It Was The Eighties, and He Was Down With The Ladies

I wish I could tell you that throughout my life, I have made only wise, non impulsive, emotionally free decisions.

Ha!

There have been decisions made where I had no other choice, where life decided for me, or where I did the best I could do at that time.

And there have been the decisions where, having once made them, we can call ourselves graduates in the school of hard knocks. Lessons Learned The Hard Way 101.

Nothing brings these technicolor flashes of memory of some of the things I've done to the forefront of my mind quicker than a blast from the past burst of a song on the radio.

While driving my three children from one place to the next earlier this week, with the car radio on good and loud in celebration of summer, Funky Cold Medina snuck on and slapped me between the ears like a wet fish.

Oh my precious of all things precious, I just began shaking and trying to stifle my laughter at that awesome three-beat-intro, because I did not want my three baby boys in the car to ask, "Mom? What's so funny?"

Because then I'd have to tell them the story of when I decided to try and get the The Most Handsome Man in Milwaukee, to like me.

Which, of course, is what ended up happening; him liking me, and me telling them this story:

One night, while in college, as I was busy waitressing at the beer and sandwich place on campus, I looked up from my tables, to see what the buzzbuzzbuzz was that I heard going on over at the front bar.

There was a group of people -- mostly tittering females -- gathered around someone. I found an excuse to work my way up toward the front, and that's when I saw one of the cutest boys I had ever seen.  Heart-ache cute like this:

Mr. DDG (drop dead gorgeous)

It still hurts to look at this.

Indulge me a bit longer? Thank you. He was dressed in his monkey suit, exacto as the picture above, just getting off of work from wherever they were lucky enough to have this angel from heaven bartend. This pretty boy came complete with the cigarette barely hanging onto his fabulous lower lip. 

*sigh* Anyway, the story: I had just turned 21, so I was legally able to tap a beer, and felt pretty unstoppable in my role behind the bar. Ever seen how guys go crazy over a young co-ed expertly top a beer? It's a sight to behold, and a very powerful feeling, indeed.

This guy was causing dilated pupils all over the place, and I knew I had just a window of time to get his attention. So I drew him a perfect beer. Beautifully capped with one inch of foam, and in an iced glass.

I set the frosty Pilsner glass in front of him, and walked away.

With someone this gifted in the looks department, I knew the less in your face adulation he had, the more intrigued he'd be.

I made sure I stayed too busy the rest of the night to come back again.

My evil genius plan worked, and DropDeadGorgeous waited around for me until closing time.

The end of the night at a bar/sandwich place is move-'em-out mode. Everyone is pushed out the door, the place gets wiped down, you count your money, get your tables set for the morning shift; and then you can sit around with your crew, feet up, nurse a rum and coke or brew and swap stories from the night.

Mr. Handsome stayed, it turned out he was our lead bartender's new roommate. All that coquettish work for nothing, I would've been seeing him over and over again anyway ... which I'd find out soon enough.

As our after-hours party wound down, the lead bartender leaned in close to me, so close that I could smell his Drakkar Noir, and whispered, "my roommate wants to talk to you." Bingo! I had just won the lottery.

Someone this fine, and I mean his face was a pleasure to all the senses, had to be the coolest person to know. I had instant fantasies of all the cool things we'd do on our cool dates together.

Do you know those times in your life, where things change too quickly -- right in front of you -- before your brain has a chance to think about what just happened?

It's important that you try and conjure up that feeling again, so you get what I'm about to tell you.

The night is young (bartime young) and we're all the bold, the young, and the beautiful, happy to be who we are and it's a weekend. It's good to have times like these in your life, so happy and without a thought ... and ... then life plays its sense of humor. Hands you a situation just.for.you. Custom made because you're so special and you'll blog about it 50 years from now.

I'm feeling good, relaxed, content, flattered, celebrate me! And, then, Tone Loc busts out on the jukebox with "Funky Cold Medina." Everyone loves this song, and some of us more than others.

My beautiful handsome roomie man TAKES to the dance floor, on HIS OWN, and busts moves that I have never seen on this planet since. His arms are swirling, and he is doing things that are usually reserved for those with single dollar bills in hand. I don't know where he just came from, but I am seeing gyrations like he is trying out for a Chippendale Rescue Ranger.  All I can think is how much I feel like I am watching a documentary from my Soc Class called, "The Mystery of The Devil," Part I.

Sweet heaven above, more fervent prayers from anyone's lips have never been whispered as those leaving mine at that moment. "Please let him keep his shirt on, please let him keep his shirt on." The horror of dress shirt buttons flying everywhere should this whirling dervish completely engulf himself in himself, were making my chest pound. Where to look, where to look, eye contact was NOT an option.

types of dervish:

• whirling dervish, whirler (noun) - a dervish whose actions include ecstatic dancing and whirling

The dancing wasn't enough, the hands running through his OWN hair not enough, nonononono.  He had to start singing: in my direction.

At the part where Tone confides:

You know, ain't no plans with a man
This is the 80's, and I'm down with the ladies
Ya know?


Mr. Chippendale whips his torso around, locks eye to eye with me and says RIGHT to me, "I'm DOWN with the ladies."

You know I just couldn't hold it together anymore, right? I spit beer. I spit beer as if I were at a Comedy Club with the best seat in the house.

Now, I enjoy beer spit-up moments as much as the next guy, but not in this case.

Bye, bye, Mr. Most Handsome Man in Milwaukee.

We could have had Paris .... until you decided to go and make doves cry.


Blast from the past, over and out.