No poker poo today. I've been 4-tabling the low stakes SNG's on Party for the last week, and it just solidifies that Nerd is a damn machine. So, until I have anything reasonably witty and funny to say regarding poker, you'll have to wait. Instead, read this.
I was on my way out to Buffalo last night to eat dinner when the fam, when my phone rang.
"Where are you? We're hungry" my mom said from somewhere deep inside the phone.
"Mom, it's three forty-five!
That's when my mom brought out the secret weapon; my niece, Avery. There was a muffled conversation on the other end of the line, followed by "Cha! Ea!", and little more whispering with the coup de grace being a hushed "Me Hungee." That is, of course, painfully cute two year-old speak for "Chad, hurry up! Let's eat! I'm hungry."
It was so goddamn cute that I felt a tinge of pain in my epididymis. And not wanting to incur the wrath of a hungry child, I sped all the way to my parent's place. Even at that age, a girl can still get me to do her bidding pretty damn easily, which is sad.
When I walked in the door, I expected a cheer, or maybe even a small "Yay!", but I didn't even get that. All I got was a sheepish smile, and a niece hiding behind my brother's leg. It's been brought to my attention--over and over again--that my niece is flirting with me, and I had no clue. And she's better at it than I am. Which isn't saying much, but I've got her by a good 28 years. I shouldn't be as bad as I am.
So, we sit down to eat, but Avery is so preoccupied by my presence, that her mashed potatoes aren't so much ending up in her mouth, as they are being firmly remashed into her chubby little cheeks. If I didn't know better, I would almost believe that her tippy cup of milk had a little Bailey's or Kahlua mixed in, but I know my brother only uses that method of inducing sleep after
6pm, not before.
As I'm putting on my coat and preparing to come back to the city, my mom tells Avery to give me a hug goodbye. My niece responds by slowly shuffling her way over to me, not so sure if I'm going to give her a hug, or force her to eat all of her vegetables. I get down on my knees and open my arms, in preparation for the hug, and she responds by upping her shuffling to a full-on sprint, headbutting me in the chest.
On my way out to the car, I hear an emphatic "BYE!", only to turn around to see my niece smiling and waving spastically at me. Motherfucker.
Goddamn it, Kid, don't make me like you. Don't you dare give kids a good name. I don't want to believe that children aren't
the devil, but you're doing a damn good job of making me believe otherwise.
I've spent every Sunday night for the past 6 months either on the patio, or bellied up to the bar at Drink Uptown. I have my reasons; mainly the cheap drinks and a nice pour into the beginning of the work week, but the main reason the place keeps my business is because of the staff. They treat me well.
Rachel and I have taken a liking to one bartender in particular; a persian looking girl named Michelle. She's young, cute and basically anything I'd ever want my personal bartender/sex-crazed girlfriend to be. Most of all, though, she's always been overly-friendly to me.
But, I'm not one to assume that a girl wants me to bone her, just because they're personable. After all, it is a part of her job to interact with people on a constant basis. Plus, she's the kind of girl that gets hit on constantly. I'm not about to be one of those
guys. I've tried to ask out girls that work at bars before, and each time has ended less than swell, so I've given up on taking that approach.
I can't say that I wasn't a little giddy, though, when she grabbed my hand last week as I was leaving and said "You should come see me next Sunday over at my new job".
Yesterday, as I left The Coolest Niece Alive, I debated whether or not I wanted to go over and talk with Michelle. The whole idea of this girl liking me just smacked of lame. Huge balls of lame. I'm ever-the-Pessimist when it comes to girls, so the thought that she could genuinely be interested on me, well, that notion wasn't all that plausible.
But, ever-the-HornyGuy said "Hey, she really could like you! She's all ooooover
your jock, dude. Go for it. The only thing it can hurt is your pride, and it's not as if you've got a whole shit-ton of that left, anyhow."
So I went, but not without recruiting Rachel as my out. If things were not going as planned, Rachel could offer up some excuse about having to leave, and that would be that. Plus, I needed a chauffeur, and that Rachel is a month into her self-imposed drinking exile, that was just a coincidence, I swear.
The night started off like every other Sunday night; me sitting at Drink, drinking. Around 9pm, Rachel showed up, and it was decided that we'd head over to see Michelle around 10-ish. That was cool with me. It gave me time to get my cheap drink on, and in turn I wouldn't spend so much money at the trendy new cold spot on the other side of the lake.
We pulled up to a parking meter on a side street, and I got to bear witness to the abomination that is Rachel's parallel parking skills. Lack thereof is more like it. She tried to park her Matchbox-sized Hyundai in a spot relative in size to that of an O'Hare runway three times, and each time she hit the curb.
"Good God, do you want me to do it?" I asked.
"YES!" she pouted as she got out of the car. "Damn it."
I was a little surprised that she gave up so quickly, but there's no telling how long we would've been there had I not hopped in driver's seat and backed neatly into the spot on the first try. Biggest. Parking. Spot. Ever!
We entered the front door, took a seat at the bar, and I was immediately rewarded with a tall, shiney glass of frothy heaven. Ohhhhh, Miller Lite, how I don't mind thee, not one bit. Damn, I could get used to a woman that brings me a beer without even having to ask.
We talked with Michelle for a few minutes inbetween her helping other customers, and it was just like I thought it would be, minus her jumping over the bar and attacking me outright, of course. Other than that, yeah, great. But she had to go and ruin the dream for me.
"Oooh, here, let me get you a menu."
She placed the menu down in front of us, and continued talking, but instead of chatting about the weather, or how amazing my ass looks in these jeans, or how much she'd like to meet me in the bathroom in t-minus 3 minutes, she started talking about menu items that were tasty.
Rachel and I didn't ask for a menu, and we didn't care what we might, you know, for future reference, eat on a visit somewhere down the road. Michelle was our only objective.
There's an episode of South Park called "Raisins". Raisins is a chain restaurant that's a knock off of Hooter's, except the waitresses don't have big ol' bonzongos, they just have little raisins for boobs. The hook for the waitress at Raisins is to feign interest in the customer by calling them 'cutie', 'honey' and 'sweetie' so that the customer will, in turn, give out bigger tips.
As Michelle talked about an overpriced sandwich, it hit me that I'd been raisin'ed. All the touching, and smiling, and casual glances that went on; she didn't like me. She didn't even like my Doggy Style. She liked my tip money!
Damn the man.
Michelle walked to the other side of the bar, and I told Rachel that we'd both been raisined; motherfucking raisined! She laughed and agreed, and I finished my beer so I could be in bed by midnight.
Am I broken up over this? Not at all. I thought it was a funny story. She's still a cool girl, and I can almost guarantee that she'd laugh while reading it. Almost. And I'll probably end up there next week.
But I am a little afraid of the day that my niece learns--actually learns--that flirting can get you whatever you want from a man, whether that be money, "Emmies!"(M&M's to the uninitiated), or even just a hug from your crotchety, 30 year old uncle.
I'm so screwed.