Another night...

This was an email I sent to friend of mine. It was written last summer, but still makes for a ha-ha read. I would love to say that the events are embellished, but they ain't.

Subject:
Another Night...
Good morning! I am sitting at my desk at home, Starbuck's coffee steaming, radio humming in the background. I had such an evening last night I felt compelled, nay, obliged to write it down. And who else to write to? None so deserving as you, my friend. None so deserving as you.

The evening started simply enough. I was to meet Neil, whom I had dated previous to dating you, for a friendly night of watching his other ex-girlfriend, who is a celebrity impersonator, perform at the casino down here on the quay. Her name is Bonnie. As he approached me on the boardwalk, I was a tad shocked to see him walking with a blonde, slightly chunky, badly dressed girl. She was wearing thick-soled clunky faux leather shoes. 'Nuff said. Who the hell was this? He wasn't bringing a date to see his two ex-girlfriends, was he? I mean he was kinda stupid, which is why we ceased relations, but really... (KIDDING MONKEY) Oh, no no. Not to worry. She's another ex-girlfriend. She was first, then Bonnie, then me. Her name is Andrea. So Neil, Andrea and I headed into the casino.

Now, I have never set foot on the floating monstrosity that is the Royal Star Casino. And I never really wanted to. I had observed the types that entered and these are the people I typically avoid. Most of them are from Surrey and they think coming over to New West is a big deal. And perhaps it is.

We skipped the actual casino areas and found our way to the Hurricane Deck, which was where the stage was. It was a strange set-up. The room looked like it was typically used for banquets, and people were sitting at tables that were placed in no sensible arrangement. Some of the tables were round, some were rectangular. Chairs were spewed about with old people sitting, fanning themselves in the muggy, too close for comfort, non-air-conditioned, badly-decorated-in-old-Showboat-fashion room. Some woman asked for our money and our names and waved us in.

There was one bar, a makeshift thing, at the entrance, with one person slinging drinks. There were about 25 people waiting in a line that didn't seem to be moving at all, and the one bartender didn't seem to care. Slow as molasses. There was no sign of any servers. I shot Neil a look. He knows how I feel about waiting for alcohol. He put his hands up in defense and said "Hey, sugarplum, I don't know what's going on either." Great. I pushed him toward the bar line up. "Beer," I muttered. Andrea and I perused the room, looking for empty seats. I grabbed a couple of chairs at the back, just in time for Neil to return empty-handed. "Line's not moving, I'll go back in a minute," he offered.

Now at this point, I'm already thinking this is a horrible waste of a Saturday night. Andrea is sitting, mousily fiddling with her purse, looking at my shoes. I wanted to deck her, or give her a make-over. Something. I send a few SOS text messages, and hope for a nibble. Neil sends me a text message from two seats over. "Stop texting". I stick my tongue out at him and nod at the lack of line at the bar. "Go."

He returns with beer, which in the heat of the room, goes down cold and quick. I feel better and turn to be social with Ex-girlfriend number one. We chat, about what I don't recall. The show starts. Three more beers. The show ends. Granted, Bonnie's got pipes -- she sounded great and she does a mean Cher impersonation. We say our hello's and our compliments. We all laugh at the fact that Neil is surrounded by three ex-girlfriends. I catch a glimpse of the three of us in a mirror, Bonnie in her Cher outfit, me in my stilettos, Andrea still fidgeting, now staring at Bonnie's cleavage that is accentuated by the corset she's wearing. And it strikes me -- Geek, Chic and Freak. I laugh to myself at my stellar cleverness.

Neil wants more beer, so he comes up with the ingenious idea to go to The Foggy Dew. We take a cab over and as we arrive, I swear loudly. "There's a fucking LINE for the pub? FUCK." Neil assures me that we can get in -- he knows someone who slept with a bartender or some such thing. We walk toward the door. They're frisking people as they enter. This does not bode well. We are refused guest list privileges. My hackles begin to rise and I interrupt the doorman's no-one-gets-in-get-in-line-I-am-the-gatekeeper speech. "Let's just fucking go, Neil." Andrea begins to shuffle her feet. My anger is making her uncomfortable. Neil thinks he can work magic on the door guy. I take one look at the door guy and know he's a suburban club door guy. A complete prick. I begin to walk toward the taxi stand. Neil eventually follows. Andrea is looking worried and frantically asks "So what are we going to do?" as if the universe is falling apart due to lack of Foggy Dew.

