Expectations Met ~ Chamois Is Not Your Friend ~ Reprise

Mishap/Miracle #74 – Expectations

I have come to believe that life is a series of strung together mishaps and miracles that stretch us, inform us, teach us, and more often than not — amuse us.

At least, that’s the way my life has looked so far.

But the things that never cease to bite me in the ass—are my expectations.

Never ones to disappoint, good or bad they meet me, leaving their sharp, pointed little teeth marks on my tushy as they leave.

Sometimes all you can do is laugh. One such story goes like this:

As a thank you, a client gave my husband an extremely generous gift certificate to the latest, greatest, can’t get a seat for a year restaurant.

After staying up one cold December night to be the first caller to their unlisted reservation line, which is answered for only fifteen minutes at three in the morning (slight exaggeration), I was able, with an adequate amount of lying, begging and my AmEx card number, to secure a reservation for a Tuesday evening the following June (no exaggeration).

When the big night arrived it was unseasonably warm so my husband decided on a tan brushed suede jacket in lieu of a traditional sports coat.

Actually, he pulled it out, put it on, and put it back on the hanger three times, and here’s why:

That jacket was purchased on a whim at the Barney’s Warehouse sale, after too much wine at lunch…and robbing a bank. You see, even at the reduced price it still cost more than our monthly mortgage payment. Times three more. It was so expensive I even blanched — but love is love.

The reason my frugal hubby paid this kings ransom for a jacket is because the moment he put it on it was like wearing a second skin (literally) or marshmallow cream– it is that comfortable, and comfort is his middle name (Marcel translated into English = comfort).

It is made of a suede that is so light, buttery soft and supple it is literally a chamois (shammy) cloth. Are you getting how soft it is?

Chamois, as everyone knows, are super absorbent by nature.
They are thirsty little devils that draw liquid to them and as such are never to be worn in the humidity of Miami. We felt safe in old parched, drought-stricken, wizened raisin California.

What could go wrong?

Oh hell, I don’t know, maybe this…?
My husband wore that jacket three or four times.
Each time when he returned home there was a giant “spot” on the front or the sleeve.

That little chamois assbite had quenched its thirst on olive oil or mineral water or some other random liquid at the next table.

And it cost us. It cost us dearly.

You see, when you buy such an “investment piece” for your wardrobe, you are required to call your money manager to set aside a maintenance budget.

We neglected to do that.

Hence, the cleaning bills for the magnificent, thirsty, chamois jacket were budget busters. We ate Spam for weeks in order to pay them.

So you can imagine our expectations on that balmy night in June.

Wear the jacket, feel great, look fantastic and throw caution to the wind?
OR
Leave the jacket at home and be able to afford a vacation?

I checked our bank statement. “What the hell! Let’s live!”, I yelled, yanking the jacket off the hanger and swinging it over my head like the hellraiser with deep pockets that I am. NOT.

Doesn’t the ad say –– “Wearing your favorite f-you expensive, wildly comfortable chamois jacket to the obnoxiously haughty, over-rated, of the moment restaurant – PRICELESS!?”

But on the ride to the West Side, in the back of our minds… we were expecting the worst.

So we hatched a plan.

They don’t have coat rooms in LA, so he was to take off the jacket when he sat down and put it to the side. Preferably as far away from food as it is possible to do in a restaurant.

As they sat us in a big, comfy booth we surveyed the scene and put our plan into effect.

I took the chamois bastard, folded it neatly, and tucked it halfway under the table on the seat next to me. Then I pushed it even further away, to the far end of the booth.

Whew! Safe!
We toasted our good fortune with a lovely Bordeaux, and as the gregarious waiter who was feeding off our giddiness, went to put the bottle back on to its coaster, it didn’t quite make it.

As if in slow motion, all three of us watched in horror as the three-quarters full bottle of red wine teetered…then wobbled…then fell over onto its side –– glug, glug, glugging its contents directly onto his light tan chamois jacket, turning it the most beautiful shade of red.

The waiter, unable to right the bottle in time to stop the calamity was mortified, he gasped so loud the entire room turned around and went silent.

Bus boys came running from every direction with white towels, but there was no need—not a drop to clean up. Nope. Chamois is efficient that way.

It had soaked up the entire bottle.
I think I heard the jacket hick-up.

My husband and I looked over at each other and when our eyes met we burst out laughing.
Not an appropriate, embarrassed giggle. Oh no! Huge  loud, face contorting guffaws.
The kind of laughter that’s contagious; working its way around the room, making other people laugh for no apparent reason.

I could tell by their faces that most of the patrons were convinced we were insane.

Our sides hurt from laughing, I cried my false eyelashes off.

Within seconds, the waiter, who was certain that fateful night was his last, led the manager to the scene of the crime in order to smooth things over and calm us down. I think our hysterical laughter unnerved everyone more than if we had started cursing and yelling. Interesting, right?

“I can get this cleaned for you, or we’ll replace it” she offered in her best managerial voice.

That just made us laugh louder. “Too…expensive…” My husband gasped.
“You’d have to sell the place first” I managed to say, dabbing at the eyeliner that had run all over my face.

Then at the same time, we assured her “Oh, don’t blame the poor waiter…it wasn’t his fault — it’s this damn jacket!” Bahahahaha.

Expectations met. Jacket ruined. Check that one off the list.

*Addendum: The manager kept the chamois nightmare insisting she had “people” who could get the red wine out or they would replace it. We never expected to see it again. My husband found the charge on his AmEx just in case. Then we forgot about it.

Three months later she called to say that it was ready to be picked up. “Good as new” were the words she used.
I was skeptical, but there it hangs, in the closet, our little tan chamois mishap/miracle that reminds us all the time — you get what you expect.

Carry on,
Xox