Top three things you don't ever want to admit without benefit of a lot of available explanation time and/or alcohol:
3. "I wasn't born this gender."
2. "I once dated a married man."
1. "That's not chicken you're eating, by the way."
Going back to number 2, Yes, it's true, I once dated a married man.
"GASP! You're kidding!" you say.
No, not kidding, unfortunately, and don't bogart the gin while I tell you this.
"GASP! Who was he?" you ask. Wouldja quit the gasping already?
As you can tell from the title of this embarrassing post, it was non other than Nick Asshat. Surprised?
So here's the skinny: When Nick first walked into my store one fateful November evening, we hadn't seen each other in several years. His dear mother Maude had passed away that fall, and he came to tell me (in case I hadn't heard), and to tell me that there would be a memorial service for her in the spring. He was carrying his 7-month old son Victor, who was indescribably cute. Alas, his marriage hadn't worked out, however, and he and his wife were divorced.
Divorced. That's with an -ed at the end, and generally means "already happened, old news, move on with your life." Unless, of course, you are Nick Asshat, and then it just means "slip of the tongue" or "bald-faced lie," see also bar lies. But I couldn't see the lie yet, not for months and months to come.
A week after this little visit, Nick called me and asked me out, and the rest is
Nick happened to tell me (several months later) without filtering his thoughts that his wife --
"You mean ex-wife."
"-- right, right, whatever . . . well, it isn't official, of course, but --"
"WHAT?! Whaddaya mean, 'not official'? Exactly what IS it, then?"
"Well, that's why Booty was calling. She needs to file the divorce papers, and . . ."
I'm sure I can't tell you whatever the hell he said next, because I was fuming silently on his hideous couch, planning the murder of a troll with a hideous couch. I'd like to tell you we were having civilized cocktails on the veranda when this happened, and that I threw mine in his face, nearly dousing the exotic French cigarette I was idly holding in its foot-long cigarette holder thingy, but that's just wishful noir thinking. No, there was nothing noir about this scene; it was all Happy Acres Mobile Home Park.
"Oh, did I forget to tell you?"
Oh, and did I forget to tell YOU that his ex was a stripper? How silly of me. And, since her given name was conveniently her stripper name, I shall call her Booty, to protect the -- well, to keep me out of litigation.
Booty. The cutest, brightest, most accomplished moon-faced stripper to come out of a county seat town in a generation, or maybe ever. She was now in a hurry for that divorce -- can you blame her? -- because she was already on to her next husband-and/or-baby daddy. And she was closing in on her masters degree. I think she just wanted to tidy things up. I don't blame her.
So I don't remember just how long this fight lasted, but not long enough, obviously.
you count the fact that without the endless idiocy of dating Nick Asshat, there would be no Adventures of Nick Asshat. So there you go.
And it really isn't chicken you're eating. Pass the gin, Bogart.