We head for The Drive. I finally get a text message from Colin, my producer friend. He's in the studio, do I want to meet for a beer? Sweet jesus thank you. We get to Toby's on Commercial. I slam back a beer, kiss Neil on the cheek, pat Andrea's drooping-due-to-bad-posture-shoulder and run for the Skytrain like a screaming but well-heeled banshee. Colin picks me up at Stadium station. He laughs at me -- "Too much suburbia for you tonight?" I roll my eyes in response. "Where to?"

So I suddenly remember that Mark at Chambar had told you and I about a new place. Lolita's. We head for Davie Street. It's there... just past Jervis. It's small, cozy and they're serving. Perfect. We sit at the bar, and I start picking apart the menu. It's mexcian-ish. I order tacos and a Dos Equis Amber. Satisfied that my needs are now being tended to, I turn around to check out the room.

As I spin in my seat, I catch someone staring intently at me in my peripheral vision. I can't quite recognize them without really looking, though, so I do the casual glance thing. Oh fuck. It's an old lava guy that I really don't want to talk to, but oh, no, that's not possible. He walks up to me and starts asking me why I haven't called him. Colin, of course, while highly entertained, is concerned that this person is just being an ass, so he makes some "hey buddy" comment. Maybe he called him "guy". I don't remember, but Ian, the "guy", loudly told him to fuck off and that if I wanted him to go away I'd tell him, and who are you anyway, fuck head? He called him fuck head. Priceless. The bartender comes over and asks if everything is ok. nod and wave as I'm trying to think of how I can stab Ian in the chest with my fork and get away with it. I tell him, calmly, that I really have nothing to say to him, that he's making a scene, and perhaps he should sit down with his, oh yes, DATE, and get on with his evening. This chick is sitting there, glaring at ME as if this is my problem, fire bursting from her eye sockets. He sits down loudly. I begin, perhaps unwisely, to laugh. And I can't stop. The table next to the lovely couple is chuckling as well.
This exacerbates the problem.

After a few more minutes of drunk Ian flailing and at one point almost crying?, the bartender escorts him and his chippie out the door. Someone anonymously buys me a shot of tequila.

See what you're missing?

But when you get back into town, we should definitely go to Lolita's. You'd like it there. Maybe Ian will be there. Maybe I'll be banned. Or get paid as entertainment.
Be well,
xo
C

Back Atter

Well, so much for my commitment to write every day. Maybe I should start with every week as a goal, and go from there. Maybe.

I have re-entered the dating realm. I'm sure you've all heard, as this fact is so bloody newsworthy it reeks of tabloid ink and sweaty reporters hats.

I signed up on Plenty of Fish - a completely free dating website. I like it - it's better than Lavalife, in my opinion, mostly because there are more people on it, but also because it's free - so contacting people doesn't ding you a couple of bucks.

At any rate, I've gone a couple of dates. Like real dates, where you dress up and feel awkward and stupid and repeat lines you heard on tv, praying they don't recognize the line. When I hear that he doesn't watch tv, I feel relieved.

The first victim was a computer software guy, very tall. Blonde. Extremely smart and funny. We ate oysters and drank beer at Rodney's, then headed over to George for martinis. 5 martinis, to be exact. It was a very good date, and we agreed we should see each other again. So we had lunch the following week. Both of us had work on the brain, so lunch was subdued. Or so I thought.

A week later he emailed me to tell me he had met someone and that someone was sparklier than me, but he "really likes me so can we be friends, for real, not like "that"." I agreed on paper. But then I started thinking about it - is that getting a fair deal? He gets my wit, charm and occasional platonic company AND he gets to go bonk someone else. I'm not sure about this agreement, but I'll keep you posted. I suppose I could turn that around and think that he's the one getting the raw end of the deal and that I should be happy to be spared the doldrums of relationship, but, no. I don't think that's the case.

The second date was a smash hit. SMASH. Funny as hell. My jaw hurt the next day. (from laughing, thank you very much). We had a snack and a drink then bought beer and hung out at his place and talked for 6 hours. Somewhere around hour 4, we changed into baggy t-shirts and Thai pants - the wide legged things you tie at your waist. Super comfy. The whole date was super comfy. Golly I hope he calls me, I do I do. Damned fine kisser, too. Nothing worse than getting to the end of an evening, and have a bad kiss ruin everything. Tsk. But not the case here. He knew what he was doing and yes I wanted more, but no I didn't. So there.

And I have more, yes MORE stories to tell, but I will pace myself and save something to write about next week.

By the way - go to Abigail's Party on Yew, grab a bottle of Masi Campo for 40 bucks and the Goat Cheese Pave, pictured below. Say hi to Andrew.