Meet Gabe

You know when you’re looking so forward to some quality, quiet alone time and the very moment you’re about to start reveling in it some tool comes along flapping their lips in your face and ruins it?

Annoying, indeed.

This annoyance is magnified for those who work in any kind of service/public industry, and particularly those that combine both like that of, say, a flight attendant.

Insert scene: Me, fresh off a 6+ hour flight, stripped of my suffocating uniform and finally without any smelly strangers yammering in/crowding my space, happily flip flopping solo down the street to catch the sunset.  In Maui, of course.

Most would know better; but most also concern themselves with the state of their physique, and lately, well, I just don’t care about that.  And so, rather than fussing with clothes & coverups I simply sailed out the door clad only in a bikini, not giving a rip about cellulite and thunder thighs and my mini muffin top.  It should have come as no surprise, then, when some greasebag in a rental squealed up to a halt beside me on the street.

And out from the window: “Hey!  Hey, you staying at this hotel?  How you like it?  Where you headed, girl?”

Um.  Seriously?!  Did this douchebag just pull over – without even bothering to get out of the car – to hit on me?

“Where you from, girl?  How long you staying, what-cho-gettin’ up to tonight?”

Yep.  It would appear so.

Wordless, still, caught somewhere between annoyance and hysterical laughter, I stood, stupified, as this idiot climbed out his econo-rental.  He caught his visor – which might have been sexy had it been for a real purpose like golf or beach volleyball, but judging by his lanky, lack-of-muscled body, was clearly not – on the door frame in the process, landing it askew across his forehead and messy mop.

Undeterred, grease monkey adopted a cocky stance.  ”What’s your name, girl?”

Smirking and not hiding it, I answered.  Apparently my three syllable uncommon name was too much for him, because he asked me twice to repeat it.  I flat out laughed.

“I’m Gabe,” he said, nodding in self approval, apparently very pleased with himself.

I nodded too, laughing harder now, which Gabe somehow interpreted as the green light to ask for my phone number.

Dear friends, this couldn’t have been more fun.  Between laughs, I managed to say that I don’t give out my phone number, but no problem because Gabe was all too eager to offer up his.

As the seedling of this post sprang up in my mind, I wavered only for a moment on whether to be nice – let poor pathetic Gabe off the hook – or whether to have a little fun.

And so, dear friends, if you ever find yourself ‘in the San Francisco Bay area and looking for a good time’, call Gabe!  At:

510 – 301 – 4405

And a note to all you fellas out there – if you really think hollering out a junky car window at a girl is a sure fire way to get some – it might be best not to be wearing a wife beater.  ;)