Woodchuck Martinis

Chapter 7

  Russell Crowe’s Dysfunctional Doppelganger

  My life has certainly changed with the advent of internet dating. After e-mailing for a while, I met THE perfect physical specimen of a man tonight. He’s a professional body builder, and his face looks just like Russell Crowe. No kidding! Had the date only gone as beautifully as the man himself.

  Of course when we first met at a sports bar of his choosing, I was incredibly intimidated; he was literally 10,000 leagues out of my league.

  He wore a size-too-small yellow tee shirt that said, “Official wet tee shirt judge; bribes happily accepted.” In retrospect this should have been my first clue to end the date early. The problem was he was just so great to look at I honestly didn’t even notice the words on the shirt until after his fourth or fifth drink and a six pack of red flags had been raised.

  The short sleeves on the tee shirt were rolled up James Dean style allowing me to glimpse his powerfully muscled arms. I wondered self consciously if I was drooling and dabbed discretely at the corners of my mouth to assure there was no dribble.

  Beneath the yellow shirt were clearly defined lines which brought to mind the great artists in history. I actually pictured this man naked and posing for Michelangelo. My mind was now absorbed in this man’s complete physical perfection. He was completely irresistible and I found myself actually licking my chops! Oh, my God, I was behaving like...like a man!

  I knew I had to get myself under control but I just couldn’t stop staring. I wanted to touch this man and feel all of those beautiful muscular outlines. I mean he worked so hard building them because he wanted to attract women who wanted to touch them, right? I could finally completely relate to that blank stare to which men reverted when admiring cleavage or a large pair of breasts haphazardly clothed to gain the attention of an appreciative gaze.

  I knew I HAD to stop. He was a man after all, not just a gorgeous body wearing a too small shirt and jeans that made my breath come out a bit raspy. And his belt...oh, his belt. It was gently cinched at his tiny waist accentuating the Greek God-like perfection that was his body. His belt buckle was a golden arrow which pointed directly down; not so subtle but certainly effective.

  Oh, I was melting right there in my seat directly under the big screen that flashed advertisements of name brand jeans...Men wearing ONLY jeans. And then the picture changed to a desert scene and a woman sporting only shear, flowing wraps. The buff man handed the lovely woman a refreshing bottle of cool, mountain spring water and they collapsed together under the only tree for miles around. They then embraced each other in the beginning of what all who watched knew would end in the most passionate experience either of them would ever encounter.

  My hormones were definitely in overdrive. I HAD to tone them down and pay attention to more than his physique.

  I forced my eyes away from the passionate embrace on television and back to the delicious man before me and willed myself to speak coherently.

  “Biff, you’re far better looking in person than you are in your picture,” I said.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “With internet dating you never know which way it will go. Some people look better, some not so much,” I said. I must admit that I was fishing for a compliment which might mirror the one I had given him.

  “Yup,” he agreed.

  “It’s always interesting though,” I offered.

  “Sure is,” he said.

  A waitress approached us, breaking up the uncomfortable conversation. The first thing that came to my mind was Barbie. The second thing was that the Russell Crowe look alike was staring at her exactly the way I had been staring at him only moments ago, and I was suddenly almost ashamed of myself.

  “What can I do for you?” asked Barbie. She was clearly eyeing Russell Crowe’s twin exactly the way I had been. She gave him Barbie’s biggest smile which I swear looked exactly like the one my very own doll gave to Ken so many years ago. The smile that said that if I had to leave the table for any reason, she’d be there to help him with ANYTHING he needed. She gave me a quick once over. The look on her face clearly said “What are you doing sitting there? You are so far out of your league you haven’t even made it to the ball park!”

  I really hate this part of dating. I’m such an average-looking person and when I meet a guy like this I feel comparatively so much less than average. Usually I fall back on my quick wit and clever conversation, but because this man was just so beautiful I had clearly lost that advantage with my tongue tied so tight it felt like a tourniquet had been applied.

  “I’ll have a Douche bag,” said Russell Crowe’s look alike.

  “Pardon me?” I said, clearly dumbfounded.

  “You know,” said helpful Bartender Barbie, “Crown Royal whiskey and a splash of Coca Cola.”

