Let me take you back a few weeks. To a simpler time. A time where I could leave my house without having to febreeze first. George Bush was President, and I had yet to learn of how much money I had been losing having sex with men who were not the Governor of New York. I am such a sucker.
Anyway, there I was, at a quaint little pub named "Patrick’s Pub" somewhere in New York City. Number of bottles of wine consumed at this point: 1 and ½.
I was standing with my friends, delicately sipping (read: rapidly guzzling) crappy champagne out of one of the flutes that I hadn't yet broken. (2 in total to be exact). I wasn’t doing anything in particular to attract attention to myself other than demonstrating my skillful command of “The Egg Beater,” and then later “The Worm.” All of a sudden, perhaps mid-Cabbage Patch, I found myself face to face with David Lee Roth.
The face of David Lee Roth was plastered on a shirt.
The shirt was attached to a chest.
I looked up. There was a man attached to the chest.
Looking back, I might as well have been looking at an abstract meaning of vagina because I have no idea what that face looks like either.
Introducing Mr. Wonderful. MW from now on.
What we spoke of? Who's to know.
I seem to recall us having a pleasant time. Laughing. Drinking. Making fun of the Doogie Hauser Creep who was hanging around laughing and drinking with us.
Then things started to go wrong.
For some reason unknown to me, I was compelled to push MW’s tacky sweater that had been draped on top of a bar stool on to the ground. That was when the hilarity ceased. Doogie Hauser stopped laughing. Quiet filled our little corner.
MW’s face turned stony.
"Pick that up," he said to me, casually leaning against the bar, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
"Absolutely not," I replied, daring him to look me in the eye.
He did not turn.
"Please," his voice calm, "Pick up my sweater."
My friend, who was nearby, anxiously turned to me and pleaded,
"Cookieface. Pick up his sweater."
I classily replied,
"I ain't pickin up his fucking sweater."
This went back and forth for awhile. Key exclamations from me were “What’s he gonna do, beat me up?” (Probably) "What, is he in the mob?" (A valid question) and "I know people in the mob!" (Untrue).
Finally, much to my dismay, my friend picked up his sweater. Disappointed in her and in life, I decided the only answer would be to drink more.
(actually, 3 broken flutes in total).
One would assume that at this point, I would have had enough. This is not the case. I made nice with MW the only way I know how: Insulting him even more.
“Damn, boy, you sure are precious. ‘oooh! My sweaters on the ground!’”
He seemed to like this and laughed a little bit.
Encouraged, I added “You pussy.”
And with that, I turned around and began slobbering to the bartender, most likely about all of the champagne glasses I had managed to break in such a short time span.
Eventually, I leave, and am concluding my evening by staggering blindly into a cab and gesturing wildly in the general direction of Brooklyn.
That was when my phone beeped, an indication that I had a text message. I opened up my phone.
It was a message from "MrWonderful"
Apparently, while my back was turned, he had lifted my phone out of my purse, programmed his number into my phone, and then called his phone from my phone to get my number.
Apparently, I am also a prime target for a fucking pickpocket.
Of course, I found this charming, and after two weeks of texting, I finally agreed to meet him for a drink. All I knew about him was that he was a zookeeper.
Or so I thought…