A tale of two separate occurrences of mildly sapphic proportions

For the final game, my man M and I met some of his co-workers at a snazzy bar in Alamo Heights. The place was packed and our party was scattered throughout the bar. M and I sat at the first table we saw for the duration of one beer and after I was done, I scampered off to find more friends.

My friends were in the back of the bar, the hot part, but looking quite happy and jovial. Next to them were some casually-dressed tall women. They had the same general look about them — short hair, no makeup, athletic build...— with the exception of two women. One was older, short in stature and far from athletic. The other was the oddball. She had long blond hair and carried a purse. My group was definitely different from the other one, but our differences were of no consequence because we were all there for one reason: to see the Spurs win the finals.

Time passed in quarters and I committed to that spot. My man M could fend for himself on the other side of the bar. Our idiot waiter looked like Mr. Bean and thought that one hour was a fine amount of time to leave me without a beer. (His tip: one dollar and 25 cents…and a note telling him to never piss off a Mexican half-breed. Okay, not really.) The group of ladies next to us ate and watched the game, cheering when we cheered and cursing Detroit when we did. The dominant topic of conversation at my table was the wonders of Metamucil and Special K cereal.

I swear I wake up some days and think I’m 50. But I’m not. Not even close. Have you ever seen my shoes? How ‘bout my exceptional rack? Anyway.

The blond girl got up and left her purse. One of the other girls picked it up and said, “what doesn’t belong in this picture?” I thought it was mean. But funny.

That was pretty much the point of the story. That, the Spurs won, and I got drunk and ended up asking my table who’s had butt sex. No one admitted to it.

Part 2

On Saturday night, my man M and I had a hankering for Mexican food. Kind of a last hurrah before moving to a land where Caucasians run wild and think that Taco Bell tastes good.

Don’t even get me started.

Anyway, we drove around for about 45 minutes before the hunger alarm really started to go off and I was either going to rip my arm off, dip it in the sticky coffee spillage on the gear shifter and eat it, or suggest the unimaginable: Applebee’s.

So we went to Applebee’s.

I wasn’t surprised to see that it was karaoke night when we sat down. The smoking section of the restaurant was checkered with characters – a big lady who reminded me of Mama Cass sat at the bar and sang “Blue Bayou,” a mullet-sporting guy named Billy who was celebrating his birthday with what looked like piña coladas…Mama Cass sang him a breathy rendition of “Happy Birthday” estilo Marilyn Monroe – I almost puked when I heard that – and a few cowboys donning their finest Stetsons sat quietly to Mama Cass’ left, sipping their beers.

A dishwater blond sang “I Touch Myself” and dedicated to our waitress. M suggested we sing a song.

“We’re going to need more drinks,” I said.

After we ate, we looked at the song list. There was no need to look at it – I only know one song in the whole wide world and if someone had already sung it, I wasn’t going to sing at all.

I asked the waitress, “has anyone already sung ‘Me and Bobby McGhee’?”

“No, but you will, baby.” She tapped my arm and did a little laugh that reminded me of Beyonce in “Austin Powers” when she said, “…and I’m a whole LOTTA woman!”

M went first, singing “Mona Lisa” by Nat King Cole. Afterward, one of the drunk cowboys came up to him and gave him a big speech about how they were the only two motherfuckers in the whole bar who knew that song and he’s a “classical kind of guy” and no one can sing “Nessum Dorma” like Pavarotti, etc. Our waitress came around and he joked with her like a true regular. He pulled her near him and he opened his mouth close to her chest and said, “feed me, mama!” She pulled away and laughed and went to the next table. The cowboy looked at us and said, “you know, she’s as lesbian as they come.”

So I didn’t feel bad after the fifth time he told M to use his “power voice,” when I couldn’t help but chuckle. The cowboy snapped, “don’t laugh at me!” I turned around to face the karaoke screen and continued laughing.
Then I sang my song and the cowboy shut up for a while. Mama Cass was now afraid. Very afraid.

M and I had more drinks and the cowboy came back to ask when he was going to sing another song. The agreeable Mr. M sang “Danny Boy” and Mama Cass decided to sing along. Loudly. I forgave her rudeness because, well, she was afraid.

Then I sang another song. This time it was “Me and Mrs. Jones.” I messed up the end because I told you, I only know one song and one song only. The waitress came around once in a while during the song and without any ounce of shame, mind you, grabbed my behind – twice.

She liked the song, I guess.

Mama Cass was leaving and I told her she had a nice voice. “Thanks,” she said. I asked her if she was a regular. “Only when I’m in town,” she said. “I do voice work…so I’m everywhere.”

Bye, Mama Cass, I guess I’ll see you when I’m in town, too.

M put away the cowboy’s business card – he’s not really a cowboy…he’s an engineer – and we “Randalled” out of the place before the end of the song, “Because I Got High.”