  “Of course,” I said, “that goes without saying.” Pretty clever. Bartender Barbie comes with her very own mixed drinks manual complete with recipes for the ever popular Douche Bag, Red Headed Slut, Blow Job, and Sex on the Beach with a Jelly Fish. Clearly her education will take her far.

  Barbie stooped down far enough for Russell Crowe to get a scenic view of her cleavage which rivaled the Grand Canyon and the vast expanse of her Grand Tetons and placed a napkin in front of him. Russell clearly appreciated being taken on this tour.

  “All right,” said Barbie. “I’ll bring that back before your heart can skip a beat.” She giggled then; an actual, seventh grade twitter that exuded all of the intellect and depth of junior high best friends agreeing on the cutest boy in school. She turned and walked away.

  “Excuse me?” I said feeling quite set apart from their exclusive interaction.

  Barbie turned her head slightly, still moving in the opposite direction.

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  “I’d like to order a drink,” I said.

  “Oh, my, I can’t even believe I forgot to take your order,” she said.

  Something was telling me this was NOT going to be the best first date ever.

  “I’d like a caramel apple martini,” I said.

  “One of my favorites,” Barbie said to my date. “Back in a jiff, hon.”

  “So,” Russell Crowe’s lovely look alike said, turning his attention from Barbie and back to my terribly average face and not even close to average cleavage. “How do you like the weather?”

  Now there’s a conversation starter, I thought. This guy has the gift of gab to be sure.

  “It’s been a bit rainy for my liking, but the farmers sure can use the water.”

  “I don’t like rain,” he said. “It depresses me, and I don’t like to be depressed.”

  “To be sure, depression is a hard thing to live with,” I said. “I’ve heard that some people treat depression with special lights.”

  “I get plenty of light at the gym. Can you tell I work out?”

  “Yes,” I said giving his biceps a thorough review, “yes, I can. You look great.”

  “Do you want to see more?” he asked quite eagerly. “I can take my shirt off if you want.”

  “Maybe later,” I said, wondering if he was joking but pretty sure he was not.

  Barbie returned with our drinks and placed the douche bag on the table.

  “Thank you,” said Russell Crowe’s twin, “would you bring me another when you get a chance, babe?”

  Babe, I thought. Babe. Who even says that?

  I could tell Barbie liked her newly acquired nickname as she bubbled and said, “Certainly.”

  I took a sip of my martini.

  “I think this is an apple martini, not a caramel apple martini,” I said.

  “Whatever,” Barbie sniped at me.

  What a vocabulary, I thought.

  “OK, then,” I said, “this will be fine.” I was just not in the mood for an argument.

  While I engaged Barbie in this fine conversation, the beautiful man sitting across the table slammed
back his entire douche bag in one gulp. Wow, I thought, I would never have guessed that I would have strung those words together. This night was certainly full of surprises.

  “Good drink?” I asked.

  “Maybe a bit heavy on the Coke,” he replied. My sarcasm was clearly lost on this man.

  “I’m sure the next one will be better,” I offered.

  “Sure,” he agreed. “It does help take the edge off the day, though.”

  “Indeed.”

  Looking at this man’s turquoise eyes I finally understood the cheesy poetry written by love sick men who talked about getting forever lost in the Caribbean pools which were the windows to the soul. My God, but he was gorgeous. I must admit I felt hopelessly ensnared.

  “I think I remember from your profile that you enjoy reading,” I said. “What kind of books do you enjoy?”

  “Books?” he asked.

  “Yes, books.”

  “I don’t really read books, per se.”

  “Per se?”

  “I do read, but mostly magazines about body building. And I know this might sound odd, but I just love reading Marvel comics.”

  Odd? This might sound odd? Yes, it does sound odd. But who am I to judge this man? We all need an outlet for stress. I read Stephen King, and some people might think that’s odd.

  “Oh,” I said. “Which character is your favorite?”

  “Batman is classic,” he said. “You just can’t go wrong with Batman. Whoever invented that guy is pure genius.”

  “I’ve always been a Spiderman fan myself,” I said.

  “Batman could definitely kick Spiderman’s ass any day of the week,” he said with a slightly condescending gaze.

  “Hmm. I’ve never really considered that.”

  “Well, trust me, he could.”

  Barbie returned with his second drink. She bent to pick up his empty glass, but he put his hand on it.

