Arrr, y'all

Actual Things That Sometimes Happen

Lately I’ve been working really hard, six days a week, not because I hate relaxing, but more because that’s what you do when you want to get a business off the ground while also paying the bills with your day job.  Anyway, at the end of that sixth day, Saturday, somewhere around 5:30 p.m., I heave a sigh of profound relief for, much as I truly and deeply love what I do, at the end of the Saturday workday I am really really ready for my weekend to finally start.  I usually have some exciting plan, to go out somewhere with friends, maybe the 10:30 drag show and dancing after, some youthful weekendy shenanigans with fellow MITTs (Moms In Their Thirties) who need to cut loose after shuttling multiple children around to various sports practice sessions in our Honda Oddyseys all week, cooking, cleaning and working fifty hours.  Well, working anyway.

This is how it usually goes.  Saturday, 5:30 p.m.  Say goodbye to final client.  Set up for Monday.  Go home.  Go to bed.  Sleep until Monday.

This makes me feel very sad.  Sad, and old.

But this was not one of those weekends.  Two actual things happened.

Actual Thing One: My Wife, Superhero

The first thing was that M0 and I had an ACTUAL LIVE DATE.  Like, we dressed up and everything, and  our babysitter Punkin Junior came over, and we went OUT.  We went to Ramsi’s Cafe on the World, for which we had a $50 gift certificate from my parents-in-law, and we ordered exactly what we always have our eye on but can never afford.

Date Nite Foto

While we were there, a young man came over who recognized Mo, which usually happens everywhere we go, since her family represents approximately half the population of the city and if you know one of Mo’s relatives, you will immediately be able to recognize every other single relative.  This is the actual truth, because it happens, seriously, all the time.  “Hi are you Rela Tive’s sister?”  “Actually, I’m her fortieth double-cousin thirty-two times removed.”  ALL the time.

But sometimes people recognize Mo simply because of how awesome she is.  This time, she had helped the man’s sick mom.  In addition to being a gifted massage therapist, Mo works at a hospital, bringing food to people on the cancer floor.  She has won a handful of awards for going beyond her job description to help these people (who she considers to be in her care); she has held hands, stayed and chatted, hugged family members, gone to funerals, even saved a few lives.  I  call her the Food Chaplain.   She remembered the man’s mother well, and he just needed to tell her how much she had meant to them during that hard time.  He told us her cancer’s in remission.  By the end of the conversation the man’s eyes were filled with tears, Mo and I were both on the verge, and we were all hugging.  Can you imagine, or maybe you’ve been through it, having a loved one very, very sick in the hospital, dying, and there’s one person whose quiet, beautiful spirit calms and grounds you, who quietly invites you into a safe zone where you can breathe a little and feel your fears and grief and maybe a moment of peace?

I get to be married to her.

Then he sat over there, and we sat over here and ate our feast and laughed and held hands like young lovebirds, and the guy kept looking over at Mo with a look on his face.  Probably sort of like the look we had when we saw Ry’s heart surgeon one time at Whole Foods.  I couldn’t describe it, but the young man had that look – you could see what an impact Mo had had.  She may not be a surgeon, but Mo works with the heart, too.  And after a while, as we were winding down, he left with a wave, and at that moment the waitress came over with the bill, a note of gratitude on the back written by the man, who had paid it all.

We left the waitress a very large tip.  When she began to protest, I said, “it’s a pay-it-forward kind of day.”

There are such good people in the world.

Of course, in the yin-yang ordering of the universe, every good person has to be balanced out by a total douche.  Which brings me to

Actual Thing Two: Why Is It Always the Douchebags?

I kissed Mo goodbye, drove Punkin Junior home and headed out to meet some friends for the very rare ACTUAL INVITATION TO GO OUT SOMEWHERE FUN.  The all-capitals really punctuate how really important this actual event was, because seriously, I don’t get invited out often.  I’m kind of a hermit, I think.  I maybe don’t put out “invite me out” vibes.  Or I don’t look like I know how to have fun, because I work six days a week.  Anyway, my friend and former co-worker at aforementioned spa, who, for the sake of blogonymity, I’ll call “Amy”, invited me to go dancing, and we met up at a club.

The first  half of the night was spent drinking grapefruit juice and bubble water and catching up with Amy while our pal, who, for the sake of blogonymity, until she tells me not to I think I’ll call Terror, yelled at the basketball game that everyone in the packed place was watching except me and Amy.  And I tell you, it was hard not to watch, because there were multiple large TVs on every wall – really, there was hardly any wall showing.  So while Terror was yelling instructions to the basketball players, the Cardinals I’m thinking, I drank my juice and bubbles, chatted with Amy, observed straight club culture and had a few drags on my first cigarette in about sixty years, which I know is not sexy, but sometimes you’ve just got to, especially when you don’t drink and there’s no other way to feel like the rebel you want to be but really aren’t.  Oh, and I fended off a douchebag. Of the male variety.


