I had lunch with a good friend recently. We have been friends for over fifteen years. We've worked together and we've played together, and suffice it to say we've had our share of laughs over the years. I won't go into great detail, but I will say that we used to bowl together, and beer was our dinner on those nights. We also ran up a close-to-three-digit bar tab, just the two of us, for my birthday, and a sombrero was nearly killed that evening. Ah, good times.
During our lunch, she told me that she was proud of the work I'm doing, and that I show class and poise in my interviews. I was touched and flattered, and then we both burst out laughing, because we both knew the real me, the one who drops her bowling ball, trips over sidewalk cracks, and is usually a klutz, even before alcohol is imbibed. I had to tell her that while I was in Reno, as I was leaving the podium after my presentation, I walked out of my shoe and almost fell on my face. In front of several big-wigs, of course. But that's how I roll, usually right down to the floor.
Remember when I told you about the workers' comp amendments I was working on? Well, I got a call last week, asking me to offer testimony before the Senate Executive Committee hearing held today. Then this morning, I got a phone call asking me if the provision could be called The Uhl Act. Of course I agreed, and then I hung up and cried.
As I was getting ready, I flipped on the TV and caught the last few minutees of The Birdcage - Robin Williams, Gene Hackman and drag queens. Get it on Netflix if you haven't seen it. Anyway, at the end, they all dance to We Are Family, and of course, that made me cry again, but it was a happy cry. I took that as a sign that my girls were with me, just like they were last year.
After getting to Springfield and through security without incident (shocking, I know, given my brush with airport jail), I met with the senator, and we headed up to the senate chambers. He explained that when our bill was called for discussion, we would sit at a table up at the front of the room, in full view of the spectators and senators, and after he introduced the bill, he told me I could say "whatever I wanted." Oh sir, if only I could, if only. But I decided to be a lady and not say something that would end in a trip to Legislative Jail. Look at me, with the class and poise.
Our bill is called, and we stand up and walk up to the aforementioned table. Fortunately, it's a short walk because as I sit down, my pants feel a bit loose, as if I have might lost a few pounds in the last few minutes, but no, nothing that amazing, my damn suit pants have come unzipped. I mentally slap myself upside the head, try like hell not to laugh, and send up a prayer of thanks that I didn't split the backside of my pants and that I can give the testimony sitting down. Class and poise - that's me all over.
After the bill was introduced and I gave my testimony, the amendment passed unanimously, and I managed to stand up, discreetly insure that my jacket covered my zipper, and exit the chambers without anyone pointing and laughing at me, without falling off my shoes, and without any other articles of clothing coming undone - a major victory.
I ducked into the ladies room and put myself back together, giggling to myself and remembering my friend's comment about class and poise, and knew I'd have to email her when I got home and share my stupidity. Funny thing - I had an email from her waiting for me. It's like she knew I'd have a story for her.
Here is the story in our local paper, without the wardrobe malfunction.