You know that moment when you're on the spot and you can't think of a goddamn thing to say - and then the moment passes and you have a million brilliant comebacks? Such was the scenario when 32 ounces of lemonade landed in my lap at the Helium Comedy Club
in Portland recently. If that's not a compelling lead-in to a story, I don't what is. Lemonade landing in someone's lap? Stop the presses! It's what I imagine it would be like living at Britney Spears' house
, except with less Cheetos.
Anyway, on with this (literally) show-stopping event. My husband and I were in the second row, all set to see Kevin Nealon
. The brilliant Dax Jordan
was warming up the crowd. Our sweet waitress was slipping silently through the audience, filling drink orders. Suddenly her wrist gave out and, you guessed it - the slow motion tumble of syrupy sweet beverage to black pants began. I saw it happening and didn't even move out of the way; I just let it cascade onto me. (I've mentioned this before, but I'd like to reiterate that I'm not someone you want around in an emergency.) The show was packed, we were in front of a sold-out crowd, and Dax was killing it. Therefore I attempted to pretend like nothing was wrong. This is where my severe codependency
kicks in: I didn't want to ruin the show for everyone else
, so I tried to act like it didn't happen. The show must go on, regardless of the fact that a swimming pools' worth of liquid now resided in my panties! I attempted to staunch the flow with a paltry cocktail napkin, while surrounding tables handed me whatever paper they had available.
Well, Dax, being the consummate professional, couldn't help but notice the kerfuffle and deftly wrapped it into his act. He tried to engage us, asking how long we'd been together and questioning why we weren't freaking out more over the incident. I was tongue-tied. (Later I came up with the "it's the wettest I've been since I got married" comeback. I also later devised an inspired analogy involving lemons and puckered lips that's too dirty to go into here. I'm sure you can use your imagination. But alas, another missed opportunity. This also illustrates why I'm not a standup comic; on-the-fly is not my gift.) My husband lobbed a few banters; meanwhile I was praying that everyone would forget that I actually really should be leaving but was instead choosing to stay out in public with soaked underwear. All I can say is Kevin and Dax should feel flattered - and perhaps send a thank-you note to my mom for making me the unrelenting people-pleaser I am today.
I made it through the show. My pants slowly dried, the club cleared our tab and sent over comp tickets for a future show, my husband praised my stubbornness and I got what I came for: quality comedy and free edible panties.
: This closely mirrors my situation, although I was wetter and have bigger boobs. Geez, why do I suddenly feel like I'm reading Fifty Shades of Grey
? I do still feel a little heartbreak over the evening. While I was perfectly willing to keep my wet ass in that seat, I was too embarrassed to approach the comedians after the show. And it's a shame because there really can't be a better conversation starter than, "I'm the girl from the second row with the soaked underwear" to get the ball rolling. ]