  “I need you to leave that here,” he said. “I want to keep track of how many I drink.”

  Barbie pulled her hand back. Well, I thought, he drinks responsibly. That’s a good sign, right?

  “Do you want to run a tab?” Barbie asked.

  “Yes,” Russell Crowe said, “And please bring me another drink.”

  “All right,” Barbie chirped, looking straight at my date. “How about your friend here? Does she want another one?”

  I was sitting right there at the table. Had I somehow become invisible? Had I finally attained the right to wear Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility? Could she really not see me?

  “No thank you,” I said, trying to will her gaze in my direction...quite unsuccessfully I might add.

  Try as I may I just could no longer ignore the red flags this beautiful man was stacking up on the pole. We had been here for less than ten minutes and he had just ordered his THIRD drink. This was definitely not a good sign.

  Well, I thought, maybe he’s just nervous. I didn’t want to judge this gorgeous man too harshly or too soon.

  He leaned to the right and hesitated for a few seconds and then a very unpleasant odor wafted my direction. This man had actually let an SBD...on our first date. And he hadn’t the proper manners to excuse himself! I was indignant. Did he think so little of me that he felt he could just pass gas across the table from me on our first date? He couldn’t possibly think I wouldn’t notice! The smell was bad enough that I thought the wall paper might start to peel. I have a rather fragile gag reflex and I had a fairly difficult time willing it not to trigger. It was THAT bad.

  I wrinkled my nose and gave him the stink eye, but he rolled his eyes away from my stare and feigned interest in some spots on the ceiling and tapped his fingers nervously on the table.

  He took a couple of long drinks and settled back...on both cheeks, thank Heaven.

  I noted a very red tint coming out on his cheeks and nose and just let the red flag of probable alcoholism wave about in the unpleasant air for a bit.

  “So,” he said seeming to come out of his shell more with each douche bag...or maybe he just felt less gassy. “How long have you been divorced?”

  “Ten years now,” I said, “and you?”

  “Six years,” he said. “She found herself another man while I was on the road making a decent living so we could eat and have a roof over our heads, that ungrateful bitch!” He emphasized the word ‘bitch’ and finished off his drink. He turned the first two glasses upside down and stacked the third pyramid style.

  I pictured another red flag being raised. I wondered if the number of flags would ultimately equal the number of glasses on the pyramid by the end of the evening.

  The realization that he was completely un-datable this early in the evening made the rest of my time spent in this smoky sports bar with this too handsome man with an unbelievably hot body seem like I was watching a B-rate movie. I could now sit back and watch the show unfold. I wondered how much weirder the evening could get, but not for long.

  “You wanna know how I found out another man was poking my wife?”

  What I should have done, I realize in vivid hindsight, was politely declined to delve so deeply into this man’s sordid and painful past, feigned a headache, and excused myself before the glass pyramid could expand exponentially. I should have gone home, donned my Spiderman pajamas, grabbed my body-sized pillow named Herman, and thanked God that I was safe at last.

  Unfortunately I found that I just could not do that. Curiosity held me firmly in my seat and kept me from listening to the common sense voice whispering and then shouting madly to run from this man and his flaming red cheeks and nose. Frankly I could not wait to hear his answer.

  “Well,” he said in a slightly slurred drawl as he waved his empty glass at Barbie. “I came home from my cross country driving route a day early to surprise my ex-wife for our fifth wedding anniversary. I had gone all out. I had roses and her favorite champagne. I had bought a box of chocolates and a sexy negligee with matching stilettos. I even had special candles that were supposed to have an aphrodisiac effect and smelled like tutti-frutti or some crap like that. I had spared no expense and even had a pair of cherry gummy handcuffs; her favorites for any occasion. A class act all the way to be sure.”

  This man with the heavenly body seemed suddenly to be listing to the right and I couldn’t tell if he’d had enough to drink to make the room appear at an angle or if the air would suddenly begin to smell unpleasant again.

  Barbie approached the table with another Douche Bag and placed her hand gently on his left shoulder and righted the man in his seat. This was done with all the indifference of a sports bar waitress who’d seen it all and helped to set men right all the time.

  “You know the drill,” he said to Barbie, “one more douche bag when you get the chance. Actually make it a double. This is where the story gets really good.”

