Yesterday when I called Cake Woman she said that I should call her after I got off of work and got myself all pretty. This process involved me changing into the brown t-shirt that shows off my man boobs and massive pipes. I didn’t even change my jeans with the red DaVanni’s pizza juices on them. We had a potentially full evening ahead of us, with as many as three fringe shows and a coworker’s going away happy hour on my mental schedule. I called a little later than I had expected, and Cake Woman said that she would be ready in twenty minutes.
For some reason I believed her.
I drove slowly over to her place, then came up to find her in a cute dress with a towel on her head. A dress?
“Don’t worry, I just have to do my hair.”
And her makeup? When did Cake Woman become an actual girl-type person? Instead of punk rock chick chic, she looked, well, there was still the septum piercing, loads of hot tattoos, red Cons, and non-matching socks, but she looked more dressed for picking up dudes (or chicks, as far as Cake Woman goes, it could really be either) than for rocking out. For the record, we rocked out anyway.
Approximately sixty hours later we went downtown, having missed our window for dropping in on Emily’s happy hour. We ate at Brits because it was reasonably close to the venue, but our waiter actually went to England to pick up some scotch eggs and made us late. Since we missed the first two possible fringe shows, we totally could have made it to the happy hour, and then everyone could have met the infamous Cake Woman. Good times.