After the wedding we went to two Saturday’s ago, we ducked out early and headed for Casino Niagara, being in the neighborhood and all. I changed out of my custom made, “Tango Roses” Peach Berserk 50s style fit & flare dress (one of only two dresses I own) and into a ratty, red ROOTS Outlet sweatshirt and a pair of slightly baggy jeans (I’m still losing weight and don’t want to invest in new ones for another month or so…)
So we’re in the Casino and I’m standing by the entrance to the Smoking Section, waiting for Arnie to come out. I’m in a crappy mood because I’m only up $50, he’s down quite a bit more, I’m hungry and my recently Lasik’d eyes aren’t adjusting well to the millions of flashing lights.
A guy comes up to me and says something I can’t hear over the casino racket. He looks like Tony Soprano’s son: way younger than me, wearing a baseball cap. Now, being from Hamilton, I’m not really into “Ginos” but as Ginos go, he would be ok looking.
“Pardon?” I said.
He was smiling and staring into my eyes way too intently.
“I said, do you want to go for a cigarette?” he answered, nodding towards the Smoking Room.
“Oh, uh, no thanks. I quit years ago. And I’m, er, waiting for my… husband.”
“Oh well, too bad. Lucky guy,” he added as he walked away.
Now obviously this young man was really, really drunk.
But here’s what’s hilarious.
The last man who ever flirted with me was (a very non-drunk) Arnie, in 1990-whenever-we-met. It was the second time in two days that we’d ended up at the same social event. I hadn’t expected to see anyone “important” that day, so I was dressed in… a crappy sweatshirt and my ugliest “the rest are in the laundry” jeans. (In fact, he actually said something like, “Gee, you look nice,” leading me to think that he might be a bit simple. Fortunately I realized over coffee later that Arnie wasn’t retarded.)
Ladies, is there some “dress like a slob on Saturday afternoon” thing that Seventeen never told us about? Obviously, it only “works” once every ten years, but if you’re desperate…
Also:
When we went out for dinner that night, I ordered my steak “blue rare” as I always have, and the server told us that most of the very infrequent requests he’s had for blue rare steaks inevitably come from women. And I’d always thought of it as a macho thing.
Anybody get that one? You’ve answered dumber questions for me before.
I ask you: could my life be any more fascinating?
