I get a phone call from the soon to be Ex-Wife before I leave work telling me she’s taking The Boy and The Prodge to her sister’s place for a while (an hour from home) and won’t be home till late. I’m like sweet. On the ride home I call the SuperHero and tell her of the situation.
SuperHero: Sweet so you get to go home and chill.
Me: Well I wanted to actually go out with people and have a beer, but I got the news too late.
SH: Well I can’t help you there, I’m stuck at Dinosaur’s apartment until the phone guy comes, otherwise I’d gladly meet you for a drink.
Me: Bummer.
SH: Well if you want to you can come over to Dinosaur’s apartment, we have beer.
!!!!!!!!!
After internal debate….
Me: I’m almost tempted if I thought you were serious…
SH: Dude, I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.
Me: Ok. I’m on my way.
I finally get there and for some reason, the phone guy is there. I immediately grab a beer (it’s a bud light for the extra Chad effect) and she’s talking to the phone guy in Spanish because he’s Dominican. It takes a while for the phone to get set up and we just chill, nothing is really ‘happening’. TPG goes down to his truck for a bit and she excuses herself to – not the commoner bathroom – but the one off the master bedroom. She comes out with her hair down. Holy freaking crank. This is a joke between us, because I once made a comment to her about how she always wears her hair up at work but it looks really nice down and she tells me that whenever she wears it down at work, I don’t see. She looked freaking good. Damn good. I’m not a betting man, and I’ve been known to be oblivious, but if I had to handicap it, I would say there was a 100% chance of us bumping uglies that evening.
Then it happened. TPG came back up and she offered him a beer. We started freaking chilling with TPG. Holy Crank! He’s looking at me like he’s going to nail her on principle because I can’t seal the deal, and I have no freaking defense. She then gets tired of hearing us complain about the light that hangs literally at the 5 foot mark in the middle of the living room and goes to stand on the coffee table to raise it. She immediately lands on her freaking head, after of course she hits the dining room table with her head twice on the way down. I automatically think to myself “I’m not even sticking around for the 911 call” but she bounces back up fine. Alcohol is a wonderful drug. I tell TPG that if she was dead, I was walking out, he couldn’t prove I was here and no prosecutor in the nation would even look into the tall white guy that he claimed drank all the beer if there’s a dead white girl in the room with a Dominican phone guy drinking a beer while on the clock. He agrees with me and rejoices in the fact she’s not dead. She then ushers both of us out because she has to rush home to the husband she plans on leaving today.
I’m not sure but I think I just blew a sure thing. She calls me on the ride home and tells me she has this massive bruise on her leg but now I know where all the parties are going to be this fall. I’m still befuddled by the situation. How could I bomb so badly? Oh wait, that’s right, I’m me, if it’s not funny and self deprecating it didn’t happen and no one on the planet snatches defeat from the jaws of victory like I do. Fucking Classic…
