Sometimes…

I wish I was “on-spot-witty”. A “Witty Witterson”, if you will.

I mean, I AM witty… I HAVE wit – it just takes awhile. Ya know, like classic cars – they don’t disappoint. They just need time to warm up. That’s me. And that is why writing is a far better measure of the depth of my potential than speaking. I need time to rev up that ‘ol engine. I need a delete key – for my mouth.

Let me support my claim with an example. One evening a few gals and I went to a local bistro to kick up our heels for a bit. My husband was unable to join us for the toe-tapping fun (ya know, to let the fellas know, “I gotta man”). He had kid duty.

That night, a few people of the opposite gender approached me. Ahem, and one person NOT of the opposite gender too. The fact that I was not a ladies’ lady didn’t seem to faze her. Regardless – whether it was The Fellas or The Lady – I think the earth was off it’s axis that night, ‘cuz all that approachin’ ain’t normal for a gal like me. I wasn’t even wearing, prolly, my awesomest shirt.

Anywho… an older-type-man approached. Not old enough to be my dad “old”; but more like old enough to be the dad of some kid I used to baby-sit “old”. Yeah, like that. Super. It’s never the hotties.

See Hubby, you can’t even really be jealous. Actually, it’s OK if you feel disappointed in me – ‘cuz I wasn’t representin’ the hotness you know I are. Yes, I used “are”. It’s plural… because I have many, many hotnesses… Apparently hotnesses only detectable by the crazies. Dogs to dog whistles come to mind…. I digress.

Anywho… the old man who was aged enough that I could have baby-sat his children says to me, “So. Where does a girl like you come from?”

As I said before – I am not witty on the fly, nor did I bring my clue-phone with me. So I answer innocently, “Poulsbo.”

**think Shirley Temple** I may have even curtsied…

The man tilted his head and laughed in a “Ladies Man” sorta way. He may have been holding a bottle of Courvoisier. “No… I mean, where does a girl like you come from? Do you have some Italian in you or something?” At this point I am remembering I may have put my clue phone in my jacket pocket… and I think I heard it ringing from across the room…

Italian??? *waving hands above head*

Seriously???

Whitey Whiterson here! *more above-head hand waving*

I was hesitant to state the obvious – “I’m white” – because I am way more than a color! So, being the witty-zany-I’m-taken-see-my-ring kinda gal that I am – I said, “I’m Polish. Irish. Some Bohemian. I think. Mostly just boring ‘ol European.” At least I didn’t call myself a “Mutt”.

He tried to continue, but my adult onset ADHD was kicking in. I wanted to get back to dancing ’cause Bobby Brown was boomin’ on the stereo system… Hello! But before I fled he asked about my boundless energy. I told him, “I’m practicing tryout moves for the next Dance War with Bruno and Carrie Ann.” “I’m a runner, so I have a lot of endurance.”

Delete. Delete. Cntrl+Alt+Delete!

I finally took my chances at being rude and said, “Um, I really like this song so I need to go dance now…. aaand I’m married.” Maybe I should have picked my nose with my ring finger, just for that extra touch…

*mnbvmfhssdhkjdfguyiurwbefkjbvjsbfkjhajkfoiuegfibjkcjahbkcekhgkejrfh*

Rewind… Let’s play that scenario again, but this time we’ll send in “Witty On the Spot, Jenny”:

“So, where does a girl like you come from?”

“Heaven.”

*Snap. And. Walk.*

Nice! Much! Better! I gotta get me summa that. Oh, and make sure my husband comes along next time the earth is off it’s axis. Maybe there was a full moon…