05-13-02 - 6:08 p.m.
the new landscaper at the hotel, who has known me for about 30 seconds- long enough to assess and approve my boobs- asked me out for a beer today. like dave-the-guy-with-the-brain-tumor, he's newly single and on the rebound and desperate. and just like dave and my ex-husband and most of the men i seem to attract, he's a slightly creepy bottom feeder with bad teeth and more mileage than a used car. choice of responses?
1)brutally honest reply: look, buddy, if i'm going to drink with a man besides the one i'm crazy about, it'll be a man who can talk about something besides ornamental rock and weed eaters.
2)pussified cop-out reply in order to salvage his already bruised manhood: i'm taking antibiotics for a recent root canal and i can't drink.
i chose something in between. it went like this;
sorry, i can't.
he looked at me with that neanderthal machismo indignance that's supposed to cover wounded male pride and sniffed;
be that way.
i hope this doesn't affect the quality of his gardening.