Last week I had the distinct privilege of spending an entire week in Texas. Before reading, please tease your hair so it’s big, poofy and preferable blonde. Put on your largest belt buckle, and a big cowboy hat. Bonus points if the hat has cow hide with the fur still attached…
I arrive late Monday night and check into The Hotel ZaZa. It was amazing. Super chic, very sexy. There was a big bed right in the lobby and a huge color changing chandelier. What is better than that? Not a whole lot. I check in, am shown up to my room by a bellman and discover I am starving. The only place open in the hotel at the moment is the hotel bar, Dragonfly.
I sit at a small table against the wall, order a Bellini and a Kobe Beef Burger. As I’m waiting for my food, an older woman sits down two tables over. She is wearing a very tight black dress with a halter-top. She is suffering from a condition I call “bra sausage.” Bra sausage is when a woman wears a bra that is way too small causing the excess boob that won’t fit in the cup to ooze over the top. Over the dress she is wearing a full-length coat with a HUGE faux fur collar. She has the requisite large Texas hair, has had at least one face-lift, and is wearing enough makeup for at least 3 of her old lady friends. I think I may actually be looking at the original Debbie, from Debbie Does Dallas.
As she settles in, I notice her staring at me. She then starts making comments in my direction, trying to engage me in conversation. I give her a half smile and nod instead of speaking to her, making a point not to make eye contact. Once you make eye contact with someone like this, you are doomed. Even from two tables away I can tell she is C-R-A-Z-Y.
The half conversation continues with further questions from granny porn star, the entire time staring straight at me. “I haven’t been to this bar in ages!” “There are always such good looking men here.” “You come here often?” “Are you from out of town.” Refusing to be tricked into actually conversing with this woman, I pretend not to hear her. Then it dawns on me. Debbie is trying to pick me up! Insert puking noise. I get the shivers now even thinking about it. Dinner has now turned into Operation Igonorez Vous Debbie.
I finally get my food, and start eating. The woman leans closer to me and says, “That burger looks so good. I wonder,” she continues, her voice dripping in innuendo, “if it’s always better if it’s thicker?”
Did she just ask what I think she asked? Thicker? Did she just say thicker to me? Wha! I have a sneaking suspicion that she is not talking about hamburgers. Can she really mean what I think she means? I look over and she is looking me up and down. Holy hell. Yeah, she means exactly what I thought she meant. I am so disgusted that I am afraid I may pass out. I don’t know what to do. What can I do to get this woman to leave me alone? Tell her I’m married? No that would only encourage her. Tell her I’m not into women who get a seniors discount at McDonalds? No, she has a knife on her table and I’d like to leave the bar alive.
Then it comes to me. I know exactly how I can get this dirty old blue hair to leave me alone. I take a swig of my bellini, point at my chest and mouth the word, “Gay.”
She stares at me for a second, then says, “I need to run to the ladies. Will you watch my coat?”
Thinking this is the best way to get out of the situation, I hurry and finish my food and run to the nearest shower. Her coat can fend for itself.
The next day I wake up with a migraine. Oh, the joys of traveling. Not having any migraine medicine with me, I decide to grin and bear it. I have clients to meet and I flew all the way to Texas to see them. No silly little migraine is going to keep me from doing that!
My first meeting of the day goes swimmingly. Everyone loves me, loves my shirt, loves my shoes, loves Sundance. It’s a love fest all around! I return to the parking garage, get into my car and attempt to leave the building. I think to myself, “Wow, there are a lot of pedestrians…” I can’t leave the garage due to the sheer number of people walking in the street. I sit there and wait. And wait, and wait and wait. I am trying to be patient, trying to ignore the pain behind my eyes, but my patience is GONE. I roll down my window and as I’m about to start screaming obscenities at the passers by, I look to my left and see the cop cars. Six of them. I look to my right and see a huge crowd has gathered in the intersection, completely blocking traffic. There are five more cop cars in that direction. I also notice about a dozen officers in full riot gear. Big plastic shields, billy clubs, and gas masks.
“This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.” I realize I am smack in the middle of a protest. I had heard about these demonstrations on CNN. I know they have something to do with the American Government wanting to ship all the illegal immigrants back to where they came from. I know that these protests are supposed to be peaceful, but the S.W.A.T. team down the street has totally freaked me out. My head starts pounding, my heart is beating harder than when I tried on a pair of $950 Prada sandals, and I think I may pee my pants.
“SIR IN THE SILVER VOLKSWAGEN! YOU MUST LEAVE THE PREMISES IMMEDIATELY!”
One of the police cruisers has stopped almost directly in front of the exit to the parking structure I am trapped in. He is yelling at me over his P.A. system. I motion with my hand, trying to say to him, “Do you want me to run these people over?” He motions back saying, “Don’t worry jackass. They’ll move.”
I pull forward tentatively, glancing to my right at the large crowd of protestors. As I do I see one of the Hispanic kids take a swing at a police officer with an umbrella. All hell breaks loose. The cops grab the kid, handcuff him and take him away. The rest of the crowd starts screaming and lunging toward the remaining officers who start lobbing tear gas into the crowd. I immediately think that this is it. I’m going to die. I’ll be hit by a stray bullet. Friendly fire they will call it. It will all be very sad, and will of course make national news. Although my death will be tragic, it will end the conflict between the U.S. Government and the irritable illegal immigrants. I may even get some kind of medal and have a monum…“SIR. MOVE! NOW!”
I manage to weave my way through the crowd to my next meeting, which is only three blocks away. I pull into yet another parking garage, find a space and realize two things. I am 45 minutes early for my meeting and I feel like I’m gonna yack. Yup definitely gonna yack. I open my door and empty my stomach next to the car. The migraine and the excitement of the near death experience were just too much.
I decide to find another parking space. I don’t want to be parked next to my own vomit. That’s just trashy. I move up two levels and decide to take a nap to see if that will make the migraine go away. As I recline my seat and close my eyes, I think, “Good Lord, I am sleeping in my car, in a parking garage in the middle of the day. I am one step above homeless.” When I got back to my hotel that evening I sent my friend Tracy an e-mail telling her what had happened. Her response comforted my greatly.
“I spent most of my twenties puking and sleeping in strange cars. Is there something wrong with that?”
Words to live by.
