M. Margo Has Date With Caring Homosapien, Cont’d

    Well, Sunday sucked.  Besides my beat-up friend and attendant loss of faith in humanity, my mother didn’t get her flowers on time, and now her feelings are hurt, understandably.  I paid $40 just to ensure Sunday delivery!  What is the problem, 1-800-FLOWERS…?  Why do you say you could deliver on Sunday if you cannot?  I am never using you again!  Do you know how many make-up notes I am going to have to write to smooth this thing over?  My mother is sentimental!  My brother barbequed tri-tip for her and had his girlfriend and her kid (both of whom are awesome) come over!  He gave her food, attention, and a grandkid, basically!  And my damn flowers couldn’t even arrive on time!  THANKS FOR NOTHING! 

     Anyway, where were we…?  

      Oh yeah…!  Friday!  The Caring Homosapien, aka “There is Nothing About Me That Would Suggest I Would Leave a Syringe in Your Notes While Your Back is Turned.”  I don’t have a moniker for him yet because I am unsure, exactly, of how he identifies himself. 

     So, it was a beautiful Spring evening and this dapper young fellow took me shopping for a dress!  Entirely of his own volition!  

     Readers of this blog will know that times have been a little tight around Miss Margo Manor recently.  I have plenty of decent clothes, so I can’t complain, but I haven’t had a new dress in some time.  This wasn’t some Strawberry shit, either (if you don’t know, Strawberry is a ghetto clothing outlet that sells cheap trendy slutty clothes to broke young women.  Hilariously, at both the tutoring center I work at and at my secret job, the girls are constantly making jokes about Strawberry.  Everyone shops there, however.  Every girl in New York has lace boyshorts from Strawberry).  

        This store, Brooks Brothers, was fantastic and bizarre.  I have never been in a Brooks Brothers before.  I am sure as hell taking my family next time they are in town.  If I’d known about this place when I was learning how to do participant-observation research in Qualitative Methodology, I would have used it.  It was much more interesting than the train station. 

    The quality of the clothing I had the opportunity to handle was excellent (I know how to sew, so I recognize good tailoring when I see it).  Your humble redneck correspondent can also attest that some of it was weird.  Exhibit A:

Velvet tasseled loafers.  Huh?

      Where does one wear the shoes featured above?  That’s an honest question.  I am not being sarcastic.  They were in the mens’ formal section on the top floor.  Do you wear them to a wedding for royalty in Liechtenstein?  I subscribe to GQ, and have never seen anything like this.  

      Also:

What?  Children?  Golf?  In a clothing store? What?

      A golf simulator?  Really?  

      For those of you who have never seen something like this, is really is a GOLF SIMULATOR.  It is a GOLF VIDEO GAME.

      I never learned how to golf.  I was more like Foosball.  I bet I would like golf, though.  It’s the only sport I can think of where you can smoke and drink martinis while you play it.  

      He bought me a preeeeeety dress that is cotton with stripes on it called SEERSUCKER. 

Thomas Wolfe would approve

      Then we went to eat in a club which shall remain anonymous, because photography and spandex are forbidden there, and if the management sees this they will send assassins to my apartment to beat me to death with crewing oars and feed my body to ravenous mascot bulldogs.  

      It was beautiful (and BIG! CAVERNOUS!) inside and my gracious host gave me a tour.  I really wish I could have taken more photos.  There were paintings of presidents and booooooooks books books and more fine leather upholstery than you could shake a stick at.  

     Furtively snapped with my cell phone: 

In the Harry Potter School-esque library.  I was responsible; the Diet Coke glass was mine.

Bill Clinton: Rockstar President (I am not a groupie).  Note grand piano.

President George W. Bush: American Resume Stain.  Note nice furniture!

        
   Dinner was very tasty, very tasty indeed.  There were, like, 12 different animals to choose from.  I had lamb and lots of crab claws.  Nothing was not good.  The Meddling Psychiatrist will appreciate the contributions to my thighs when he weighs me in tomorrow (I couldn’t get out of it.  I tried.).  

I am fascinated by the “display.”  Why not “cheese for eating”?  “Tasty cheese”? There was also a salmon “display.”  I learned one eats it with capers. 

      I didn’t know how to tell my date that I couldn’t drink, so I just ordered a glass of wine and didn’t touch it.  The default excuse is “I’m on medication/antibiotics,” but both of those raise potentially unlovely connotations.  In any event, he didn’t notice, or pretended not to notice, so everything was cool.  

      He was very good company.  Intelligent, educated and well-read, thoughtful, very considerate.  Very…present.  I was a little self-conscious about my marks, even though I’d told him about them in advance, but he didn’t seem put off.  Good taste in music, too.  I didn’t have sex with him, but I would if I saw him again.  

     He was a sensitive individual.  What my good girlfriend back home would call “emotionally evolved.”  I am not sure why; I think he might be in some pain. 

      But who the hell isn’t in pain…?  

      Unless you’re Miss Margo, and made out of metal most of the time.

      Can’t write more; I have to respect the man’s privacy.  

       Glad that I met him, though.  Most fun I’ve had in some time, and it was nice–as in instructive, as in therapeutic–to compare how I felt with him vs. how I felt with the Attorney last week.   


One thought on “M. Margo Has Date With Caring Homosapien, Cont’d”

  1. Might want to be careful using “antibiotics” as an excuse not to drink. A medical type person would immediately think metronidazole, commonly used to treat the STD trichomoniasis.

    You could always just say you were a Mormon. As a guy, I’d say talking a Mormon chick into bed is totally hot.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.