There I am, in my man shoes and Trinity-from-Matrix jacket and spiky dyke-hair, and there is a gorgeous straighter-than-me woman on either side of me, and the guy ignores them and goes straight for me.  I’m not saying I didn’t look good, but I looked like a lesbian, people.  Why? Why, when I go to a straight club, does a guy want to dance with me, but when I go to a gay bar, the women avoid me like I have leprosy?  Not that I want to start anything, but I don’t know, being friendly would be nice. I’m just continuously baffled by this phenomenon.  Maybe that’s just what dykes in bars are like.  Maybe I was like that back when I was a regular bar-going dyke.

This was a short fella, which wouldn’t have mattered except that he was also not particularly attractive, which is mainly due to the fact that he was mildly creepy, thus the douche-like quality.  He didn’t even say hello.  He just grabbed my hand and started pulling, like I was a reluctant 150 pound dog he was taking for a walk.  Um, hello, Mr. Douche? No thanks. Actually, I said something kind of douchey myself, like “get back to me later.”  Ouch.

Completely gratuitous Trinity picture. She’s about to shoot a douche in the face.

I’d like to interject (can you interject something into a blog post that you, yourself, are writing?) that it’s always this kind of guy.  Not that I get hit on, or asked to dance, or pulled like a dog often, but when I do, it’s a guy I would never, ever in my lifetime, be even remotely interested in.  For example in my 20s, I got hit on numerous times by sensitive men in their 50s.  Nowadays, nearing 40, show me a guy in his fifties, put a few tattoos on him or dress him up like Patrick Stewart, and I can enjoy the view.  But these needy older guys wanted to, I don’t know, be my dad or something.  Not in fun way.  In an icky way. Ick.

This particular fellow was too young to be my dad, but apparently not too young to want to walk me like a retriever dog onto the dance floor.


Later, when Terror, Amy and I were dancing, the guy came back over to me.  I guess when I said, “get back to me later,” he made a mental note to get back to me later.  I wasn’t going to shake this guy.  Ok, whatever, I thought.  Maybe he’s not a douche; lets give him the benefit of the doubt. It’s not like I’m going home with him, it’s just dancing.  So I danced with him, and at first it was fun, but then toward the end of the song I’ll be damned if the l’il fucker didn’t start trying to maneuver me toward the wall.  I kept slipping around him like a boxer in the ring.  He was staring at my chest, his tongue was literally hanging out of his mouth (oh my god what a DOUCHE), and he never said a word to me.  Ok, bye bye!  Done now!  Go away, bad man!  Unfortunately, before I had a chance to kick him in the nads the song ended, and just like that, he left.

As glad as I was that I didn’t have to deal with him further, I was actually a little offended.  What, you can’t hump me against the wall, so you’re just leaving?  No goodbye, DB?  No “thanks for the dance”?

 

But I did have a fun time, seeings how it was an actual thing on a Saturday night I got invited to, and I got to hang out with Amy and Terror (who will probably punch me tomorrow for giving her that for a code name).  And hey, I learned to Wobble, so it’s all good. Here is a link so you can picture me doing the Wobble.

That ends this installment of Actual Things That Sometimes Happen. Next time I go to Connection I’m going to take Amy and Terror and stand right in between them, and see what happens.  It’s got to go better for me than taking a Barbie doll like a total douche.

Advertisements

4 responses

  1. Jeff

    Great story, cutie! You’re both somethin’ else! I’ve been told love is an action word and it’s great to see you both taking action!
    I’m guessing from the video my Electric-slide chops have become pretty passe’!

    Jeff

    March 14, 2012 at 12:04 am

    • BlueOx

      Your electric slide is the bomb, Jeffy-poo! And you’ve taught me a lot about love.

      March 14, 2012 at 1:24 am

  2. Actual Thing One: Beautiful.

    Actual Thing Two: I hear ya. I had a similar experience on Saturday. You would think, wouldn’t you, that at a house party for your best friend’s 50th, you’d be unlikely to be hit on by the husband of said best friend’s old mate frome college, while old college mate was in the same room? You would think wrong. Is there no limit to their douchebaggery? It would appear not.

    March 14, 2012 at 8:50 pm

    • BlueOx

      “douchebaggery”!!!! Oh, you Brits and your wacky words.

      March 14, 2012 at 9:08 pm

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s