Jun. 29th, 2008 12:14 am
Walleye fishing in a salmon stream
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muckefuckEver noticed how a sudden change in your routine can make the most familiar locales seem foreign? At the end of a long, crazy afternoon of showings, we met our agent's husband and took the them up the street to Big Chicks for cocktails. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
monshu had promised her a drink if his place sold and we were feeling so expansive after our voyage of discovery that we included her spouse for good measure.
The first alienating element was approaching the bar from Ainslie after being inside an apartment there. The second was a bartender and a crowd which I (with one exception) did not recognise. The third was...Michelle. No, not the owner, but a completely stranger who waltzed up to agent's hubby with such a familiar air, for a moment I thought they'd met. We were at the four-top near the front window and my first thought was that she coveted it and was attempting to establish a beachhead in the hopes of monopolising it when we left.
monshu's chair was vacant at the time and she attempted to commandeer it, but I warned her that "he gets grumpy if he finds someone else sitting his chair" and told her she'd be better off pulling up a stool. (This became grounds later on for the agent's accusing me of having "invited" her to join us.) The Old Man was nonplussed by her presence at his elbow but did his best to follow our example of taking it in stride.
Whether through well-polished Southern etiquette or general cluelessness (not that there's mutual exclusion there), the agent's better half was the master of this. How else to explain his composure as our new friend proceeded to ADJUST HERSELF and JIGGLE HER BOSOMS in his specific direction while continued with our talk of real estate, studiously ignoring her in the hopes of driving the beast back whence she came. Mind you, not four minutes earlier, he has quite clearly introduced the only other woman at the table as his wife.
To the relief of all, she moved on a moment later and we had a laugh over her introductory outburst at being happy to find "intelligent people" since she "went to Harvard". ("That's typical of Ivy League graduates" quipped our man when teased about all the targeted boobery.) I confessed to having been impressed by her ability to zoom in on probably the only heterosexual male in the entire joint, but this was severely undermined by what happened later on.
The smokers were out having a puff and I was struggling to order a new round from the semi-useless bartender. (I ordered a Negroni and he dutifully wandered off only to return a moment later and inform me, "We don't have Negroni. We have Peroni." Yes, thank you for playing, Mr My Looks Are My Qualifications; don't you have some cosmos to squirt out?) Then she returned, even less inclined to take a hint not applied with a pneumatic drill.
The first butt pat I let pass without mention--after all, I was tipsy, wired, and high on two-and-a-half baths with jacuzzi tubs--but the second lingered just long enough to tell me it was time to give her the business. "Please don't do that," elicited a reply of "You need to be spanked," which led to, "You need to keep your hands to yourself NOW. Move away from me." "Okay, I get it," she said while still standing close enough to count my freckles. No, I don't think you do. Otherwise why would you be trying to pick up men in a GAY BAR?
Whether through my actions or those of someone even more fed up and less shy about saying, she left minutes later. We watched her through the glass making a beeline to her car. "Oh my god, is she going to drive now?" asked our agent. Well, how else is she going to make it to @mosphere in time to work her way through the gay male softball teams?
monshu had promised her a drink if his place sold and we were feeling so expansive after our voyage of discovery that we included her spouse for good measure.The first alienating element was approaching the bar from Ainslie after being inside an apartment there. The second was a bartender and a crowd which I (with one exception) did not recognise. The third was...Michelle. No, not the owner, but a completely stranger who waltzed up to agent's hubby with such a familiar air, for a moment I thought they'd met. We were at the four-top near the front window and my first thought was that she coveted it and was attempting to establish a beachhead in the hopes of monopolising it when we left.
monshu's chair was vacant at the time and she attempted to commandeer it, but I warned her that "he gets grumpy if he finds someone else sitting his chair" and told her she'd be better off pulling up a stool. (This became grounds later on for the agent's accusing me of having "invited" her to join us.) The Old Man was nonplussed by her presence at his elbow but did his best to follow our example of taking it in stride.Whether through well-polished Southern etiquette or general cluelessness (not that there's mutual exclusion there), the agent's better half was the master of this. How else to explain his composure as our new friend proceeded to ADJUST HERSELF and JIGGLE HER BOSOMS in his specific direction while continued with our talk of real estate, studiously ignoring her in the hopes of driving the beast back whence she came. Mind you, not four minutes earlier, he has quite clearly introduced the only other woman at the table as his wife.
To the relief of all, she moved on a moment later and we had a laugh over her introductory outburst at being happy to find "intelligent people" since she "went to Harvard". ("That's typical of Ivy League graduates" quipped our man when teased about all the targeted boobery.) I confessed to having been impressed by her ability to zoom in on probably the only heterosexual male in the entire joint, but this was severely undermined by what happened later on.
The smokers were out having a puff and I was struggling to order a new round from the semi-useless bartender. (I ordered a Negroni and he dutifully wandered off only to return a moment later and inform me, "We don't have Negroni. We have Peroni." Yes, thank you for playing, Mr My Looks Are My Qualifications; don't you have some cosmos to squirt out?) Then she returned, even less inclined to take a hint not applied with a pneumatic drill.
The first butt pat I let pass without mention--after all, I was tipsy, wired, and high on two-and-a-half baths with jacuzzi tubs--but the second lingered just long enough to tell me it was time to give her the business. "Please don't do that," elicited a reply of "You need to be spanked," which led to, "You need to keep your hands to yourself NOW. Move away from me." "Okay, I get it," she said while still standing close enough to count my freckles. No, I don't think you do. Otherwise why would you be trying to pick up men in a GAY BAR?
Whether through my actions or those of someone even more fed up and less shy about saying, she left minutes later. We watched her through the glass making a beeline to her car. "Oh my god, is she going to drive now?" asked our agent. Well, how else is she going to make it to @mosphere in time to work her way through the gay male softball teams?
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