Last night, Antonia, Joanne and I dolled ourselves up and went to the Capitol Event Theatre for the tenth annual Fireball. We danced up a storm–note: bouncing around to “Home for a Rest” and “Tub-Thumping” is disastrous for your average elegant up-do.
Speaking of hair, there was a noticeable lack of it on some of the male guests. I support men shaving their heads when male-pattern baldness starts to set in, because comb-overs are NEVER a good look, but there were so many cue-balls in evidence last night that I’m thinking it’s a fashion choice. Antonia referred to them collectively as Mr Cleans; we did some bird’s eye view spotting from the balcony. One specimen deployed questionable tactics to hit on me:
MR CLEAN: Are you part Asian?
ME: Yes, good guess!
MR CLEAN: (leans in and leers) I like that.
ME: … Ohhh-kay.
MR CLEAN: Do you have a name?
ME: No, I left it at home.
MR CLEAN: Maybe you could look for it at my place.
ME: Ohh, NO, that was TERRIBLE.
MR CLEAN: Really? I thought that was pretty good, on the spur of the moment.
ME: No, you need to retire that. Pretend this never happened.
The end of the night is a bit of a blur. I remember swearing a lot (just in general, not at anything in particular) in the cab on the way home, and apparently I bemoaned at some length my lack of a well-oiled gentleman to remove my bra for me (I… don’t even know. Antonia and Joanne don’t know where I was going with that either). And I did something either last night or in my sleep to completely throw my neck out, which means that for today, I, like Derek Zoolander, have been unable to turn left.
But you’ll be pleased to know that my half-assedly broken-in shoes did not give me blisters!
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I like the subtle implication that your being part Asian was a choice on your behalf to become alluring to men like him, and that it was a canny one. Good work, Suzie!
I’m reminded of the time I heard my old co-worker hollering into his phone to a friend who also had a bad case of yellow fever, trying to persuade him to come to a bar with us: “Dude, there’s gonna be Asians there! Asians!”
Anyway, that guy’s response (for which you set him up, so he needn’t worry about retiring it unless someone sets him up again in the same way) didn’t make sense. If you left your name at your home, why would you be able to find it at his? Such a search would be a fruitless waste of time. It would have been better to ask if you would like him to come home with you and help you look for it. Maybe it’s lost between two couch cushions; perhaps if you sat on the couch and had a glass of wine, you might spot it. Later it might be worth suggesting that some squirming around on the cushions might help your name work its way back out from under them. And so on.
See, you’d be much better at hitting on me. Clearly what I respond to is logical innuendo.
I think in my case, he could claim to have a slight case of yellow fever. Pale yellow fever? Mild jaundice?