"the drunk, horny people are scaring me"

That's a verbatim quote from this weekend, which we will get to in a moment. Like, now.

Saturday evening I ended up in the bar of a Back Bay restaurant better known for its location and people-watching opportunities than for the food or value-on-the-dollar. But they do have good bread pudding, and I wanted some. And an Irish coffee. Strictly for medicinal purposes, you understand, since not half an hour before, I had badly twisted my ankle crossing Comm Ave, there being a huge construction rut in the street. Well, also because I wasn't looking where I was going, being too busy mocking the clot of BU students ahead of us. But be that as it may, I'm sure that it was nevertheless the fault of the City of Boston and I would have a huge lawsuit on my hands if only I had documentation. Anyway. I ended up having my medicinal pudding and whiskey and we had even managed to poach a table in this tiny, tiny bar, so all was well until the, for lack of a better word, bachelorette party, or part of it, moved into the adjoining table.

I say for lack of a better word because other than the presumed bride-to-be, all the "bachelorettes" had huge rocks on their left hands, and, um, there was also a man involved in this little party. Wherein hangs our story. The women at this table were all well into their fourth espresso martinis, by which I mean to say, toasted. And they were happily flirting and accepting more alcohol from a gentleman they had met at the bar. He was not dissuaded by the fact that, and I quote, they all had dibs on them, which is frankly, perhaps the most charming way of saying "married" in this situation I'd ever heard. I mean, it kind of takes the onus off of cheating. "I know your husband has dibs on you, but he's not here, is he?"

At some point my friend disappears to the bathroom for a very very long time and, while I pick at my bread pudding and sip my Irish coffee, I am drawn into the little psychodrama playing out four feet from me ever more deeply and uncomfortably. The drink-buyer in question claims he is in commercial real estate, which I take to mean "janitor." Because he also has made known that he's from Southie, and with my keen sensitivity to such things, I am totally sure he means townie South Boston, not yuppie South Boston. You could clean him up and drop him off on Newbury Street, but there's nothing about this guy that wasn't saying Irish mook to me. (Of course, it didn't occur to me until afterwards, but commercial real estate is also one of those professions that people claim to be in when their real occupation = mob. And if you actually rob banks or do hits for a living, I suppose you've got the wads of cash and the self confidence to work on picking up married tourists in upscale lounges.)

Another woman joins the party and she's almost sitting on the guy's lap and my friend has not yet returned and I'm getting extremely uncomfortable with pretending to eat my dessert and not watch/listen. So I whip out my cell and make a table-to-bathroom call. "Get.Back.Here.NOW." Also, see quote above.

I love humanity.

So, weekend part deux. I wake up Sunday am and my twisted ankle is a little swollen and stiff and I hobble around the kitchen for awhile, sure it is mildly sprained. Now, let me backtrack slightly. Do you remember my telling you all that the podiatrist was coming to the house to take care of my dad's toenails, and also, that my dad had been having severe left thigh pain whenever he attempted to walk further than from my house to the corner? Well, after the podiatrist did his business, my dad totally unexpectedly found that his thigh pain was relieved. Friday he walked all the way down to the main intersection with me, which means nothing to those of you who haven't been to my house, but for those of you who have, you'll realize that's five times longer than from my house to the corner. So my dad takes it into his head that he has had a miracle cure through the wonders of podiatry and that he is going to walk to 7-11, which is, I dunno, a half mile away?

I tell him, no, no, no, you wait until Sunday when I can walk with you, in case this turns out to be a very bad idea and you need help. So Sunday being hobbled with my slightly sprained ankle and all, I figure me and the old man will probably neither make it to the 7-11, but damnit! we're gonna try. But we both did it, and I gotta say, I am flummoxed about the "miracle cure". All I can think of is that his disgusting toenails were causing him to change his gait in some extremely weird way. Or it's all psychosomatic. With my family, you never know.

I love humanity.

xoxo