07
Jan
08

Bad Cupiding and a Countdown Group Smooch

New Year’s Eve found four ladies and one gentleman out on the town, leaving the numbers a bit skewed when the countdown came around. One of the date-less ladies actually has a boyfriend–he just decided to stay in for the night. That left me and Remy as the singles. Remy seemed a bit wistful about not having a date that night. She was sad about not having anyone to kiss. (This I don’t understand–my feeling is, there are 364 other midnights in a given year, and all of them offer equally fine opportunities for kissing.)

We were at Mighty in San Francisco, seeing Krafty Kuts, who’s supposedly the most popular breaks DJ in the world at the moment, but whom I found pretty damn underwhelming–like a white, stubble-headed version of Simply Jeff at his most commercial.

About a half-hour before midnight,  Remy fixated upon a short bald man who was running around near the DJ booth with a camera, snapping pictures of nothing in particular. She confided her attraction to Greg (the only man in our party). I have freakin’ no idea where it was stemming from–I think it was on the grounds that if this guy was so physically unimpressive but was still allowed VIP access, he must be somebody.

“Stop that!” I hissed when I saw her staring googly-eyed at the petite camera-wielding stranger. “You’ve gone insane.”

(Remember that this girl’s last nightclub conquest was a 25 year old Rhodes Scholar from New Zealand who was over six feet tall and one of the most gorgeous boys I’ve seen in years.)

“I can’t help it,” she giggled. “There’s just something about him…”

“Like what? That you could lift him up in your arms and carry him over the threshold?”

This is when Greg, four sheets to the wind and sassy, decided to play Cupid.  Which I don’t mind as long as it’s done well, but Greg is the worst. His tactics fly in the face of every courtship and diplomacy rule that’s ever been created. You never know what he’s going to say, but you know you’re going to be embarrassed.

First I saw him smiling, gesturing, saying something suggestively at the small bald man. Then, the bald man looked at us with alarm.  Then Greg got even more enthusiastic. Then the bald man backed away. Then I grabbed Greg by his shirtsleeve and said, “Knockit off.”

“He’s married,” said Greg.

“Good!” said I. “I don’t have any interest in talking to him.”

“What did you say to him?” asked Remy, curious about her small moving target.

“I told him that one of you lovely ladies was interested in him, and then he said thanks, but he was married…”

“One of us?” I spluttered. “Why did you have to bring me into it?”

“And then I said what did being married matter at the New Year’s Eve countdown, and that if he just forgot about it for 15 minutes, he wouldn’t regret it.”

“You did what?” said my sister, who’s engaged to Greg but still occasionally shocked by his bizarre social maneuvers.

“Are you trying to get us in a fight?” I asked.

“Oh look,” said Remy, pointing. “I think that’s his wife.”

Sure enough, a woman was at the small bald man’s elbow, dragging him off the stage and looking in our direction suspiciously.

At that point, I decided that this conversation was not worth wasting the last 10 minutes of 2007 on, so I began to guzzle the disgustingly sweet sparkling wine that passed for champagne, dance around like a dreidl, and ignore the space on the stage where the bald man had been.

I’m not sure who he was kissing at the countdown, but I know that all five of us–four blondes in big shoes and strappy tanktops, plus Greg, the Inappropriate Man With Many Dates–got in a tight little circle and hugged and exchanged dozens of kisses. All on the cheek, since most of us are related, but still it was a nice way to ring in 2008, and much fuzzier than many of my Countdown kisses-with-boyfriend have been.

And I do hope that Remy felt the same, and that she doesn’t regret not celebrating the new year in the arms of a tiny bald stranger with an angry wife waiting in the wings.


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