Sunday, March 05, 2006

Watering Hole

Train boy is playing coy. Or uninterested. You decide. All signs point to go, and yet, he's still a no-go. He's friendly, so friendly. Nice smile, great smile. Always initiates a conversation with me. Always polite. Always asks me how I am and what I've been up to. So what's the problem besides me cutting short our little gab sessions to catch the movie I paid for? But what does he expect? He knows I adore movies and he works at a movie theatre! Damnit, is that why he hasn't asked me out yet? No, I say it probably has to do with my chronic case of verbal diarrhea whenever I'm forced to make small talk. I get nervous. I divulge useless information. I make comparisons between Kimora Lee and Kathy Lee. I mean, "I'm so happy I went shopping today because I bought something that I thought was 30% off 100 dollars, but actually came to only 30 dollars at the cash!" Jeez louise, what the hell was I thinking?

Although Astronautas slightly made up for my stupidity. The Spaniards are doing good things in cinema (and I don't mean just Almodovar). This movie is kinetic, observant, funny, poignant, everything film should be. In one scene, the going on 16-year-old teenage runaway takes the ex-junkie's hand to her, uh, yoni. Child's play, she reassures him, Playing over our clothes. They kiss. He looks down and abruptly jumps back, realizing he can't be messing around with no kid:

"Real women do not have sailboat panties!"


SETTING: Surprise birthday party at the superluxe apartment of NorIda's boyfriend. Around 20 attendees all in their mid-20s (I am the exception, per usual). Boy girl ratio 3:1.

SCENE: There are a minimum of three guys hovering over my highlands at all times. (I won't mention the pricks.) They spend most of the evening trying to penetrate the conversational wall I unconsciously build around myself and my new favourite wingwoman, Breasts of Steel*.

"Are we scaring them away?"

"If asking them to accept our generous gift of leftover mint leaves from your virgin Mojito means scary ..."

"... then yes, we might be."

I sit on the barstool, working pockets of dialogue here and there and entice more to join. Soon after is when I start noticing a kind of male code of ethics in action. (That's after some dude asks his roommate to knock me out for saying 'bros before bras': "I swear to God I will if you don't. Hahaha!" then proceeds to act hot/cold towards me the entire night until he hooks up with some hooch in torn fishnets.) For example, that guy in the tinted aviator shades quickly wraps up our chat after he mentions to the Russian how oddly "life changing" I am (for informing him the best way to drive is blind and handless because only the cool cruise) and the Russian says, "I know, we were talking." He delivers the line in such a matter-of-fact way, it makes me think, "Is he hinting that I'm on reserve?" because no, he did not just do that. I observe men coming and going like this the whole time: somebody will make a pass or hint that he wants to get to know me better and another guy will discourage him with either an intimidating word or boastful body language. It's hard not to simply laugh when everything around me begins to resemble a Jane Goodall special on ridiculous alpha male behaviour. ("Roar! Me, man! You, woman! We sex now!")

Anyway, the hot Moldovian with the shallow yuppie ambitions asks and gets my number in the end. He's studying finance and management at snooty McGill and wears a pink button-up under a deconstructed pinstripe blazer with a white graffiti print on the back. *Drool* I know, it's a quantum leap from my usual hippie inclinations, but hipsters are even less aware of themselves. (How they still manage to infest all forms of socialization is beyond me.) And there isn't anything less attractive than seriously unguided irony. Unless you like that sort of thing. In which case, I hope, for your sake, Desperate Housewives is never cancelled.

*whom I gave the temporary nickname Milk Duds for the way she kept unconsciously pulling down her shirt. She protested. I countered that it was a compliment because Milk Duds are delicious. She asked the Russian what he thought of her boobs being called that. "Milk Duds is not very nice name," he admitted, poker-faced and accent heavy. "But yes, they are delicious."

No comments: