Lately I had been feeling somewhat twilight-zoned back in my own country, a mere alien in my own land. I get the ‘stumped game-show contestant’ look whenever I ask servers for mineral water or pronounce Italian food items correctly with an Italian accent. My only solace has been remembering how to order a Starbucks coffee ie. “Solo grande, non-fat Lactaid latte.” 8 years ago it took me a month to learn it, and I thought that was about as complicated as it was ever gonna get. (Try that tongue-twister out for size bitchez.)
Once again single in the city…
While back in TO after a late dinner at a downtown eatery with Lou (an actual blood-relative and one of my best gfs) we found ourselves at a lounge 2 blocks away, slinging back vodka martinis and emasculating the men in our past relationships in true city-girl form. We later ventured down the street to a popular neighborhood tavern for some last-call quality time. As I looked around through glassed-eyes I wondered what else I had missed in the fishbowl of single life back in the big city, and if anything had changed during my absense.
During my hazy, contemplative state, a very cute 30-something Irish carpenter holding up the bar a few feet away from me struck up a conversation.
The highlights went a little something like this…
IM: I think you’re really hot.
CM: Oh…. thanks, that’s a nice compliment.
IM: So Italians must be great lovers huh?
CM: Hahaha! Are you joking? Don’t even get me started. They couldn’t find a woman’s equipment with GPS and an electron microscope.
CM: Really. It’s a myth.
IM: So much for the stereotype. I have a big cock.
Needless to say I didn’t fall to my knees and beg him to prove it by slinging his manliness over the bar, or impaling me on the stool in front of the other patrons, despite the fact it could be a ‘long, dry season’ and there is no telling when would be the next time I would be getting any.
CM: Really? Well, congratulations.
IM: Let’s go get another drink on Spadina.
CM: But it’s already last call. Wait, you mean like at an illegal booze-can? Can’t. I am the designated sane one in my group of 2. Look at her, I gotta get her home. I am responsible for making sure we don’t end up in prison or in an ambulance.
IM: Come home with me then. You’re hot. I really want to fuck you.
So is this how we roll these days in the ‘getting-to-know-you?’ No relaxed coffee dates with a stroll in downtown core? Or casual informal dinners at local eateries? We just get pissed, cut to the chase and exchange body fluids like library books?
In that case it is indeed going to be a long, dry season…