(no subject)
Tonight was both a totally fun night out (Dali Bar had bad music for once, but then redeemed itself at the very last minute with the Kinks, the Clash, and the Eurythmics), and totally fucking ridonkulous.
My BFFF (best French friend forever) finally met my Good Roommate. Like every man in all of France, Good Roommate immediately fell all over BFFF and her exotic Spanish charm (she is pretty and, I don't know, has curly hair?). As soon as she left, he started joking about how he'd have to get to know her in the new year; something good for 2011. This both kind of grossed me out (I prefer to think of Good Roommate as a non-sexual being, even though he and I discuss sex semi-regularly) and evoked the uncontrollable "Marsha, Marsha, Marsha" response in me, where even though I am not even remotely attracted to the man in question, hate unwanted male attention, and am a generally non-jealous person, I start to channel Jan Brady internally when one friend is hit on by every one we meet. Even though she hates it and I do not want it. It's just a small but automatic response. "What am I, cut glass?" I want to ask the fifty-five-year-old Frenchman who leer at her awkwardly from across the bar.
So, of course, as comeuppance for the small part of me that Jan'ed out when my roommate thought my BFFF was hot, this is the night that every man in all of Catalonia decided to remind me why I am actually not jealous at all when my friends receive unwanted male attention in bars. It started with a creepy pony-tailed man mumbling obscene things at Cristina and me at the bar, while the equally drunk and mumbly man on the other side of me took it upon himself to defend me and to assure me that not all men are like that. "Ils sont idiots," he said, seven times. It then escalated to the point that, while Cristina bought our third round of drinks and I stood behind her waiting, five men, a.k.a. 3/4 of the bar, all over the age of forty, hit on me. One Portuguese man started insisting that both she and I were Portuguese and said clearly rude things to us in that tongue. Two other men complimented me on my dancing and expressed regret about not having cornered me into dancing with them. Pony-tailed guy simply leered at me from sensible pumps up and said, "Que guapa." When BFFF, Anne, and I finally left to the nightclub (we have a bar, Dali Bar, and then a club, Tiki Bar), we discovered that all these men were there. One used my natural desire to please against me and conned me into two dances. And tried to ask for my number, but that one really, really did not work, since I'm pretty sure he is older than my father and also I never give my number out. (Also my phone is missing and I don't have my number memorized. I have it taped to the back of the mobile.)
Finally, my friends and I cut out. As BFFF and I walk homewards, she says, "You know, your roommate's really not bad." "What." "He's okay. A little bald, but not bad." "...Sure he's good-looking, but you can't go out with my roommate." "I didn't say go out! Just sleep together." "No." "I need a man! I am here all alone with no man!" "Noooooo, I say nooooooo, it's too awkward if my friend and my roommate hook up." "Emma, I need a man!" "Pick a different man!" "I'm going to stop by tomorrow and check him out again." "Fine, but I hope your prepared for the compulsive Sunday cleaning you will encounter and that you bring a broom." "Oooh, he cleans?"
I should never have let them meet. THE STREAMS ARE CROSSING.
And I'm never going to wear my new red lip gloss out again, since it apparently makes the middle-aged men of Ceret insatiable. Little did they know that I only had eyes for this one woman who I swear to god was a lesbian, she wore skater sneakers and everything!
My BFFF (best French friend forever) finally met my Good Roommate. Like every man in all of France, Good Roommate immediately fell all over BFFF and her exotic Spanish charm (she is pretty and, I don't know, has curly hair?). As soon as she left, he started joking about how he'd have to get to know her in the new year; something good for 2011. This both kind of grossed me out (I prefer to think of Good Roommate as a non-sexual being, even though he and I discuss sex semi-regularly) and evoked the uncontrollable "Marsha, Marsha, Marsha" response in me, where even though I am not even remotely attracted to the man in question, hate unwanted male attention, and am a generally non-jealous person, I start to channel Jan Brady internally when one friend is hit on by every one we meet. Even though she hates it and I do not want it. It's just a small but automatic response. "What am I, cut glass?" I want to ask the fifty-five-year-old Frenchman who leer at her awkwardly from across the bar.
So, of course, as comeuppance for the small part of me that Jan'ed out when my roommate thought my BFFF was hot, this is the night that every man in all of Catalonia decided to remind me why I am actually not jealous at all when my friends receive unwanted male attention in bars. It started with a creepy pony-tailed man mumbling obscene things at Cristina and me at the bar, while the equally drunk and mumbly man on the other side of me took it upon himself to defend me and to assure me that not all men are like that. "Ils sont idiots," he said, seven times. It then escalated to the point that, while Cristina bought our third round of drinks and I stood behind her waiting, five men, a.k.a. 3/4 of the bar, all over the age of forty, hit on me. One Portuguese man started insisting that both she and I were Portuguese and said clearly rude things to us in that tongue. Two other men complimented me on my dancing and expressed regret about not having cornered me into dancing with them. Pony-tailed guy simply leered at me from sensible pumps up and said, "Que guapa." When BFFF, Anne, and I finally left to the nightclub (we have a bar, Dali Bar, and then a club, Tiki Bar), we discovered that all these men were there. One used my natural desire to please against me and conned me into two dances. And tried to ask for my number, but that one really, really did not work, since I'm pretty sure he is older than my father and also I never give my number out. (Also my phone is missing and I don't have my number memorized. I have it taped to the back of the mobile.)
Finally, my friends and I cut out. As BFFF and I walk homewards, she says, "You know, your roommate's really not bad." "What." "He's okay. A little bald, but not bad." "...Sure he's good-looking, but you can't go out with my roommate." "I didn't say go out! Just sleep together." "No." "I need a man! I am here all alone with no man!" "Noooooo, I say nooooooo, it's too awkward if my friend and my roommate hook up." "Emma, I need a man!" "Pick a different man!" "I'm going to stop by tomorrow and check him out again." "Fine, but I hope your prepared for the compulsive Sunday cleaning you will encounter and that you bring a broom." "Oooh, he cleans?"
I should never have let them meet. THE STREAMS ARE CROSSING.
And I'm never going to wear my new red lip gloss out again, since it apparently makes the middle-aged men of Ceret insatiable. Little did they know that I only had eyes for this one woman who I swear to god was a lesbian, she wore skater sneakers and everything!