I don’t have a champagne bottle that I can break against the side of the Internet (…tubes?), so I’ll christen the changeover to WordPress with an embarrassing story.
A long time ago (2 years ago, for you playing along at home), in a city not so very far away (like, 10 miles), a girl was meeting a boy for their very first date. She had high hopes for the night. She had primped and preened and donned this really awesome salmon colored ruffly tank that she found at The Gap the one and only time that she ever gone in and it was only because she had gotten grease from her Burger King on her original shirt that day, but lo. She found that shirt and it was adorable. She had pulled on old, worn-in jeans that she found in the back of her closet, even though she wasn’t sure that they were going to fit anymore, but LO. They fit. And they made her butt look fiiiiiiiine.
She was freaking ready.
She met him at a bar and talked with him for a long time over the rim of their glasses, about how to brew beer and politics and chemistry and Russian and and and. He was smart and funny and she found herself enjoying the way his eyes crinkled up and then shone when he laughed at her jokes. Eventually the bar started up with their live music, and because she is a bit deaf, they picked their way out of the crowded bar (asking for a good recommendation for a pool hall from the bartender before they left), and walked out into the sultry summer night, holding hands.
They climbed into his truck and made their way to a large, busy pool hall where they had beer and talked and she tried desperately hard not to make an ass out of herself, to just Be Cool.
“Hey”, she thought to herself. “You know what makes being cool/interesting/funny easier? More beer! Social lubrication! Perfect solution! What could go wrong!”
So, she kept the beers coming and they kept having a good time and she won a game of pool and he won the next three because she is a shitty pool player, and even more so when (really) drunk.
And at some point, they kissed. A tender affair, with hesitant beginnings and a strong finish, her hand on his chest to keep standing, his hand gently tangled in her tresses. Perfection.
They shut down the pool hall and then they wandered outside and stood outside for a long while talking, him smoking, her watching the lines of his face when he smiled.
It was the perfect date.
A little over year later, I asked him about that night. “What do you remember best”, I asked.
“Well”, he said. “I thought you were cute. Very funny. Although…”
“Yeah. I thought it was a bit weird when I complimented your beautiful eyes and you said, matter of factly, that they ‘were the color of poop’.”
“….I DID WHAT?”
“Yeah. I thought that was a bit weird.”
“I DID WHAT???”
“Yeah. You said your eyes were the color of poop.”
“…JESUS CHRIST. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW? FOR FUCKS SAKE, TELL ME YOU ARE KIDDING. TELL ME YOU ARE YANKING MY GODDAMN CHAIN.”
“OH MY GOD, I DON’T EVEN REMEMBER THIS EVEN A LITTLE BIT. WHY DID I DRINK SO FUCKING MUCH THAT NIGHT. OH MY GOD…Did I at least tell you the story behind WHY I said that? The family joke?”
“Oh my god, I SAID THAT and then didn’t even EXPLAIN IT? Oh my god. Oh my god. I want to die. I am going to die. Ok. OK! I will tell you now. Because that will totally make up for it, right? That will make up for the fact that the most memorable part of our FIRST DATE was ME talking about POOP.”
“…Sure? That’ll make up for it?…”
“OHHHHHHHHHHHH MYYYYYYYYY GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD. I CANNOT BELIEVE THAT I DID THIS. I WAS TRYING TO BE SO COOL! Ok. OKAY. The family joke is that when they were kids, my mom told her little sister one day when they were having a fight, that her eyes were ‘the color of boogers’ and then my aunt retorted ‘Well, YOURS are the color of POOP.’ And so…now I have eyes the color of poop? Because I…have my mother’s eyes?”
“…Wait. I SAID THIS. On our FIRST DATE. And you KEPT DATING ME?”
“I thought you were cute.”