More than once in the last few years, a co-worker or customer would comment to me, “You’re really a tall girl,” and  I’ve always thought I could hear admiration in that statement. It could be my imagination.

It doesn’t really matter though, because the thing of it is, I’m not tall. I’m 5′6″ in bare feet, which is (in the US anyway) “average.” However, in my ubiquitous-at-the-time heels, I’m 5′9″ (give or take an inch).

I still own tons of high-heeled shoes, sandals, and boots. And, by and large, if I’m going out somewhere, I’ll usually wear them. This is a long-winded way of saying that last night I went to see Dave Attell perform, and I wore high-heeled boots.

This will become important later.

So anyway, I was super excited to see him, although I was a wee bit distressed by his abundance of early 20’s, highly inebriated, frat boy-type followers. I know they were there for the Jagermeister and sex jokes, but they’re still…well, not for me.

In fact, the lady who opened for Dave was probably in her late 30’s and recently divorced, and was mentioning that someone recently called her a ‘cougar’ and how incredibly insulting that is. She said, “What does a 40-year old woman want with a 19-year old guy anyway? Listen to him argue for hours about how Nickelback is the best band ever? Drive around all over town in his parent’s Ford Escort picking up his Accutane prescriptions?”

It’s funny because it’s true.

This summer I met a 38-year old (woman) living with a 22-year old (male) and she was so proud of this, and I am proud that I kept my mouth shut…because I was dying to go off in the manner that the comedian did in the paragraph above, except I probably would’ve mentioned Guitar Hero and Red Bull.

So I digress. I got to see Dave live, and he was great (although he has developed a worrisome smoker’s wheeze. I’ve been recently trained in hypnotherapy and can help you with that, Dave. Call me when you’re ready to quit…)  but that’s not the best part.

The best part was that I was included in the act!

So, he starts with this whole thing about “tell me what you’re drinking, and I’ll tell you how your night will end.”

And this woman yells out (in a gruff, long-haul trucker voice), “Whisky.” And he says, “Whoa! Whisky? I didn’t realize we had a young female DA here with us tonight. I tell you what, with whisky you will misinterpret and be insulted by everything everyone says to you. ‘Happy Birthday, Buddy!’ ‘F*ck you. I’ll have any kind of birthday I damn well please.’”

(And it’s so true. Jack Daniels and I go way back, but I’ve had to break it off. I get very unpredictable and occasionally volatile and – of course – unbearably wonderful, but who really needs the circus to come to town more than once a year?)

Me and Dave Attell. Notice youthful booze-addled buffoon types in background.

So anyway, you get the idea. Some of the idiot frat guys were throwing out (***yawn*** oh-so-predictable) drinks like Jagermeister, Rumplemintz, Schnapps, Cinnamon whisky (Too which Dave said, “I didn’t know Deadwood was on anymore), etc.

So he hits them all with one-liners, and then turns to my section (the far right) and says? “Let’s hear from the ladies!”

And here, to the best of my recollection (and I know I’m missing stuff, but it’s gone from my gray matter, so what are you gonna do?) is the transcript:

Me and seven other people: Noise

Dave: What? Gin?

Me: Gin!

Dave: That’s an old lady drink! You’re drinking Gin? Gin!?!? Gin is a drink that says you’ll head home from here to go spend a quiet evening with your 20 cats.

Someone yelled out a new drink, and he told that he wasn’t done talking to me.

Dave: That’s British. Gin. (Bad British accent), “I’ll have some gin…”  So let me guess, you Limey Lover: Do you have tonic with your gin?

***shaking head no***

Dave: No? No tonic? Just gin?

Me: (Not loudly enough) There were olives in it.

Dave: What’s that, honey?

Me: THERE WERE OLIVES IN IT.

Dave: Olives? Oh! You had it in a fancy glass. You had a gin martini! A martini with olives. That’s a classy drink. A classy drink for a classy lady.

And for a brief moment, I thought I had escaped ridicule, but then then (and I’m paraphrasing here) he suggested something about me ending my night being talked into snorting Ativan off a male….er…member.

But as it happens, he was wrong.

It was Xanax.

p.s.

As you can see in the photo, Dave is not tall. I am very sensitive to the sensitivity (and lesser paycheck when compared to their taller peers) of the vertically challenged man, and that’s kind of all I was saying…  If I had worn flats, he probably would’ve had an inch or two on me and – for just a moment – felt tall.

And I would’ve done that for him. Because I’m nice like that.