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Voodoo Dating: A Little Less Conversation

June 25, 2010
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I was never the pretty, traditional, ‘looks good in a Prom dress’ type of chick who was brought home to enthral the parents. Instead, throughout my teens and twenties, I was the skirt someone would hang out with after the pretty, traditional, Prom dress chick had to be in for the evening.

Ergo, I haven’t had a lot of ‘dates’ in my lifetime, but rather ‘experiences’. One of my favourites (favourites=weird + occasional disbelief) involves a seller for the Gordon Food Service distribution impersonating Elvis. Have I your attention? Swell.

Our tale begins in Northern Michigan where I was working as a waitress/ice cream carrier/go to girl. Each Tuesday, I was requested to place an order for desserts, melons (heh heh), and juice with our GFS guy, Chris. Chris was quite the catch in that he was the closest thing to a suit our backwoods staff had seen all Summer. While he wasn’t hideously attractive, he had a face, was older, blonde, drove a red Fiat, and pretty humourous.

After several weeks of sarcastic banter, Chris invited me to his new pad which he had build himself out of some type of wood. I was game, so I set out for a tour and some cocktails over to the house that Gordon Food Service built. The house was impressive. The evening: more so.

I’m not entirely sure why someone in his mid-thirties would choose to showcase his Alanis Morissette collection, but lemme just say it’s not really a sweet move. However, the Vodka tonics were good, so I stayed. I also stayed through the not so Artful badminton-in-the-house demonstration. And I stayed through the explanation as to why the kitchen was upstairs. I even stayed through a rant on ex-girlfriends who were creepy, thinking that, at some point, this had to get better…it just had to.

Around eleven-thirty things got better-thus disproving my Mother’s theory of, ‘If it doesn’t happen before eleven, it’s not going to happen’. Chris, insisting that he wasn’t snookered out of his snorkel, asked me if I was an Elvis fan. I’m not a huge fan of the King; I think it’s too bad he bit it before his time, but the idea of pegging out on the john with a banana & peanut butter sandwich KILLS me. Chris begged the question, ‘Do you want to see how big of a fan I am?!’ It would have been a crime to say ‘No’.

I don’t know what the Boy was doing in his bedroom for twenty minutes, but the end result was a thing of beauty…or something. Now, prancing before me was a presumably respectable man in a child’s size Elvis costume. Draw yourselves an image of a white be-jewelled jumpsuit, unzipped down to the nether regions, revealing a more than subtle hint of booze-belly, and no shoes. In addition to his costume, Chris treated me to a type of dance I’m sure Elvis never did and wouldn’t be found in the States. I’ve never seen a grown man dance with such a girlish shimmy…and be so very proud of himself.

So, I suppose the moral of the story is after every Prom type date, there is a cautious Elvis fan waiting for her own ‘date’ to begin. Happy hunting.

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