Sugarcoating the truth

Alright, I swear, this will be the LAST post about diabetes for awhile (and the crowd cheered and said "Yea, verily!" and all was well.)

So, last night, I went to a business dinner for an organization that I have had a loose association with for a couple of years. I became a full-fledged member in 2007 (yeah, me! One of my resolutions fulfilled - to actually join the damn thing.)

Every quarter, this (what do I call it? a club? organization? professional fraternity? Whatever, let's call it a club, for ease. That's shorter to type, and I am lazy, so "club" it is) club has a dinner meeting at a local hotel. Sorta swanky, you know, for a small-time group. I had been a few times as a non-member, and this really cranky girl that seems to babysit the sign-in table EVERY TIME was there, as usual. I don't know what I ever did to this person, but she hates my guts, I swear it. Here is how our conversation went down . . .

Her: (keeping in mind that we have been introduced SEVERAL times, and have had many conversations, yet she still looks at me blankly, no recognition whatsoever) Welcome to the Club. Can I help you?

Me: Um . . . sure. I need to sign in, I guess?

Her: Certainly. What is your name? (again, NO recognition, even though I could pick this girl out of a crowd of fat, celibate, bitter, late 30s, rapidly decaying eggs and patience, cat-collecting, cross-stitching, Chicken Soup for the Soul-reading bitches fighting over yarn strands at Michael's Crafts ANY day of the week. Let's just call her Bitter Cat Collecting Cunt, or BCCC for short.)

Me: Rita

BCCC: Oh, yes, THAT's right. (smug look on her face, as though she just solved pi.) Rita. Please sign in on the register (indicating my name on the roster facing away from her, upside down.)

Me: (reviewing the register, seeing about 30 names total there, wondering how this woman could simultaneously NOT recognize me and yet point to my name the minute I utter it) Thanks.

BCCC: Here is a drink ticket. The sponsor allocates a ticket per person that you can redeem at the bar for the drink of your choice (again, I know this - I have been here 4 or 5 times)

Me: Thanks just the same, I'll leave the ticket for someone else.

BCCC: Are you sure?

Me: Yes, quite sure, thanks.

BCCC: (leaning in closer, conspiratorially, giving me a knowing nod) Recovering?

Me: (trying to decipher that for a split second) Huh? Recovering? No. Diabetic. (Why did I feel compelled to tell her that? Maybe I should have just let her believe I was an alcoholic.)

BCCC: (smug look back, slight eye roll) Of COURSE (not believing me at all, obviously.)

Me: (feeling like I need to defend myself, but staring at her unblinking)

BCCC: It's just . . . well . . . you always took them before (so she DOES recognize me. She just chooses to pretend she doesn't. Interesting.)

Well, at least I have fulfilled ONE resolution: to join this damn club, cause I have blown the OTHER resolution to hell and back (to get along better with women).

Resolution or not, fuck her. I hate her.

I wonder if I can get my club registration refunded.



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Epilogue:

OK, well, I sort of sugarcoated the ending, because there was more that wasn't very flattering, but in the interest of full disclosure, and with Kirk's encouragement, I will tell the rest of the story:

This club is kind of a tight group of people that do what I do. It's good to belong to, because we give each other job leads. Some of the members and I go way back. Like I said, I have gone to their meetings over the past few years, but never officially joined, so anyway, yeah, finally joined.

Last night's meeting was concentrated on some new certifications that have just come available for people like me. They are equal to, say, an MCSE for engineers. The certification is a progression of difficult, expensive tests, and several people at the meeting (me included) have been preparing for the first level of testing. BCCC loudly announced that she was prepared to submit to her testing this month and would give us her feedback on the testing process, etc. at the next quarterly meeting. She was saying a bunch of other stuff about how much experience she had, and how well-prepared she felt she was, what she had studied, who she had worked for to bring her to this point in her career, blah blah, bunch of other stuff but I stopped listening cause, well, I hate her.

During the meeting, we were reviewing a sample test. There was a big screen and the questions were flashed up on the wall, with multiple choices. Since it was an informal setting, 20-30 of us were just discussing what the answers might be, taking informal polls, submitting the answers, and seeing who was right, wrong, etc. BCCC had a dissertation to make about EVERY fucking question, which of COURSE drew smartass comments and arguments from me on a continual basis, mostly because she was wrong, and partly because I hated her, and partly because it made people laugh, which I love.

After a few questions, most of the people just sat there passively, and only a few of us were actually discussing the questions and answers. Somehow, the whole thing ended up boiling down to a pissing contest between BCCC and I and it sort of divided the group into those rooting for me, and those rooting for her, and we were going head to head, question for question, and not only was I getting them right, I was cracking on her, which seemed to irritate the shit out of her, and delight the people around us.

In a nutshell, I whipped her ass in front of the people there, and a few people that work for her. I mean, fuck, I have been doing this work for 15 years, and to be blunt, she's a pushy cunt that has just a couple years of experience and she overestimated her own knowledge, or underestimated mine, or both.

For ME, it was a triumph, because I smoked her pompous ass. The BEST part was . . . at the end of the meeting, there was a door prize drawing and BCCC, being one of the club officers, had a bag with tickets in it (they had given out tickets for the raffle earlier) . For whatever reason, she walked toward me to let me draw the ticket - the prize was a $1,000 study course for the tests. While I was fishing in the bag for a ticket, she was snippy and said loudly to the room "No hard feelings, just don't cheat and draw your own ticket!" which drew a couple of giggles, and I said "I think we can all agree that you need this study guide WAY more than I do; I'll see if I can rig it for you," which met with howls of laughter from people that looked like they hadn't cracked a smile all year.

I'm still working on a theory of why women that I should have lots in common with hate my guts.