This one is a chafe of the tallest order.
Not unlike having Hot Shot weed killer poured on a sandpapered open wound. For some reason I have agreed to go on a blind date with the Prince of Fresno, Kevin Federline Spears. Skeezy new gangsta-talking husband of the heinous Britney Spears.
Ewwwwww.
He fits in with her cain't wouldn't Louisiana kin to be sure. But what is he doing here with me? At the Ivy? What is wrong with this person? He is so nasty. Does he bathe? Not likely considering his wife's sporadic/non-existent ablutions. He's oily. He wears hats that say "Rock Out With Your Cock Out."
Ewwwwww again.
What the Hell am I doing out with him? Los Angeles, California, The Ivy on Robertson.
He's too drunk to drive so he rolls up to the restaurant in a Hummer driven by one of the wife's knuckle-dragging Cro-Magnon Man bodyguards. He is wearing a shiny white nylon prison-style do-rag with a stained t-shirt and his pants belted around his knees. He tosses his lit cigarette into the vibrant, beautiful periwinkle hydrangea bushes outside The Ivy.
He snorts, clears his throat, and spits an enormous greenish-yellow land oyster in the general direction of the bushes and misses. Oops, dude. Big loogey on the sidewalk. Star Magazine captures this on film from their photographic bivouac across Robertson Drive.
He stumbles up the five stairs to the patio and weaves his way to my table. He crashes into his chair and says, "Yo yo yo. What up, beyotch? Nice rack. We beat feet and git to Chili's. Dat place da bomb. Be one in the Valley. Later I give ya a little sumpinsumpin."
Eeek.
Before the hostess reaches our choice celeb-sectiontable to welcome the once and future king of the trailer park, I glance sideways and plot my escape. I make an intuitive decision, not unlike the woman who doesn't get on the elevator with a strange man. It's survival.
There will be no grilled, chopped vegetable and prawn salad today. No kalamata olive bread. No delicate fruit tart with fairy-dusting of powdered sugar. I shudder, reach into my purse, grab a twenty to pay for my diet Coke and toss it on the table. I sprint like Flo-Jo from the patio, hurdle the balcony and stairs, pause for a moment to bend over the hydrangea, and then head toward the parking garage.
I swallow repeatedly and wipe my eyes and nose because I have just thrown up.
I awake in a cold sweat with my heart racing and my ears ringing.
There, there, it's over now. It was a nightmare, it wasn't real.
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Special thanks to La Cabrita! The Smack Contributor Contest Winner!
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