The one where it doesn’t occur to me to put the beer down in order to pull my shirt up

In addition to everything else going on yesterday (Tim coming home, taking him to drop off his rental car, going to Frazier’s, laundry, cleaning the house a bit, getting the kiln packed and ready to fire, going to do a soap inventory and drop-off at the new place HaldeCraft is selling locally – I have mentioned that, right?)… last night was Third Thursday, and that means spinning.

We meet at Wild Iris Books/Cafe Colette, and lately we’ve been sitting on the bookstore side in order to accommodate the dinner patrons in the cafe; but last night the cafe was closed so we pushed the tables back and took up a lot of space.

However, they didn’t have any beer, so since I had gotten there early I walked down about four blocks to Gator Beverage to get a sixpack or two in case anyone wanted beer. I also got a soda while I was there.

About half a block into my walk back, I realized my slight miscalculation. Try carrying two six-packs, and a large soda. How many hands do you have? Because I only have two. Which means the soda was wedged under my arm. Which I suppose would have been fine – it was only about four blocks, after all. Except that I was wearing a handknit top, one I made out of cotton. It was just a little too large when I made it, and the cotton has stretched, and it already had a fairly open neckline and had a tendency to go all Flashdance on me anyway… so imagine my surprise when it started to fall off one shoulder.

Now, I was wearing a tank top (and a bra) so nothing was REALLY revealed, but it was starting to make me chuckle, because… well, let’s just say that it’s a Working Girl kind of neighborhood. So there I am, walking out of the sleezy beer shop with two six-packs, looking like a Working Girl who just got off work for the day. It looks like I’m celebrating. Whooo! I had enough Johns today that I can afford TWO six-packs! Whooooooo!!!! And that sort of makes me start to smile. And my sleeve keeps slipping farther and farther down my arm, and pretty soon I’m giggling… and then I start to think like I look like the CRAZY prostitute, walking down the street so happy that she made enough to buy two six-packs and possibly some crack because she’s smiling and laughing to herself… and the more I think of how nuts I am, the more I laugh, and the more nuts I look. And then it reminded me of that time that Sharon locked herself out of her apartment at night in her pajamas and fuzzy slippers, and how she had to walk about ten blocks to a friend’s house to get a copy of her key, and then I’m laughing even harder.

Did it occur to me to … put the beer down and pull my sleeve up? OF COURSE NOT. That would have made far too much sense. And wouldn’t have been nearly as funny.