Tag Archives: brewery

Let’s Not Be Friends

Men really are pigs, aren’t they? I spent last evening in the company of the dear Mrs. O (aka “The Wife”) and the enchanting Mrs. M (aka “Not The Wife”), enjoying a pint of IPA, several pints of water and fascinating/painful/arousing/embarrassing conversation. Jennie, less reasonably, but still responsibly, enjoyed two pints of Jacob Marley, and Rachel had a few more than that of Chili Pepper Ale.

Because we had a concert (Boy-Child, bass clarinet, other side of town) to attend earlier, we were a few minutes late meeting Mrs. M, which was all the opportunity a frumpy 1970’s-pornstached lothario needed to make his moves on Mrs. M. Mrs. M is very outgoing, friendly, and not shy at all (pretty much covered that in the outgoing, didn’t I? Well, we need to make this point clear: Mrs. M is not shy).

When we arrived, Mrs. M was sitting at the bar, smiling slightly, being hovered over by said pornstache. He was trying, from what I could tell, to sit in her lap. He was NOT pleased when I found us a table in another room and dragged her off.

Half an hour into our beer and conversation, Mrs. M noticed him standing at the other end of the room, pressing at his phone and carefully not quite looking our way. Every few minutes, he edged closer. Somehow he managed to grab Mrs. M’s arse as she went to get another beer, and mistook Jennie’s smile as she passed him as a signal to move in even closer. By the time I got up to use the restroom, he was hiding behind a pillar next to us, staring more intently at his phone.

As we walked Mr. M out the door and to her car, he followed partway, hoping, I suppose, that we would leave her alone long enough so he could offer her his famed moustache ride. Really, could you have been any more creepy?

Food Rebel

It goes to show that I am rigid and lacking in imagination. Where she sees the sensuous dining experience of finger food, I see a fully-dressed house salad and someone who needs to pick up her damned fork. Dining at 6 Rivers is always an entertaining, albeit frequently overly-loud and understaffed, experience, and Saturday night did not disappoint. The joy of people-watching was abundant, as I scanned the crowd for sportsball fans, semi-rowdy drunks, misfits and young lovers in lust. Of the latter, it was the mid-thirties woman on what I hoped was not a first date, who had not yet learned that salad is not typically finger food. Who am I to judge? Maybe she likes the cool, creamy feeling of dressing sliding down her fingers.

At fourteen, my daughter is finally accepting that some foods should be eaten with a fork if you do not want to draw scorn or disgust from your peers. I imagine that, should I manage to convince her that salad ingredients are truly food, she will have figured out the whole fork and salad thing before long.

I turned back to look at the rest of the crowd for new entertainment. The mesmerizing set of eyeglasses on one furry fellow captivated me. Why had I not thought of extending the lifespan of older glasses by replacing the temples with pencils and rubber bands?

By the time I returned to Salad Fingers, the main course had arrived. Fortunately, the boyfriend/date/companion/victim knew what he was doing, as he ordered a pizza as the main course, saving his date from the awkwardness of trying to shovel handfuls of spaghetti into her mouth. And I am just glad she ordered salad, not soup, as the first course.