This is one of those stories that makes my blog slogan make sense. "Today I will be classy and elegant... or I will spill on my shirt and trip over things..."
On Monday night, after work, I decided to go see The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. I really love seeing movies alone. I used to have a therapist but in therapy, you have to talk for an hour and it costs you a lot of dough. In a movie, you get to be quiet for two hours, eat garbage, and it only costs about $15. Winner!
I don't know where you see movies, but when it's my choice, I always pick The Arclight Cinemas. It's a fancier chain, nicer seats, better food choices, fewer kids. It'll spoil you and make seeing anything at the local AMC an intolerable experience.
When I got to the theater, I was starving. And they sell these chicken apple sausages at the concessions stand so I decided to make one my dinner and I said "just a little regular mustard." And I watched him. He was good. He only put a little mustard on it.
You see I know full well that first of all, mustard stains -- it's a bitch to get out, and second, that I tend to spill things.
So I was very, very careful eating that thing. I was downright delicate. And when I'd made all gone, I looked down and I must say, there was nary a spot on my blouse. Well done, me! I watched (and enjoyed!) the rest of the film.
Afterward, I threw my bag on my shoulder and went to the parking cashier window. He was looking at my chest but I'm a busty lady -- a lot of people look at my chest and I'm not particualrly phased by it anymore. But when I got to my car, I got a better look downward. Over the curve of my chest -- the part of my body I don't really see because my boobs stick out so far.
All. Over. My. Shirt. MUSTARD. A ton of it. So much, in fact, I don't even believe it came from my dinner. I asked for just a little, after all, and he obliged. How did I now have such a pile of it on my blouse? Caked on! Layers! And I'd been walking around like that for about 20 minutes by then -- who knows what I'd transferred it to. And now what did I do from there? I couldn't strap my seatbelt on. It would get on everything. It's clumpy, all over, and not even dry.
So I did what any normal, sane person would do. I took my shirt off.
I did. I really did. Right there in the Arclight Hollywood parking garage, I ducked down a bit beside my little car and pulled my shirt off over my head. I was mildly careful but I'm pretty confident a group of guys got a little show. (Whatever, I'm never seeing them again and I look good in a bra.) I draped my blouse over something in the backseat to keep it from crumpling up, and I took my coat out of the trunk and put it on. Of course, my coat doesn't really button over my chest, so I was holding it closed.
And then, because believe it or not my dry cleaners is open 24 hours, I drove straight there. Still holding my coat, and being careful not to jerk the wheel so my draped blouse wouldn't go flying across the car. When I walked in, thhe girl behind the counter only had to look at my shirt for a moment.
"You just did this, eh? It's not even dry..."
And then after my brief explanation: "Holding your coat like that, you look kind of like a flasher."
Yep. Staining my shirt, stripping in parking lots and giving people the impression I'm a pervert. It's what life's all about.
I haven't picked up my blouse yet but I'm cautiously optimistic. Also, next time, I will say loud and clear, "No. No mustard at all. Thank you."