  “All right, honey,” she said. But even Barbie was beginning to look less interested in my date.

  “Where was I?” he asked.

  “How you discovered your ex-wife was being unfaithful.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he continued. “So I pull my rig into the driveway of our home, and as I’m backing it up at the side of the house I could swear I see a pot bellied pig run out of my front door. Well, I know I’m tired as I’ve put a lot of miles in over the last week and so I think I must be seeing things...like I’ve seen in the past. Although the doctors told me after my last long-term visit that if I stayed on my medications I probably wouldn’t see those things again.

  So I keep backing it up while I’m thinking that maybe I just need to increase that medication a bit and I see a sheep darting past the passenger’s side of my truck. I stop what I’m doing and get out of the truck, and as I do a man runs right past me, passes the sheep, and jumps right over the pig. He’s wearing pink leather chaps and a fuchsia boa and absolutely NOTHING else.”

  Russell Crowe’s look alike pounded back the douche bag
and added the glass to the expanding pyramid.

  “The guy jumped into a lavender pick-up truck and hauled ass out of my driveway. The last thing he said was, ‘Tell Trudy I’ll come back for Heather and Tiffany later.’ I stood there dumbfounded, trying to process the scene that had just played out.”

  “What did you do then?” I asked, mesmerized and completely unable to fathom what I was hearing. And yet he seemed to be so sincere.

  “I went into the house and followed a trail of fuchsia feathers and sheep poop all the way to the bedroom where my ex-wife, Trudy, was pretending to be sound asleep. I turned on the light and as she moved her hand to cover her eyes I heard a jingling sound under the covers. I pulled the sheet back and saw that she was wearing a pink leather vest with fringe, pink alligator skin cowboy boots with sequined spurs...and nothing else.”

  “Oh, my God,” I said quietly, “What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘Some freak wanted me to tell you that he’d be back for Heather and Tiffany later. Who the Hell are Tiffany and Heather?’”

  “She started to cry then and said, ‘Tiffany is a pot bellied pig and Heather is a sheep.’”

  “‘What in the Hell were you doing with a pig and a sheep in my damned house?’ I asked her.”

  “Wait,” I said, and held up a hand. “I don’t really think I’m up to hearing the rest of this story.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “Because this is where the story gets really fun.”

  The voice inside my head was literally screaming at me to leave before the rest of this conversation scarred me for life. And for a change I actually listened.

  “I’m sure,” I said. “I’m really so sorry that your wife left you for a man in pink chaps and a fuchsia boa...”

  “...And a pot bellied pig and a sheep...” he slurred, “don’t forget Tiffany and Heather.”

  “Right,” I said, “and Tiffany and Heather. But, really, I’m afraid I must be going. My daughter wasn’t feeling terribly well before I left and I really need to get home and check on her.”

  “You mean you left a sick kid at home to come and meet me?” he asked. “Well I’ll take that as a hopeful sign of many dates in our future.”

  Barbie arrived with another drink and set it down. I had the feeling the pyramid would continue to grow long after my departure and hoped he’d call a cab...or far more likely talk Barbie into giving him a ride home.

  In honor of Tiffany, the pot-bellied pig, curl up after a disappointing date with some pasta Carbonara. This Biff-inspired dish will make you almost happy a date failed just so you can wallow in this amazing comfort food.

  Tiffany’s Pasta Carbonara

  1 pound spaghetti

  1 tablespoon olive oil

  1 pound of sliced bacon, diced

  1 sweet onion, chopped

  1 clove garlic, minced

  5 eggs

  1 cup grated Parmesan cheese

  2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley

  1. In a large pot of boiling, salted water, cook spaghetti pasta until done. Drain and toss with 1 tablespoon of olive oil.

  2. In a large skillet, cook chopped bacon until slightly crisp and drain on paper towels. Reserve 3 tablespoons of bacon fat. Add chopped onion and cook over medium heat until onion is translucent. Add minced garlic, and cook 1 minute more.

  3. Return cooked bacon to pan and heat the pan and the bacon grease. Add cooked and drained spaghetti. Toss to coat and heat through. Add beaten eggs and cook, tossing constantly until eggs are barely set. Quickly add 1 cup of Parmesan cheese and toss again.

  4. Sprinkle parsley on top and serve.

  ****