I’ll admit it. I’m happy for Charles and Camilla. Sure she’s horsy, hideous, and in-bred. Yep, he’s uptight, ugly, and a mama’s boy. But those two seem to make each other happy and god bless ‘em, it’s about time. I certainly hope that I don’t have to wait 30 years to marry the love of my life. But maybe I’m too picky. I mean, I would never wait 2 hours at the Bar of Le Colonial for some tweed encrusted Eva Braun with a visible thong to grace me with her non-controversial presence. I’m speaking, of course, of Jason.
Jason, it seems, will go out with anyone, under any circumstances, at least twice. He will even allow himself to be fixed up by ex-girlfriends (of which there are hundreds) which is what led him to sip water for 2 hours in the middle of MY fabulous bar recommendation. Eva Braun (I call her that because she has some long German name with 17 vowels in it) appeared 2 hours late. Apparently, she got caught up at work, then called to say she had to go home first and freshen up. Excuse me? I didn’t quite catch that. You’re already appallingly late, so you’re going to swing by home first and reapply mascara?
Thus, there he sat, bored out of his mind, bitching to me via the ever popular text message.
Beth: Why don’t you just reschedule?
Jason: I do not reschedule.
Beth: Oh. Pardon me. Well, I do not wait 2 hours for any man.
Jason: Touche. By the way, she better be hot.
Beth: She better put out!
Hours later, my phone rings. Apparently, she’s “too nice”, had the thong coming out of the back of the jeans, and was wearing last season’s blazer. As far as I’m concerned, none of that even matters. The girl was 120 minutes late! She could’ve had Downs Syndrome, she could’ve been a skinhead, she could’ve brought her illegitimate children with her. All of that- combined -would be better than making someone wait alone at a bar for 2 hours. I pity the man that tries to make me wait at Le Colonial for hours, watching the clock and feeling like an idiot. I’d politely stick around till he showed up, order the most expensive glass of wine imaginable, and casually throw it in his face. Then, I would thank him for a lovely evening, wink at the bartender, and sashay my stunning self out of there. Call me Camilla, but I’d rather wait 30 years for my prince than wait 2 hours for some schmuck, who, when he finally does show, isn’t that great AND has his underwear sticking out of clothes…