Gorgeous flowers and pink lemonade are the only white wine girl props in my apartment.
During grad school, I landed a less-than-part-time catering job with a woman best known for being married to a musician who toured with Beck and being the sister of an indie songstress. She also had a lot of her own hipster cred from working in the Seattle music scene around the time Nirvana made it big. By the time I met her, she was working as a personal chef.
I didn’t know any of her back-story when she hired me. I just knew she was crazy nice and let her staff fuck around an awful lot. The pay was shit, but sometimes you can’t put a price on a cool boss.
After a few months of working private parties in wealthy people’s houses, I was scheduled at some sort of warehouse fashion show. The event was packed to the gills with white wine girls, which is not so much derogatory as descriptive. White wine was, in fact, flowing. Everyone was wearing scarves indoors, kissing people they barely knew on the cheek, and laughing really loudly.
I was wearing black slacks and a granny shirt underneath an apron and attempting not to stick out too terribly much, though because by then I’d learned how badass my boss was, I figured I could show up a bit grungy and not incur any penalties. In fact, that particular night, I’d been told that I could have some extra swag. Accordingly, I was fiercely guarding my haul while also trying to work the room.
At some point, a woman sidled up to the table where I was leaning, puff pastry tray in one hand, guarding my four claimed goodie bags with the other. I tried to push the carbs her way, but she immediately zeroed in my stash.
“Ooh, do you get extras?!” she asked with way too much enthusiasm. I’m making fifty bucks tonight. Damn straight I do, I thought. Instead I cooed, “Maaaaaaybe!”
Then I realized she might tell my boss that I was taking so much free Sephora shit, despite not knowing what most of it was. (I still have no idea what I should have done with four vials of what appeared to be water from Shu Uemura. I slathered it all over my face for a few months before deciding it was toner and I was using it wrong. How angry does my ignorance make our beauty writers?)
So, I decided to play nice.
“Do you want some of my condoms?” I offered, reaching into one of the bags.
“Reaaaaaally?” she shrieked.
“Sure,” I said happily, handing her a wad of rubbers. “It’s totally fine. I have a lonely vagina!”
Friends, it did not occur to me that this was not the thing to say. I guess that’s why I write for a site like xoJane. In my life, of all the things I have said, I still consider this to be one of the most amusing, awesome phrases I’ve ever proclaimed to a complete stranger.
If you must know what would possess me to even have that sort of language floating around in my weird little brain, I borrowed the phrase from a family member who once wished aloud that her vagina would be lonely. I, on the other hand, just happened to be single and thus had no immediate need for condoms. Sounds like maybe she had it a bit worse than I did.
You basically know how this ends, right? I didn’t see or hear my boss walk up behind me as I said this. You’d think for all for all the things she’d probably lived through, she might have just thought my singleton proclamation was funny. And while she didn’t fire me on the spot, she never called me to work a catering event again.
I almost wish I had a better story of a boss hauling off on me before letting me go, but thankfully, I don’t really go around getting canned. Can you top this?