PrettyFakes

[the following being a letter I received by virtue of electronic transmission this after-noon.]

Dear Gorjus,

Last Saturday I had the worst cold. A bad, emphysema-esque cough, enough snot to fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool (which, by the way, I heard recently is about as much snot as the average human produces in a lifetime), the works.

Then, earlier in the week, by accidentally sending an email to the wrong person, I met T**, who is a physics teacher at one of the schools where I teach. T** and I sent semi-witty emails to each other during the week, and he proposed that we meet at the art museum on Saturday morning. This seemed like a good idea until the snot arrived, but it was really too late to cancel, and hey, I’ve never done anything like that before.

So I arrive at the museum (sitting in my car until 2 minutes until the meeting time, because I am an old lady who is always early), and when I see him I start laughing, because it is ridiculous that I actually told my friends I had a blind date. He is ok, but he is a geek, and by geek I mean Millhouse-style geek, fully equipped with the patented geek laugh and everything. He is not funny in person, but laughs hysterically at everything that he says (nothing he says is funny—sample: he says that his grandmother told him once that she remembered when he was knee high to a bar of soap) and does not laugh, even politely, at anything I say.

We mill around for a while, I cough and sneeze into my hand a lot, and then I say, ok, I have to go die now. I say, I’d shake your hand, but I’ve been sneezing into it all morning. He says, that’s ok, and SHAKES MY HAND ANYWAY. The fact that he is into science might help this moment, as it is possible he measured the velocity of my sneezes and figured out how many cold microbes were being transmitted. He is also wearing a mock turtleneck. I thought I should mention that.

So later in the day I have somehow agreed to be the fake date of an old man. You know him: it’s C****. He’s 67. He’s not even a cute 67-year-old man; he was probably pretty homely when he was 25. Anyway, you know his wife died and he lives with his 93 year old mother now. He had tickets to see—prepare yourself—Olivia Newton-John and needed a date. We discussed the terms of the date earlier: he pays and there’s no smooching. It seemed like a harmless thing.

We meet at the A****** T****** and walk to dinner. Thank god J****** the Lesbian is there, because C**** starts creeping me out almost immediately by telling me how great it is to be on a date after all this time. He also compliments me often, but you know, the guy has been hanging out with his 93 year old mother, so anyone would look pretty good.

J****** the Lesbian keeps giving me disgusted looks, like she can’t believe I’m here, even as a fake date. Another couple shows up too, and C**** keeps saying things like “I can’t believe I’m dating an English teacher” (to which I reply “well, you’re not really dating her”). I get really scared at one point when he says, “My mother asked when she was going to get to meet you.” I said, “Did you tell her never?” He didn’t say anything, and just looked mad.

Finally, it was time for Olivia Newton-John. Every time I referenced her, I had to call her by her whole name. We were on the 4th row with the rest of the rich old people, most of whom dozed through the show. Olivia Newton-John looked really good, I have to say: she was wearing a variation of the outfit at the end of Grease: super tight satin pants and a leather tank top, complete with Stevie Nicks-esque gauzy wrap. Her little behind was adorable (I can’t call Olivia Newton-John’s behind anything but a behind; it’s just not an ass). Here is a partial set list:

Have You Never Been Mellow?

Please Mister Please

If You Love Me Let Me Know (the old man on the OTHER side of me—not my date—leaned over to his wife after this one and said, “She’s good!”)

Xanadu (complete with “X” arm gesture)

Suddenly (is that what it’s called? you know, the duet from Xanadu—one of her backup singers dueted with her for this one)

Magic (you know, “have to believe we are magic…”)

Let’s Get Physical (she did this one sort of faux-latin inspired, and during the “let’s get into physical” part she went faux-opera on us—the let’s-get-phys-i-cal part went progressively higher)

You’re the One That I Want (she donned a leather jacket for this one, as did her gay backup singer)

Hopelessly Devoted to You

Summer Nights (with help from the audience during the “tell me more, tell me more” parts)

She deviated from the standards at this point, and painfully performed a song about her struggle with breast cancer (with lyrics like “I’m not gonna let it get me”) and then my favorite moment of the night happened. On a screen behind her there were images of falling leaves and trees and stuff. She said that she was really passionate about rainforest preservation and that after visiting the majestic beauty, she woke up with this next song in her head. It was told from the point of view of a tree. The chorus:

Don’t cut me down

I am innocent

Don’t cut me down

I am your friend.

Then the show was over, but she came back for an encore, where she sang “I Honestly Love You.” I think the cold was getting to me because I was a little moved by it. I honestly believed she loved me. C**** did as well. C****, by the way, was star struck during the show and we did not say a word to each other. After the show, he insisted on gripping onto my elbow like a blind person as we went through the crowd. I could tell when he was scared he was going to fall down because he gripped my arm really tightly.

The symphony backed Olivia Newton-John up, as did a very cheesy band, the drummer of which was a mouth breather and who was really feeling the beat. Before Olivia Newton-John came onstage and we were just looking at the symphony warming up, I asked C**** about M***, a guy who worked for the symphony when I worked at the opera, and C**** says, totally jovially—he actually chuckled unironically—”oh, he killed himself last week!”

Because he was laughing I kept asking if he was serious. He was. What a bizarre reaction, but you know, everyone C**** knows keeps dying. I guess you have to cope somehow.

Anyway. That was my day. I have sinced been asked to accompany C**** to the Martina McBride Christmas Concert, but I am afraid my days as escort are over. There is nothing redeeming about Martina McBride—Olivia Newton-John was one thing. And I still have little finger bruises on my elbow from where C**** clutched on while we were crossing the street and going down some stairs. I don’t think I can do that again.

Oh: that bench that you carved your name into upstairs is being auctioned off next month. And C**** says hello.

See you this weekend,

Sally

This entry was posted on Wednesday, November 19th, 2003 at 5:35 pm and is filed under Gorjus. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.