There are a few things I just can’t tolerate in my life. A. Kitten Heels B. Unsolicited Sobriety (meaning no previous substance abuse problems – just sober on principle) C. People who pronounce Parmesan – parm-e-zawn and D. Buzzkills.
A couple months ago, I was forced to be social and go to dinner with a few of my close friends and some of their coworkers. My boyfriend was working and I had already watched 18 vintage Real Housewife episodes and after I was through with that found myself watching The Lizzie McGuire Movie and made an executive decision to get the fuck out of my house. And as Hil Duff once said, “Why not take a crazy chance? If you lose the moment
you might lose a lot so, why the fuck not?” K no more Hilary Duff song lyrics – sorry.
I fluffed my weave, filled my flask (Baby doesn’t like to pay for overpriced drinks when solo) called a cab and I was out. Despite being quite the social butterfly, I have total social anxiety and after arriving at the restaurant immediately regretted my impulse decision. Since I was the first one there I got majorly fucked on seating arrangement. I sat to some girl named **Mary-Kate that looked like she needed a serious Lexapro prescription, a hug and a father. This was going to be rough. I tried to engage in some lighthearted conversation with Mary Kate and she was not having it. Throughout the dinner her chosen topics of conversation were rehab, family death, her boyfriend cheating on her, the death of her childhood pet, her neighbor suffering from a rare blood disease, her quick dabble in bulimia and so on. Can a bitch get a crabcake down before we start the fucking downer parade?
I am no Mary Poppins but come the fuck on. There is a time and place to share your grief and its not at a fucking dinner party. If your woes are self inflicted – you need to just shut the hole on your face. You gained 30 pounds? Stop chewing. You got caught cheating on your boyfriend? Boo hoo whore. You got fired? Get to work, bitch. I just can’t deal. Smile, laugh, sip your cocktail and keep it cute or put it on mute. I should specify that I do seriously enjoy a humorous buzzkill – someone who knows how morbidly depressing they are and simultaneously makes light of their tragedy. Kind of fucked up, but totally up my alley. Of course, you should always feel comfortable confiding in a close friend or relative and it is not a crime to be vulnerable and upset (this is something I am majorly working on… I am open to good therapist recommendations #growth). If it involves terminal illness, dissipation of a relationship, suffering puppies or substance abuse please save it for an intimate cup of coffee and not for a festive outing. For some horrifying reason, I am always the person stuck in the corner of the bar with Fragile Francesca recapping the time her hamster got eaten by a coyote when she was 6 years old and she now has intimacy problems because of it. Fuckin kill me.
Let’s be clear not all attention is good attention. I feel we should all strive to get others attention for positive things like… being a phenomenal dancer, having a third nipple, being a great singer, having a fun spunky attitude, making a delicious quiche! NOT being the only attendant of your pity party.
We all go through rough shit and it is important and humbling to accept that some people will have it way easier and there is always someone struggling more than you. I would like to volunteer as a pioneer woman to break the buzzkill trend sweeping the nation and focus on all the fabulous shit we all have or are going to have in our life. Because honestly, isn’t that way more interesting anyways?
Haute Mess Lesson: It’s never haute to be a buzzkill.