Last night, I really just needed to unwind. So I called up Nat and told her that I wanted to go out for drinks. She was game. Mr. T & Ashton were going to do boy stuff and we were going to relax. Except, Ashton's mom decided that our plans sucked and that the best course of action would be to stick some lit dynamite all up in 'em.
Nat texts me disgruntled, Mr. T whines about how he would hate to spend the night all by himself, and I'm gripping the steering wheel of Big Red and driving 50 on the freeway because it's dark outside, it's raining, and I forgot my glasses.
I arrived on their street going a steady 22 mph to find them both on the porch having a smoke. My poor doggie niece was dripping wet but she wasn't about to go inside because that would mean that something awesome would immediately happen afterwards and she didn't want to take that risk.
We laugh. We chat. They mock me.
Mr. T's coming along and OMG can he talk! And talk. And talk. And talk.
Every so often, we would send him to refresh our beers and he would talk to someone else, so we in turn would talk about him. Nat really does love him. And she's the cutest girl he's ever been with. Ever. His last ex looked like a tranny, post-op, but still waiting on the estrogen to kick in. Ashton's mom is pretty. She's gorgeous even. Especially for having a rambunctious four-year-old. But you can tell that she's a bitch. It's in her eyes.
Turns out that I'm exactly 8 months and 26 days older than Mr. T. I know this because he almost had an aneurysm doing the math.
After we had more beers than anyone should consume on a Tuesday, Nat and I went to "play" pool. I use the term play loosely because really we spent 45 minutes missing shots, scratching, and cheating.
That's when *Steve asked if we wanted to play doubles and he volunteered to be on my team. Nat and I conferred and since we were both done playing, the boys were given our blessing to play alone. Nat said something silly, I retorted with "That's what she said!", everybody in a 2 foot radius laughed.
Somebody slipped me two whole dollars and pointed me in the direction of the juke box. Do I need to tell you what was played? Of course I do! I broke out the Color Me Badd and made everyone in the bar sing along. You wouldn't believe how many people love this band... secretly.
Steve really is a nice guy. We chatted quite a bit and we have the same sense of humor. There aren't many people who know and love Mike Birbiglia. He gave me great tips on how to start and grow my above ground garden. I even got free advice on killing the God awful ivy that plagues my waking dreams.
He's environmentally conscious and will freely tell you the benefits of eating farm-raised seafood, as well as, the human effect on our country's bee population.** Steve almost got into a documentary that he'd seen but I yelled for him to STOP! before he could get all of the words out because Lord knows that I will slap the fool that gives Nat anymore documentaries to watch. We are all still trying to recover from the damage of Food, Inc.
I have no idea what he does for a living but I can tell you that he single-handedly started his company's recycling program and takes it upon himself to do the sorting for the lazies who don't give a damn about their footprint, he's two whole months younger than Mr. T, and hopes that he'll see me again.
I bet you ten bucks he's gay.***
*Not his real name. But I call him Steve because he was wearing a striped shirt. No, the stripes were red.
** I even promised to stop killing spiders because (apparently) they are not bugs and should be taken outside to a new home - like my impending garden - where they can do good.
*** Nat and Mr. T say I'm crazy and that he was into me but I was wearing my fat jeans and no make-up. Let's do math. fat jeans + (gym sneakers * no make-up) + period bloating/ witty banter = gay dude. See?
No Laughing Matter.
2 months ago