It has been quite a while since I have shared any conversations with my geriatric boyfriend Mr. OB. Since I can now type again, I can’t think of a better way to get back into the swing of posting than to give you some more disturbing pictures of his character. If you don’t know who Mr. OB is (short for Mr. Outback), I’ll tell you now, you won’t ever get an accurate bio of him. Here or anywhere for that matter. But you can infer what you will about him from my series of stories here and by reading the rest of this post.
Look closely, this is the most you will ever see of Mr. OB
I had the pleasure of another long overdue dinner and visitation with Mr. OB a few nights ago. It is yet to be determined if he was or was not stoned. Not that that serves as a logical reason that the following conversation occurred, but he seemed bit… paranoid.
We said our hellos first:
Mr. OB: “What’s wrong with you?”
Mr. OB: “Oh, you look funny”
Me: Well my arm was swallowed by a first aid kit, but other than that…
On topics of medical experiences, needles, and the like.
Me: “Wait, so you think if you put a needle in your leg that you will accidentally pull back on the syringe and suck out your insides?”
Mr. OB: “Well yeah, I don’t know what is in there!”
Me: “You mean, in your body?”
Mr. OB: “Yeah! And I don’t want to know.”
Me: “You know, I don’t think needles work like plungers and turkey basters. Wait, why are you stabbing yourself with needles in the first place?”
Mr. OB: Mumbles something about bees and tractors running into trees
Mr. OB: “When that thing comes on at Outback, I am ducking behind the register. The blade is coming out of that thing and it’s flying across the bar and straight into my neck.” making dramatic throat slicing motion
Me: “Because that blender blade has had it out for you since it found out you only drink wine, right?”
Mr. OB: “I’ve seen it happen.”
Me: Well I am sure a lot of people “see” things that would never happen. Ever heard of intrusive thoughts? Hallucinations? Paranoia?
Mr. OB: “You just wait. I’m telling you. It’s gonna happen. I just hope it won’t be me. But it will probably be me.”
Me: to the bartender “Can I get a frozen margarita? Well blended please?”
Check out my latest vlog in the sidebar on the most obvious topic of all. The internet. ———————————————————————————->
I tweeted yesterday that I was going to have an interactive post today. I had a really dope idea, but then WordPress slapped me in the face and said, “You can’t do that, lol sry”.
Instead, and to make up for the intended dopeness, I will give you another sexy story straight from Mr. OB himself. This one doesn’t include cat S&M, but there will be ducks. This is probably the first story he ever told me that crossed the line of what is considered to be a normal conversation between two bar guests of a forty-year age difference. Or, more accurately, the moment when too much information lost all meaning and an atypical friendship was born:
Sitting in our usual positions at the restaurant bar.
Mr OB: “Where are you going tonight?”
Me: “No where. Home.”
Mr. OB: “Yeah, sure. You’ll be at [secret bar name] smoking all those cigarettes.”
Me: “No really. I am going home to relax, may even take a bath.”
Mr. OB: “You got any champagne?”
Me: “Uh… you’re not invited.”
Mr. OB: “It’s not for me. It’s for the champagne bath.”
Me: “What the fuck is a champagne bath OB?” Read the rest of this entry
As promised, I have decided that today I will bestow upon you all the story that so fascinated and terrified me a few weeks ago. Yes, the one with sex and cats. I sure hope that it lives up to your expectations, because I know you have been fantasizing about what it could possibly be all weekend.
I have a geriatric boyfriend of sorts (this is not the sexual fetish part). A long time regular of the restaurant I worked at in college, and a shorter than average bearded man of about sixty-something, Mr. OB and I often find ourselves dining alone at the same restaurant. We have our declared spots at the bar. We have our usual orders. We both like our wine with a nice cold diet coke on the side. So, in retrospect, we don’t ever actually eat alone. We eat together.
There are a few things you should know about Mr. OB. He always orders the same thing. He “only dates women under forty”. He knows people. He can and will tell you anything and everything there is to know about New Orleans even if you didn’t ask. He can not hear but refuses to get a hearing aid. I assume he thinks this would confirm his age, thus he avoids it. He is also known for something called the champagne bath, which by its name alone should give you an idea where this story is going.
Mr. OB and I share a no-shame attitude in regards to the openness of our conversations. I’m almost certain that it has nothing to do with the bottles of wine. Being that I mainly talk about cats in regular discourse anyway, and he about hot women he has courted, it is to no surprise of mine that the following conversation happened: Read the rest of this entry
Yet another one of my dearest friends is moving this weekend. My oldest and best guy friend, Z, will be moving to Baton Rouge for work. I tried to hold a grudge against him for leaving me here with no one to split pitchers of beer and shoot pool with. It didn’t last too long, and I doubt he was even aware I was holding one. I am too soft some times. I agreed to let him adopt my old smokey grill. I’ve used it all of two whopping times, and I can’t grill on the balcony of my third story apartment anyhow. So, we met at the bar to have a beer and a smoke for the last time in probably a while. After I handed over the grill, he left. I decided to hang around. Half Pint’s father died unexpectedly yesterday postponing our Tampa trip. Being restless and disappointed I needed a little distraction. Bad news never has good timing.
Almost simultaneously as Z exited the building, two gentlemen claimed the two seats to the left of me. *Cue accent that was not coon-ass* “Ello there”. I greeted them with half a grin and a hello. As conversation ensued, I was patting myself on the back for deciding to stay for a while. My new friends, Steve and Matt, were in town for business both working for the same company as submarine engineers. They coined themselves oil field trash. Hardly. Maybe it was just my swooning over their accents, but these fellas were polite, handsome, and interesting to converse with. Steve was from Scotland, 37 but looked about 31, and was kind enough to keep stocking me up on smokes all night like they were bar snacks. Matt was from Australia, 31 but looked 37, and had me imagining a romance like out of Findingravity’s series of blog posts entitled Not Another Love Story!.
Naturally I was like a fervent puppy chatting them both up about all the places they have traveled. Where they have been, what they saw, how they got there, and a million other questions. Read the rest of this entry