“Can I just share a random story?”

One of my oldest friends, her sister, and I were sitting around a restaurant somewhere in San Diego. They’d just made good choices when ordering, and I’d ummm added basil to mine and declared it “practically a salad.” Well, not aloud, of course, but my brain knows leafy greens when we order them. Anyway, someone had just said something that reminded me of something else, which in turn reminded me of this other thing, and I was eager to share. Not wanting to blurt out my story like I had no self-control, I politely asked if it was ok to go wandering off with a non-sequitur. You see, I’m not only cultured, I’m also well-mannered!

Gina’s eyes lit up a bit and looked over at her sister, “We’re in a Big Blue Mess story.”

“Wait, what?”

“We’re in a Big Blue Mess story! Are you going to write about your visit here?”

“Come again?”¹²

The claim threw me for a sec, but after my brain engaged, I recognized she was right. Let me explain by backing up a bit and explaining to the two folks who read this blog but who don’t know me.

I write like I speak, so when I’m telling a story, it’s going to sound just like a blog post. It will include all the parentheticals and the disclaimers. I’m sure I even manage to footnote (a verb) as I’m talking. I don’t know how, but I don’t need to know how the sausage is made to be able to blather out a story.

Again, she was right – we were in a Big Blue Mess story.

Now I don’t recall the story I told at that moment, but I’ll tell you one I shared with them later that became an ongoing joke. It’s one I hardly tell because it was odd and I don’t come off as the nicest person.

This is a story about a potato.

Back in the day, I was younger. True story. And during the events of this particular story, I was much younger – a time when my brain wasn’t fully developed, but I lacked the perspective to fully understand it hadn’t.

It’s a mean girl story. A “not one of my proudest moments” story.

Back in the day, my mean girlfriends and I were at a local club located somewhere on Austin’s infamous Sixth Street. I think we were there to see someone’s cover band, likely Charlie’s. Charlie was one of the camera guys from our TV station that my co-worker crushed on who pronounced “paradigm” as “para-dig-um,” but she thought it was endearing, but “endearing” in that way you’re looking down your nose at someone for not being familiar with a word. Back then, we all had a camera guy crush. (Mine was a drummer in a hair metal band that played at The Back Room. Sadly, they never really made it to Sixth Street, but hah, they wrote their own original songs! I clearly feel that matters, so you’re suffering through a lot of unimportant info because of that. You’re welcome weird asides!)

Anyway…

There was an older group of patrons who had that “we’re at a conference and away from work, let’s get wild” vibe stumble dancing on the dance floor. As “women” in our early 20’s, we had a lot of thoughts about that – mostly uncharitable and super judgmental. This was back when our boobs were still perky, our hair still full, and all of our connective tissue/limbs/joints, etc were under warranty. Unfortunately, it was also when I wasn’t at a stage in life where I could just let people have fun and enjoy life – that came later.

Within the group of drunken dancing colleagues was one woman whom our 20-something hive-minded sneering hydra collectively focused on – a woman in a very short skirt who was really hammered and living her best life on that floor. We never spoke directly to her, but our collective disdain could be felt throughout the club as we sat on her cheap cracked vinyl thrones.

If AITA were around in those days, the answer would be a firm “Yes! You’re the asshole!”

Now this is where the story gets interesting…

An hour or so passed and she started heading out with her group, then she paused and walked up to our table. We were speechless – the audacity! And we waited to be collectively told off (because did I mention we were being AWFUL?) Out of nowhere, she produced a russet potato. She laid it on the table, leaned in, looked at each of us, and said, “This is for you, girls” then headed out with her friends.

We stared at the potato, not ever touching it. What does it mean? Where did it come from? Was it in her purse? Is she always armed with a potato?

In hindsight, it was a brilliant move. She’d shut us all down with one simple, really non-confrontational act.

Fast forward to a week ago

So, there I was hanging out with some of my chosen family having told a story I rarely tell. That story became one of THE stories for the trip as we repeatedly contemplated the symbolism of the potato. Was there meaning to it being a russet vs. say a red or new potato? Was the kitchen in on the whole thing? Was it cooked? Raw? Where did it come from?

Only one person knows – the potato messenger.

Throughout the rest of my visit, whenever one of us would say something ridiculous (which turns out was all the time, because we were having the best time), a russet potato might land in our lap or be placed in front of one of us as the potato bearer would add meaningfully, “this is for you.”³

Potato lady, I salute you – baller move, my friend! You are my personal hero. (Also, sorry for the young 20-ish version of me. I get you now. I hope you’re out there dancing up a storm and having a blast not giving a shit about what anyone else thinks. You go, girl! And I hope you have a potato at the ready. You are legend!)

1. All dialogs in my stories are simply impressions of how I felt a conversation went versus what was actually said. This also includes my side of the conversation. In fact, all the “what?” parts in this story were said in my head. What I actually did (I think) was look confused and blink. ↩︎
2. Also, footnotes, amirite? ↩︎
3. Gina, welcome to your part in a Big Blue Mess story! 🙂 ↩︎