Well, Diary, I really lucked into this one
It all started four Mondays ago.
I was working my twice-weekly shift in the men’s room at the Purple Panther Gentlemen’s Club, handing out paper towels and spritzes of cologne for tips. As near as I can figure, one of the clients must have put his phone down next to the breath mint bowl to wash his hands, then picked mine up by mistake. Because the very next afternoon, I got a phone call from some girl named Alejandra claiming that she met my friend Sophie while they were models on the same swimsuit shoot, and Sophie told her we should get together, since she (Alejandra) and I were both single, both went to Yale, both knew what it was like living with the burden of independent wealth, et cetera.
Well, this Alejandra had obviously reached the wrong dude. But I know enough not to give dental exams to the gift horses that sidle up to my hitching post, so I played it cool and made an appointment to meet her the very next day at one of my favorite places, Burritoville. She’d never heard of it.
She was a little late, and I was starting to get nervous she’d stand me up, but when she finally walked in—holy mackerel, diary; I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful except in magazine ads for cosmetics. My jaw slackened to a noticeably greater degree than usual.
I could tell she was surprised at my appearance, too. Not in a good way. And she was polite enough, but I could tell she was put off by my bodily clamminess when we embraced hello. The date went downhill from there.
She wasn’t at all impressed with my extensive knowledge about firearms or the Bilderberg conspiracy, which was bad news for me, since they’re by far my two best subjects, conversation-wise. I have a hard time with small talk, as evinced by my catastrophic attempts to compliment her. “You smell like maple bacon,” I said, which didn’t land the way I’d hoped, nor did my remark that “I’d like to shave off all your hair and stuff a pillow with it.” I should have just said it looked soft.
Oh, and I said her scarf looked like it was made from Muppet pelts, which I meant in a good way, but she got kind of offended. (She made it herself.) I tried to salvage the conversation and coax her back to my place by saying I’m into arty-crafty stuff myself, and offered to show her my hand-painted, historically accurate models of World War Two battles. “It’s just up the block,” I said. “Plus I’ve got a half a thing of Mountain Dew in the fridge, and an extensive DVD library of girl-on-girl submission wrestling films, if you just want to kick back and watch some videos.” She declined, tactfully but firmly.
The atmosphere in our Burritoville booth was pretty foul by this point, as anxiety and cheese both make me gassy. It was clear Alejandra was looking for a way to make her exit, and I couldn’t blame her. I decided to make it easy for her, and maybe salvage some dignity right at the end of the encounter, knowing I’d never see her again.
“Look,” I said, “we’re obviously from pretty different worlds. You’re an exquisite, radiant she-creature, elegant as a jungle cat, while I’m an utterly repugnant slob. And yet you’ve been gracious enough to endure this dinner date with me, treating me with patience and compassion, not even retching all that visibly when I scratched my head, raising a cloud of scalp flakes, many of which drifted right onto your taco salad. I want you to know how much I appreciate it, and that I will remember this evening fondly as long as I live.” With that, I started to cry. And not the controlled, single-tear kind of crying, either, but a full-blown, loud, mucusy, spasmodic, shrieking cry. It was humiliating.
“There, now,” she said, and reached across the table to wipe away the tears with a corner of her Gonzo-skin scarf. That scarf! It turned out to be alpaca, to which I am violently allergic. My eyes swelled shut, and Alejandra had to walk me up the block to my apartment for my balm.
When we got in the front door, I heard her utter a surprised little “oh!” I assumed she was reacting to my reptile cages, which experience has taught me girls are often weird about. But no.
“Is that… On the counter there, do you have B Cellars’ 2005 Blends 24 and 25?”
“I suppose I do,” I said.
“Wow, I’ve heard great things about those wines,” Alejandra said. “They’re blended from some prestigious Napa vineyards—To Kalon, Moss Creek, Stagecoach, Auger, Georges III…”
“You know your wines,” I said.
“I might have underestimated your tastes,” she said. “Robert Parker scored both these blends at 91, right?”
I just smiled. I had no idea. I’d bought them from wine.woot by mistake, clicking “I Want One” in the wrong window one night while I was sleep-deprived from too much World of Warcraft. But I wasn’t about to tell Alejandra that.
“Would you mind if I stayed long enough to try these?” she asked.
“Tell you what,” I said, “I’ll pop into the bathroom for my allergy cream, you pour. I don’t have glasses, but you’ll find a couple rinsed-out olive jars in the sink.”
“You’re a funny one!” Alejandra said. A few quaffs later, we fell into each other’s arms, in ecstasy over the fleshy, ripe flavors of these two blends—ripe cassis, plum, blackberry… and full of the pure, unbridled passion that only true wine lovers can find for one another. Even when one of them is really more of a cream soda lover. (But you’d better believe I’m making a quick study on the wine.woot forums and at my local wine shops.)
Alejandra and I have been together ever since!
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