Monday, April 28, 2008

The Inarticulate Spaniard



My Champagne Birthday

Not only will I be celebrating the 10th anniversary of my 33rd (a fantastic vintage it was) birthday, but WE will also be toasting our 20th wedding anniversary this year. Mucha cava por favor!

I recently shared the story of how Jesee and I met with a friend over greasy, well-done veal cutlets and less than lively ravioli at Nick's Spaghetti House on the north end of The Drive. Each time this story is told, it still remains to be one of the best boy meets girl stories ever! I know it's a bit long, so I'll try my best to keep it short.

On June 3, 1987, my sister and I were returning home from a week-long shopping expedition in Los Angeles, which of course included a jaunt down Rodeo Drive (btw, LOVED Pretty Woman) and Melrose Avenue :)

While driving northbound on Cambie Street from the airport, I noticed a motorcycle defiantly weaving in and out of traffic. *sigh* Watching this long-haired rebel reminded me of how much I was missing the Parisian "air"...so I followed him.

As we approached the intersection at 27th Avenue, an older model, gold-coloured station wagon recklessly crossed Cambie Street - where I witnessed the motorcycle crash into the front end of the car and the rider fly off the bike and roll over the hood down onto the street.

I slammed on the brakes and jumped out of my car to help my Jimmy Dean. Together we removed his helmet and this is where he saw his "angel" come to his rescue. I'm sure the fact that I was wearing an itty bitty mini skirt with my fabulous new white damask western boots (trimmed with embossed silver lamé, don't you know it!) had NOTHING to do with the "view" of said angel from his recumbent position on the ground.

One month later, after numerous phone messages from my new suitor (he had my calling card), we had our first date on Canada Day. After our sushi dinner somewhere on trendy Robson Street, we headed back to his West End bachelor suite where I met his five undiscriminating, Malibu-blonde roommates, who were getting ready to paint the town red.

I noticed that there was only ONE bed in the middle of the room and could only react with a polite smile, as I quietly questioned the sleeping arrangements under my breath. Trying not to appear unsettled, I surrendered to a cocktail and My Life in the Bush of Ghosts - drowning out the sounds of fireworks exploding in English Bay. Soon after the girls finished teasing and lacquering their mile-high locks (it was the 80's), we all left for the club.

Our evening ended relatively early (I had to work the next day) with a goodnight kiss when he walked me to my car after a night of dancing. BLECH! I could not wait to race home and disinfect my mouth knowing that I was also kissing Barbie #1, 2 and 3!

A few days later, a most persistent Jesee called me for a second date. I really wasn't interested in becoming a new member of his harem and agreed to meet him, so that I could tell him so. Unable to resist his charm, I still hadn't confessed my reason for meeting him. As we walked out of the restaurant, I tried to tell him, but instead he asked me (in a thick Frenish accent) to marry him by saying, "If I were to... *awkward silence* ...would you?" and THAT is how I became Jesee's girl.