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September 14, 2004 - 11:13 am

LATER THAT DAY...

So Julie and I had some time to kill after the race. I immediately seized upon the opportunity to nap, and did so with gusto, practically before I got to the bed.

Then I showered and we went to eat as much Mexican food as we could, naturally accompanied by margaritas.

Since the weather was too crappy to nap some more on the beach, we did the next best thing: we took a trip to a bookstore (yes, we’re nerds that way). On the way back to the hotel Julie so politely queried, “Why is that other car stopping there?” And so it happened that I almost ran over an attractive middle-aged couple in the crosswalk. Yikes, that would suck. There would be all kinds of stuff to sort out, and I doubt we would have made it to the tiki bar by happy hour.

Just to be on the safe side, we prescribed more napping for ourselves.

When we woke up we were inspired to get belly button rings to celebrate our completion of the triathlon, our domination of the nap, and our not killing any pedestrians thus far. Unfortunately there was no answer when we called for directions to the place, although the yellow pages ad listed their hours as “4:30PM UNTIL…?” Like a keg party invitation or something. The ad also said “WE'LL SHOOT HOLES ALL THROUGH 'YA!” with a picture of an insane looking Yosemite Sam type guy brandishing two pistols. It sounded enticing, but they never picked up the phone. I’d be willing to bet they were in the back room drinking beer and shooting at “varmints.”

So we moseyed down to the tiki bar and had a cocktail before deciding where to have dinner. The bartender recommended The Sea Shack, and it was perfect.

After dinner we went back to the bar and had more drinks and eventually got hit on by Mr. Slate, Mr. Spacely, and G. I. Joe. Old married men hit on us! We were so offended and were even forced to revisit our hot babe self images – briefly. Mr. Slate and Mr. Spacely thoroughly bored us with talk of boulders and sprockets and couldn’t take a hint, until finally I resorted to being rude. I turned to Julie and said, “So anyway, as I was saying, my sister calls her ex-husband and actually accuses him of hiding her leopard skin pants!” They both backed away slowly.

Here’s a mystery, and if anyone can clue me in, please do: What does it mean when some creepy, filthy drunk, hefty, fifty-something, worn out, bleached blonde, ex-barfly with a thick neck asks you if you are from Buffalo? This is one of the most bizarre questions I have ever been asked. Is this some sort of code in the underworld of bar-goers that I’m unaware of? I had the fleeting sense that she may have been hitting on me, as in “Buffalo Girls, won’t you come out tonight!” All I could think to say was, “Uh, no ma’am. I’m from Atlanta,” and I shuffled off in the opposite direction of Buffalo.

Then G. I. Joe tried to buy me a drink. Fortunately, John warned me before we left that apparently there’s some custom now among people who hang out in bars that if you let a guy buy you a drink it’s a sign that you’ll reciprocate with sexual favors! Who knew? I guess I just don’t speak bar.

So we ignored them and left for The Big Bamboo, a restaurant/bar with a whole World War II-in-the-South-Pacific atmosphere. It was pretty cool until...you guessed it...Mr. Slate and Mr. Spacely showed up. They actually said, “We’re not following you or anything...” We left immediately and then sneaked back in and hid in a booth in the corner. As a diversionary tactic, Julie called over two of the illegal alien food prep guys (one from Uruguay and one from Panama, I think), who were just getting off work, knowing that there was no way we’d have to engage them in conversation.

MENTAL NOTE: When you find yourself hiding in a booth with gap-toothed illegal aliens as decoys, the evening has pretty much played itself out.

~Samantha

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