They say you can never go Home...

Soldiers of Sparta were allowed to return home after lost battles, only if carried dead upon their shields. I'm convinced this is a more practical and time-saving way to go about it.

Friday, October 01, 2004

Date 4

Recently, a young lady (who I am trying to coerce into liking me) invited me to attend an Engagement Party. One of the recipients for whom this shindig was intended was her long-time friend from High School. I got the distinct impression that this party was more for the parents, who were Rotarians with thriving social networks, but also quite vocal in their opinion that this engagement was very long in the coming. This sentiment, and the resulting falderal resulting in this expansive party, was the source of some irritation for this young lady’s friend. However, like most Italians I have met, adding food and liberally applying drink usually lubricates these things to the point of being really enjoyable. And such was the case here.

My Date felt a bit awkward, I think, knowing very few people there and quite possibly feeling a bit anxious with the added pressure of my presence. However, I proposed we sit down and eat some dinner, and so we did. Shortly thereafter, two energetic, elderly, married couples joined us.

What immediately followed was a rousing discussion about one of the elderly ladies' medical history.

She was telling us that she (and her husband) became rigid vegetarians due to a very bad hot dog she had ingested at some point approximately three years ago. It was so horrible, she related, because here insides were so clogged up and she couldn’t do anything for a time. Until! something finally broke and she made number two that was “the consistency of water.” The resulting diarrhoea eventually “blew out a few feet of her colon.” Seriously. That's a direct quote.

We were treated to a quick yet graphic description of what that looked like (coiled out like Italian Sausage) and the resulting effects (which I will magnanimously spare you from at this point).

Yes, this was terribly bad timing and not to mention gross, but did I stop, mid-bite, while mowing through my lasagna? Well, yes, I did, but only so I could concentrate on not aspirating it while I restrained my laughter in a fit of heaving shoulders.

My lovely date did not even miss a beat. She was completely composed and actually engaged this woman in a conversational tactic which gently switched the topic from gastrointestinal distress, to a more mundane topic (which in this case, was her pets). I marveled at her ability to remain composed. But then again, I’m immature and love Potty Humor. So maybe it was easier than I thought.

The new discussion thread began with a narrative introduction of her two dogs; one of whom I could swear she said was named Kinky. (It could have been Kiki, but I think the former sounds eminently more interesting.) Then she immediately related that the German Shepard on the adjacent property had taken a liking to one of her little poodles. And by taking a liking, I mean had apparently been trying to hump the little poodle every chance it could. “You know,” she said “it sounds really bad, but he doesn’t like the Black One. He always wants to hump the Blonde one!”

I certainly appreciated her candidness in the matter, but found I disagreed fundamentally with her Alsatian’s rather singular taste in women.