I went into a bar once. I didn't jump on anyone's back or sing "I Like Big Butts," like our resident Russo. But I did get propositioned by a mandoline player. I refused him--one should refuse propositions when one is celebrating one's 25th wedding anniversary with one's husband in a quaint Irish pub and one's husband is sitting there watching--and I was flattered. Like, severely. Until I saw the mandoliner go down the bar and proposition every other woman in the place.
Yeah. My husband's heart was totally safe.
I also sat on a couch one evening when I was in college and was serenaded by 5 brothers who comprised a brass quintet. Called themselves the Brunson Burners. Or Brothers. I can't remember which. I think I was only on a date with one of them. But all 5 of them were there. I don't know if they were good musicians or not because my eardrums had a panic attack and blew out after the first three notes. I was a foot and a half away from the open bells of the various horns and the boys were trying to impress me. I couldn't hear for a week. Broke up with all of them after that. They were devastated but kept playing. Even went on The Tonight Show With Johnny Carson. I still can't hear anything above high C. And for the record, when I say they were devastated, I mean like, they weren't.
I'm telling you these things because, oh, I don't know. Maybe because Russo's post on Wednesday got me to reminiscing about funny and/or odd dating/partying experiences. And it made me happy that I don't have to do it anymore. Mandolin-dude notwithstanding.
Speaking of standing, I once watched a nice boy get a bit nervous about the say-goodnight-at-the-door moment with me and start bouncing up and down on his toes. Except he forgot he was standing on the very edge of my porch and there was no railing. He remembered when he bounced right off the thing and almost did a header into the window-well. I did not so much as crack a smile, for I am kind like that. I did laugh, though.
Finally (for now) there was the time before I was engaged to my husband when I decided to demonstrate a complicated dance move for him. So I leapt fluidly into the air, struck a graceful pose, came down lightly on my toes, and on impact blasted him with a not-so-silent gaseous emission. Grace, I tell you! Grace!
He still married me. And he did not let the mandolin player carry me off even though there have been repeat performances of said blast on and off for almost 26 years now. From him. Not me. No I mean it.
Is this too much information? Is it? Well I'll stop then. And I bow in Russo's general direction, for she shall ever be the Grand Poobah of Odd Experiences. She should be knighted for bravery. And charm. Because she survives everything with a smile.
As I did that one time when I went to that party and it was full of hott boys and I was trying so hard to be all cute and impressive that my nerves exploded and they took my lip with them. Like, I suddenly got this EPIC cold sore. Of epic proportions. Took my entire upper lip and half of my nose with it. I looked like Quasi-Lippo, the Hunch Lip of Notre Dame. A.TTrac.Tive. I wanted to die. I could teach you how to do it if you want.
THAT'S what we should do! We should start the 3Gnomes Dating Advice Column! You'd write to us, right? And take our advice? And stuff? Okay then. Post your questions in the comments section. We'll get to them asap. Just as soon as we bail Russo out of jail for telling that police officer that he had a big butt, she could not lie.
(I made that up.)