I was trying to make this Sunday Submission a regular thing. But, last week I was too busy getting drunk on Mission Hill’s tab up at the Hill. Yes, the benefits of being a wine merchant.
I could dedicate this space to the shits and giggles that is a bunch of trashed wine retailers on the loose in the Okanagan, but the real drama is in my daily life, South of the Fraser. As I have previously said, I am coming at this Sunday Submission thing from the perspective of a lone suburbanite in the gay desert.
So I have a good news/bad news story.
Spin back time a bit, to about three years ago. I was being treated to a birthday dinner (a belated dinner I might add, I like to stretch my jubilee’s out for three or so months) by my G-ma (that’s Grandma to you). And, of course the waiter was a cutie, everything mother said to avoid: Blonde, good looking and blonde. Yeah, haven’t quite figured out what Mum has against the goldie-locks amongst us. This server, let’s call him Tab, was flirty and very attentive.
Flash forward to August of 2008, and I start working at the wine shop and walk by this restaurant every day on the way to and from work. One day I was passing by the restaurant, and in all honesty, was probably looking at my reflection in the window when I noticed Tab. It was great: I felt like an idiot because I assumed that he would notice that I was being vain and checking myself out in the window. And, I do not like being caught off guard. I smiled and kept walking. Yeah, that’s how I like to roll. So, almost every Saturday, I see Tab through the window; sometimes he sees me and other times he doesn’t. It’s been nice.
Then came a friend’s birthday three Fridays ago.
I had been making my circuit around the peninsula, the usual stuff: credit union, comic book store and just taking in the heat. I was wearing a wife beater and shorts, which was an event in and of itself. This was my maiden donning of the wife beater in public. I’m a little self conscious about showing off the flesh, so this was a big step for me.
After getting my errands done, I decided I would just walk straight to my friend’s house for a pre-dinner gathering. I forgot to bring a nicer shirt for dinner at a local Greek restaurant noted for its male and female belly dancers. When dinnertime finally arrives we drive off to the restaurant, as I get out of the car I see Tab working the patio. My immediate thought is that I did not want Tab to see me in the wife beater: on a another level I am sure the tank top would up the stakes. Our group was seated on the opposite end of the restaurant from Tab.
After a half litre of Bacchus [Editor’s Note: As a Greek mythology buff, i’m lovin’ the reference here, but feel quite a few people will need to be told that means wine- you’re welcome Patrick!], I’m referring to Tab as my future husband and am trying to get my girlfriends to see how hot Tab is. This is where I discover that my galpals have rather slow reflexes and they only catch the back view of him. And, what a winning backside it is.
Our little dinner party breaks up and we all line up to pay our separate bills on debit or credit, which the staff is just loving. Tab is zipping back and forth serving or clearing tables. My pal’s finally get the front view of Tab and compliment me on my taste in men.
Then Tab suddenly stops, introduces himself with a hearty handshake with a warm bicep squeeze.
Did I mention that I don’t like being caught off guard?
I’ve begun to see the charms of the unexpected. Tab then goes back to his server’s duties. I realize that I have cleverly forgotten to introduce myself and my girls are “complimenting” me on my smooth style. I say he was just being friendly to the creep he sees once a week. The girls say no, he obviously wants my nugget.
I’m rusty okay. Either way I’m easy.
I grab him when he comes by next and introduce myself.
And, that was that.
My party was leaving and they were my ride so I had to make tracks.
The following week I stopped by the restaurant uptown that I walk by after work and am determined to get a date or at the very least a number. I’m shocked at how un-nervous I am, I walk in there and ask if he would like to get a drink or a coffee sometime. Then he says the four (or five depending on your usage) dreaded words:
“I have a boyfriend.”
I mime a single tear rolling down my cheek.
We decided to be friendly-like at some undetermined point in the mid future.
So on the good side, we have a gay: he’s been tagged and released back into the desert.
The bad: The boyfriend bit, oh and self medicating with Fatburger for the last week.
Let’s do the tally. My life is cursed by two things:
1. Flirtatious straight guys.
2. Flirtatious paired gays (and Mum raised a good boy, I will never be the other man).
Maybe it is true what Mona Ramsey, the character created by Armistead Maupin, said in his Tales of the City series (and I quote loosely):
“All you need in life is five good friends”
And, I sure have more than that.
Things to think on this week:
Magazine subscriptions: 50% off the cover price! Yes please!
Lady Gaga: Yes, I get it and it is spectacular.
Humanities greatest mechanical creation: Behold… the automatic Dishwasher!
Submitted by: Jason C.
Wanna write? Have an opinion?