"You should wear your black polo shirt," the Pretty Girl stated.
"Ugh," I replied. "Why?"
"Cause you look good in it," she stated trying to boost my ego.
I hate polo shirts. Really I do. I feel like I'm twelve wearing them. The pretty girl bought me a few recently, cause she finds them attractive for whatever reason. I figured since she dresses up for almost any outing we may have I might as well bite the bullet and throw on the black shirt.
We had a Cinco De Mayo party to go to that was thrown by her sorority friends. I find the holiday an interesting one as our country celebrates Mexican culture by getting piss drunk. I find it funny that on that day in 1862 the French surrendered to Mexico, which is why they observe the date. Something about the French surrendering to the Mexicans brings all sorts of non-politically correct images to me. (Sorry Pablo).
We drove on towards the party and I kept thinking to myself how I might miss the De La Hoya-Merriweather fight. I'd been looking forward to seeing it somewhat, but already made plans with the Pretty Girl to attend the party. We drive up to the house in a nice neighborhood and I thought hey maybe they're showing it here.
We walk into the house and were greeted with little fan fare. I took a look around and saw all sorts of decorations including Mexican flags, peppers, shakers, and sombreros. Then I noticed the guys. All of them were wearing polo shirts. All of them. Not one was wearing a t-shirt, button down shirt, and/or jersey. All of them were wearing the design made famous by people who golf recreationally. The only thing separating me from them is that they were clean shaven.
Latino music was blaring. It spanned from traditional music to Enrique Ingleses. Then there was the Hot Hot Hot song, which was the only time I've ever heard it outside a commercial jingle. Then there was the Mexican song made famous by the now defunct Frito Bandito. It's sad that most of the culture to the south was made aware to me by cartoons and television commercials.
There was good food to be sure, but I had only a little as it was mostly finger fare. The Pretty Girl started chatting away with the ladies as I tried to converse with my polo shirt wearing brethren. It obvious very quickly that they'd rather be stabbed in the eye rather than have a 'new guy' discuss the politics of having suburban class neighbors and yard care. I then quickly made my way to listen to the ladies yap.
We weren't there very long as the Pretty Girl herself got bored. She looked at me and said she had an excuse for leaving early. We made our goodbyes and walked out of there. I giggled to myself as we walked to the car. She asked me what I found so funny and my only reply was that I used to beat up people like that.
I ended up missing the fight, which I hear was a good one. Oh well.