This is another of the weird true stories from my odd little life that I affectionately refer to as “blog fodder.” Like a friend said to me about many of my tales, “You couldn’t make this stuff up.”
Years ago, I gave my number at a bar (bad idea, very bad idea) to a guy who seemed nice and was wearing really snazzy shoes. He had pretty teeth, too, and I think that’s what sold me.
A few days later, the dude with the shiny teeth and the glossy shoes called me and casually asked if I’d like to go for coffee the following weekend. I agreed that he should meet me at my apartment and then we could walk the three blocks to Whyte avenue, which for non-Edmontonians is the “hip” street with all the funky boutiques, eclectic coffee shops, and bars full of college girls wearing more padding than the average NHL goaltender. I think most cities have something like Whyte Ave., so you get the picture.
About ten minutes before Mr. Tooth and Shoes was due to meet me, he called to say that a couple of his buddies from back home were in town for the weekend. He offered me two options: we could all go out for a drink together or I could meet up with him another night. I (stupidly) chose option A.
Mr. T&S soon parked on my block, which was entertainment in and of itself because he had to parallel park on the “wrong” side of the car due to the one way street and he was less than confident. At first I was impressed with his friends. The tagalongs were twins, very tall, broad shouldered twins with rakish blonde hair and grins that made me stutter a bit. On the inside, I thought the evening might be looking up. After all, a man to me ratio of three to one was almost as good as enrolling in a gun licensing or machete sculpture class at my local community college.
About seventeen seconds into our walk to the pub, I realized that not only were the escapees from the Swedish bench press team stunning, they were stunned. By alcohol. Lots of alcohol. Mr. T&S’ friends were about as picked as the jarred specimens in the average biology lab. The good news was that I probably looked super extra cute. The bad news was that they probably thought I was twins, too.
Knowing the things I do at my advanced age, the now me would have called the outing off right there, but then I was still too young to gamble in Vegas, so I went with it. Plus, I didn’t want to waste the time I’d spent on my hair, makeup, and outfit selection.
We rushed our walk through the frozen Canadian winter terrain and soon found ourselves crowded around a table at a little pub in the basement of a historic Whyte Avenue building. I was hoping that the tipsy twins, (Wobble Dee and Wobble Dumb) had engaged in the college budget-conscious practice of “predrinking,” consuming their alcohol before the outing to save money. Alas, this was not the case.
The twins ordered two drinks at a time, each, and were thoroughly rude to the poor waitress. Each time she came by with another round, the blitzed blondies argued about whose turn it was to pay, and Mr. T&S ended up footing the bill. As you can imagine, the conversation was less than stellar.
Shortly after Wobble Dumb asked me if I had names for my breasts, and named them for me when I answered in the negative, I announced that I was going home. Mr. T&S was apparently enough of a gentleman to ensure I made it home without being accosted by weirdos and stray cats on my way home, but his chivalry didn’t extend to protect me from his obnoxious friends.
The outdoor temperature dropped further and a bunch more snow fell during the time I watched the rest of the party knock back drinks and pinch the waitresses’ butts, so I struggled to keep up in heels. Luckily for me, the boys stopped to engage in a little outdoor fun. In a scene reminiscent of a twisted Norman Rockwell painting, a violent snowball fight erupted between the guys. I was fine with it until a snowball, which in truth was mostly ice and road salt/sand, smacked me in the cheekbone and almost knocked me into a snowdrift.
Stunned and stinging, I covered my face with my hands and hollered through my mittens at the numbskull who hit me. While I was recovering, someone said, “Check it out!” I looked up to see one of the twins peeing his name into the snowdrift right beside me. I don’t remember his name, but I do remember him waving (ahem) “himself” in my direction and asking, “Do you like what you see, sweetie?” Yes, I saw it all. Luckily for me, the January cold meant there wasn’t much to see.
It was at that point in the
trainwreck evening that I decided to find my own way home. I only had a few blocks to go and I figured I was safer alone than traveling alone than with the three dweeb circus.
You know, when I recall some of the disasters in my early years, I really appreciate The Electrician, even more than usual.
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