Last night “Stan” (aka Keith, but he likes to remain anonymous) and I go to dinner downtown, to celebrate Pinktober, the fact that I made it back alive from the Alps, and my general awesomeness. As we’re heading down, I keep pointing out the buildings that are lit up in pink, all in honor of, well, me. ME! Me me me me me! Now, I’m used to that kind of adoration, but still, it’s nice to see.
Of course, as soon as we sit down at the lovely Tavern on the Green or Grill on the Park or whatever the name of the restaurant was (Tavern at the Park, that’s it!), I set about making my presence known, as it were. I know how much the “little people” enjoy this, having the chance to interact with someone of my stature.
Waiter: Can I start you off wi….
Me: My good man! What do you have in the way of pink drinks? Something fruity, sweet but not too sweet, but definitely pink.
Waiter: We have a list of cocktails here on the menu. Pink Panties, The Schooner, Alison’s Cancer….
We both gape at him.
Stan: WHAT was that last drink?
Waiter: Alison’s Answer.
Stan and I, in unison: Ahaaaaaaaaa…….
Me: But how pink are they?
Stan: I thi…..
Me: Well, pinkish at least. It doesn’t have to be super pink. But definitely pinkish. I don’t want to annoy the bartender.
(Too late, Stan is thinking.)
Waiter, gamely: And how sweet?
Me: Kind of mai tai sweet – so I’d say in between.
Stan: Scotch on the rocks. Heavy on the scotch. Maybe you should just bring the bottle out.
Hmm. I don’t know what it is about my presence that seems to drive people to drink, but I have a feeling it has to do with the pressure of being seen with a goddess such as myself. Not much I can do about that though. Shrug.
Anyway, soon enough I get my lovely pink cocktail, and Keith – I mean Stan – and I drink to, well, me.
I then continue to hold this establishment to my own exacting standards. After all, if I don’t, who will?
Me: So, this “heirloom tomato salad” you have on the menu. What kind of tomatoes are in that?
Waiter: What kind? You mean what color?
Me: Color, variety, and so on….
Stan: Oh boy…..
Waiter: Umm…..yellow ones? Round? Are there specific names other than just “heirloom”?
We then have a lengthy discussion about all the different kinds of heirloom tomato varieties, and he eventually goes trotting off to the chef to find out about the tomatoes in the salad. For some reason Stan keeps disappearing from the table, to check his work emails or calls or something like that. I get that a lot too. Hmm.
After I get the scoop on the tomatoes (varieties Watermelon, Pineapple, and some type of Zebra), I mention to our waiter that we’re celebrating the Pinkishness, and point out the football players wearing all the pink on the game that’s on the tvs over the bar.
Me, aghast: But, it’s Pinktober!
Waiter: I had no idea.
Could it be, I thought? Could it actually be that there are people out there who walk into stores and see what looks like an explosion of Pepto Bismol, and just think that pink is the Hot New Fall Color?
And then, like a beacon of light burrowing its way to my cold and cynical heart, it occurs to me that I’ve been completely selfish in how I’ve viewed Pinktober and all its excesses. Yes, I’ve made it all about me me me me me, just because I have cancer and all. Yet isn’t it really about our collective awareness, our empathy, our embracing of all things pink and what they symbolize, namely the fight to eke out a bit of humanity as we all struggle together to overcome our limitations as God’s people?
Yeah, I didn’t think so either.
But it did occur to me that it would be fun to have a contest of sorts – meaning, since everyone is already pointing out to me the most ridiculous or outrageous Pink objects they’re coming across, that sort of diligence and dedication should be rewarded. So, I now proclaim the start of Pinkapalooza! That’ll be the short name for the Best of the Pinkishness Contest that we’ll have here. Send me your links, your pictures, your sightings! The sender of the “best” pink item (as defined by whatever makes me laugh the hardest) will receive my usual go-to prize: your very own Fuck Cancer hat! Okay, okay, so it’s not original, but winter’s coming upon us, so what could be more practical than your own stylish FC hat? Not much, kids, not much.
Next up: the front-runners thus far……