How To Make An Ass Of Yourself In Beverly Hills.

Supplies: A set of keys.
Step one: Be in Beverly Hills.
Step two: Do what I did.

I had a lunch delivery to make from Oliver Cafe. It’s attached to the uppity-buppity Sports Club/LA. (Looking at it, I’d be afraid to sully the interior with even one drop of sweat from my blotchy workout face.)

Knowing I’d be traipsing around BeHi during daylight hours, I dressed appropriately. Read: Heels. And nothing too alarmingly “po”.

I arrived at Oliver and performed my ritual OHSHITWHEREDOIPARK, then threw on my hazards, popped a “be right back” sign on my dash, and darted across the street.

My sunglasses on, my confidence blazing, I casually walked in behind a well-dressed couple. Were we a handsome threesome? Who knew!

I made my way through the sunny, white, airy cafe, to the take-out counter. As they packed up enough food for a small army, the guy asked “– You come here by yourself?” I nodded yeah. A dash of concern. He handed me two huge bags full of plastic containers of salmon, asparagus, salad, poached tuna, and tiramisu. Then a load of Pellegrino bottles and fresh squeezed OJ in plastic cups.

I balanced and carried it all with my own two hands/arms. Orange juice defiantly squeezed its way through the straw holes.

I carefully made my way back through the cafe, the quiet murmur of conversation and the occasional fork on plate.

It was when I had made it to a clearing in the middle of the restaurant, that the keys I had stuffed in my pants pocket, made a gold-medal Olympic dive to the tiled floor and slid across the room with a “ksshhhhhhhhh” that seemed to last forever.

No one budged to help me. Well, to be fair, they did move their eyeballs in my direction. Enough to size up the situation. My keys sat sprawled on the floor screaming “Economy Honda”.

No? No one? Not even you, guy closest to me? I know you’re with a pretty lady in a mini skirt, but I GOT NO HANDS. — Mkay then.

I sat the drinks down on an empty table, and then made what I hope was the least awkward bend-down, in heels, with 2 tons of take-out food, to pick up my keys. I collected the drinks, then I was out the door.

Thank you, friends of Oliver Cafe. Ladies, gentlemen, colleagues. Chivalry is not dead! Ha-HAA!




2 thoughts on “How To Make An Ass Of Yourself In Beverly Hills.

    You are just like Carrie in the episode when she’s in Paris and she falls across the floor at Dior! Humiliation Supreme. That’s my new band name by the way. Love you girl!

  2. Pingback: How To Make An Ass Of Yourself In Beverly Hills. Again. « THIS IS LALA LAND

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