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Last Friday, I took my son PR out to lunch in an effort to escape the noise of workers at our house.
We don’t have mother/son lunch dates very often so I decided to treat him and go to a “nice” restaurant.
Two OC women were seated in the booth behind my son.
They were discussing their very shallow existence (money, money, money) and their poor sex lives quite loudly.
“Jack and I absolutely never DO it at all anymore. Well, except about a month ago I BEGGED him for a cuddle and blah, blah, blah, [insert more information than any of us want to hear] …..”
It was embarrassing to be within earshot.
The two women, combined, amount to just about everything I dislike about Orange County.
After lunch, as we walked out of the restaurant –
PR (who is now 17 years old) said, unprompted, “I will NEVER marry anyone who is anything like those women. I’m not going to marry an Orange County woman.”
It was one of those parental moments when I knew, with absolute certainty,
I did at least one thing right as a parent.
It wasn’t until later that night, while at the Angel’s baseball game, I realized I had forgotten my credit card at the restaurant.
To be more specific, the waitress (who was brand new) never returned it to me.
In the midst of packing up leftovers to bring home (and hurriedly escaping the two obnoxious OC women),
I didn’t even notice.
I’ve never lost or forgotten a credit card before, and I felt a bit panicky.
Late that night, Briefcase and I returned to our local neighborhood after watching a wonderful Angel’s victory.
I asked my doting (?!) husband if he could please swing by the restaurant on the way home so I could run in and (hopefully) reclaim my credit card.
This is the part where I mention the very “nice” restaurant I had lunch at, turns into a high-priced Money Town bar at night.
Briefcase got a prime parking spot right in front of the restaurant.
I told him I’d be right back, and headed into the restaurant-now-a-bar, alone.
No big deal, right?
I was assaulted almost the second I stepped in.
“Oh MY! Aren’t you cute!” said a man who dripped money and slime from every pore.
“Excuse me?” I said, incredulously.
I haven’t been “cute” since I was five …
And I haven’t been fond of slime-ball men ever.
To be completely honest, I’m also now old and I don’t get out much.
If I’m at a bar, I’m with my husband or girlfriends.
I don’t go to bars alone.
I’m not used to men hitting on me milliseconds after I walk into a room.
(In all fairness to my aging self … I did have “real” clothes on instead of my normal yoga pants, t-shirt, and flip-flops. Do you think that’s what attracted him? REAL clothes?)
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a Money Town woman snort and laugh at the sight of me recoiling from Mr. Slime.
The young, attractive, bartender also witnessed the encounter and immediately stepped over to rescue me.
Hot Bartender smiled and asked if I’d like a drink. I explained about my lost/forgotten credit card and he asked one of the waitresses to go check the restaurant safe.
The safe checking process turned out to be quite lengthy.
I stood at the bar, awkwardly.
Mr. Slime sidled up next to me, pulled up a bar stool, and sat as close as possible to where I stood.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” Mr. Slime oozed.
Before I could respond, he went on –
“What can I get you?” he asked, pointing to his own drink.
I stared at him, blankly.
Men still say things like that?
I haven’t seen you here before????
Does that line ever work?
Doesn’t the very statement imply Mr. Slime never leaves the bar?
What woman is attracted to a man who near leaves the bar?
I was momentarily struck speechless.
I glanced around for help.
I saw a woman seated a few bar stools away, watching my encounter with Mr. Slime. She and her date seemed very amused by it.
My eyes searched the room quickly, looking for a familiar face.
Instead, my eyes met Hot Bartender’s.
He had, of course, taken in every awkward moment of my encounter with Mr. Slime.
He immediately came over to me.
Hot Bartender smiled, ignored a now visibly irritated Mr. Slime, and initiated a conversation with me.
I refused to look away from Hot Bartender for one millisecond, and he – completely understanding, ignored everyone at the bar but me.
(It seemed like fifteen HOURS, but it was a very long fifteen minutes until my credit card was brought to me.)
Hot Bartender offered me a drink “on the house” while I waited, but I declined.
(Thank goodness Hot Bartender was very NICE in addition to being quite attractive. He chatted with me nonstop, saving me from Mr. Slime who refused to move from my side.)
Once my card was returned to me, I said a grateful goodnight to Hot Bartender, completely ignored Mr. Slime’s last attempt to corner me, and exited quickly.
When I finally arrived home, PR was lounging on the couch.
I explained to him I had forgotten the credit card at lunch and had to return to the restaurant on the way home.
“And guess what?” I said to my son.
He looked at me questioningly.
“A man tried to hit on me at the bar,” I informed him. (I was still shocked myself.)
The look of sheer horror on my son’s face, at the very thought of anyone hitting on his mom, confirmed for me everything I already knew.
I’m waaaaaaaay old!