And I Won't Forget the Men Who Died...

The weekend has proven to need more recovery time than I had allotted for.  It was a busy one with lots of opportunities to embarrass myself and/or just kinda look like a jackass in general. But these things happen-to me anyway.
I got happy hour started a little early on Friday at a small neighborhood bar that happens to be known for its pasta, and also just so happens to be along the route of a regionally famous race for charity that draws horrible race for charity people in from out of town every year.
So there I was carbo loading on beer and spaghetti (not for the race, because I didn't even realize it was that time until I couldn't find a place to park-otherwise I totally would've been doing it for the race) when about dinner time I look around and find my group had been surrounded by runner types. With their tight ponytails and sharp features and stud earrings, swaddled in North Face and complaining about how crowded it was and demanding to know why they couldn't be seated.  As a local I'd like to know who recommended this place to these weekend warriors, when the only people who don't look like they're only there for the beer and pasta are the 90's CK commercial bartenders. And even they look like they smoke to stay in shape.
My point is had I known all this was happening I probably would've gone elsewhere-or at least tightened up a ponytail and put on a sleeveless fleece.  OK, I wouldn't have done any of that-but I probably would have passed on the shots and refrained from telling the pinched blonde next to me, "I don't run.  Ever. For anything. Like I would probably lay down and let myself get raped and cannibalized at End of Days.  I mean, but that's not an invitation or anything."

The rest of the weekend I knew exactly what I was getting myself into-the French film festival. There I was among my people -pretentious foreign film goers- when I realize about halfway through that I had without thinking worn a black and white striped top.  Really? To a French film festival? That's like wearing the t-shirt to the concert, or buying cowboy boots to go to Nashville. So effing basic. Excuses: I'm sure it was something in my subconscious. And I was still clouded from the day before.

   --This is like the time I wore a McQueen skull scarf to the Pirate House in Savannah, GA.  I. KNOW.  But I didn't know it would be so themey, all I'd read was that it was fine dining.  Well, fine dining it was not. And there certainly was a knock-off Capt. Jack Sparrow roaming around and interrupting our dinner conversation every ten minutes to call us all scallywags.--

Anyway back to the film festival where after about $100 of wine and tiny cheeses I began pelting my neighbors with the roasted chickpeas I couldn't stab with my fork. I did manage to make friends though, as I somehow always do.  After asking a group of men speaking French at the French film festival if they were Canadian, I introduced them to Betty. A shot of Crown in Redbull a la the Jager Bomb. You're welcome, France!
It is very well known that I am all class, all the time-or as my niece would say 'classy as fuck'. But that's what I'm here for, representing 'Merica.  Just ask any Frenchman.