleavage and I couldn’t do anything but stand there and smile as I greeted our visitors.
September 17th, 2009 at 11:59 pm
I didn’t know you were all into sushi and shit. You should join us at our favourite place over here in the E.B.
Please, join us. Really, I would love that. Please.
-Simon
September 18th, 2009 at 11:33 am
I also am in the klutz club while I was backpacking in Ireland I met this guy who was letting me stay at his place and on the first night I spilled a glass of red wine all over his white couch…..then to make up for it the next day I decided to do a little cleaning and I broke two beer bottles
September 19th, 2009 at 9:05 am
my first date with my guy, was a breakfast date. He ordered the sloppiest breakfast, and it was sliding off his fork and all that, he later admitted (and still does) that he was afraid I would never go out with him again. On the flipside, thankfully, the clutz that I am, he thinks it’s endearing when I run into things and drop things, thank goodness.
September 21st, 2009 at 11:06 am
“You can always figure out where I was sitting at a dinner party, because mine is the plate with a crumb circumference of anywhere from four inches to a full foot. I’m a menace with a bread knife. I’m not sure when I escaped the barn in which I was raised, but it was obviously after I learned to handle utensils.”
Yeah, me too. I LOVE the way you put that: I’m not sure when I escaped the barn in which I was raised…
September 25th, 2009 at 3:46 pm
Ok, last week, in front of my boss’s boss, whom I never get to see because we are on opposite coasts, I tried to eat pizza at a meet n greet.
I put the soggy slice on my plate and tried to cut it (standing up) with my fork. No go. So I picked it up and it flopped over. So I held it up high and lowered it into my gaping mouth. Where the cheese and sauce slid off in one messy hunk and flapped over my chin, while the crust stayed aloft.
THAT’s the way we do it!