I was looking way too hot for a sports bar on Saturday night, but Jason likes the wings in Unionville, so there we were.
Jason ordered a pitcher of beer and half a dozen kinds of wings.
I was feeling rather dainty so I ordered a salad and martini.
And some supremely loaded potato skins.
But don't worry, I only ate most of them.
Wiping some 'bloody caesar' sauce from his chin, he very civilly asked me how my day had been.
It felt suspiciously like a date. Like a real date!
"Oh, you know, it was a pretty normal day. I did see a cow give birth by c-section though."
"And how was that?"
"A lot quieter than you'd expect, actually. And how was your day?"
Unfolding his 18th napkin to sop up the excess 'god of thunder' sauce, he told me about the 15 year old who stuffed over 20 bikinis down her pants and tried to get out the door, and how he learned that 'starfish' is a shade of orange right now, and how someone else ate the delicious club sandwich I made him for lunch and he had to eat stupid foodcourt food instead.
Wiping the 'kama sutra' sauce from his fingers, he even extended his arm across the cramped table and held my hand in his so he could gaze lovingly into my eyes and also sneak peaks at the big screen TV hovering just behind and a little to the left of my head.
The Leafs were playing the Penguins, although, if the drunken yelling is to be believed, it was actually an exciting game of Fucktards vs Douchebags. Now, hockey and I are not the best of friends, and usually Jason doesn't pay too much attention either, but either the 'margaritaville' sauce was getting to him, or mob mentality was. It was okay during the first two innings, because the Leafs were up, but things got a little tense during the third because Pittsburgh pulled the sticks out of their asses and actually put them to the ice.
There was a booth with 4 very drunk and very bearded men sitting in the corner, putting back beer like it was going out of style, and boy were they taking it personally. The losing, I mean. Oh man. Every time the game didn't go their way, they slammed their glasses down in disgust, creating an impressive splash zone around their table. They seemed to believe that the only reason Toronto was allowing Pittsburgh to score was to make them cry, and cry they did. Or one of them did, anyway, and he cried, wept really, dramatically enough for others to take notice. One of these others was some young punk in a pink argyle sweater, and he'd clearly had enough grenadine-laced drinks to give him liquid courage, so he stood up and pointed out the crying man for all to see and mock.
Crying Man took the first swing, and to be honest, I didn't blame him. Sure he was crying about hockey, but Argyle Boy was clearly an ass and I pretty much felt he deserved it. But Argyle Boy had some friends - Mr. SissyPants, and Sir BedHead. Mr. SissyPants was immediately on his feet, tipping back his chair, which hit an innocent bysitter in the head, and her boyfriend, Chesty McHair, was just as quickly out of his seat and in Mr. SissyPants' face. Meanwhile, Sir BedHead was slowly tearing his eyes of the waitress' boobage and realizing that his buddies were already elbows-to-guts into what was quickly become a real life bar brawl!
Well, Sir BedHead was not going to be left out, so he sloppily stood up and adopted the strangest fight style I have ever seen: he swung only the fist of his left hand, and he swung it over and over, not particularly at any people, while using his right hand to possessively hold onto his junk.
I probably should have kept my eye on the fight, but I couldn't help but notice that Crying Man was no longer the only crying man in the room - Jason had tears in his eyes and was making distress signals that I interpreted as "For the love of esophagus, help me!" so I poured him more beer and watched him fight the fire in his belly.
And that's when a big fat fist connected with my face.
At first, all I could feel was wetness, but when my vision cleared, I saw a mountain of a man lying in my potato skins.
Now, I didn't particularly begrudge him the black eye. But when you spill my Grey Goose martini, and you spill it all over my new red silk cami, then you've just made yourself a new enemy.
And you know what he said to me?
He said "Watch out, lady."
Well. I looked over at Jason to see if he was about to defend my honour any time soon, but the poor dear was still trying to regurgitate some of that flaming 'black widow' sauce from his system. So I hopped up onto my chair, and when MountainMan stood up, with my potato skins still clutching the back of his polo shirt, I hauled off and punched the guy. Right in the kisser.
Luckily, Jason has recently taught me to knuckle-punch, and has let me practise my signature "paralyzer" on his left bicep for a month now. And luckier still, I happened to be wearing one of my oversized obnoxious rings. Score one for the little blonde!
But just as he was licking the blood from his lip, I was suddenly flying backwards through the air. No, no, I wasn't hit. Jason had finally recovered some sense, and had grabbed me around the waist from behind and was hauling ass out of there. I had time for just one little cheeky waive at MountainMan before Jason was rounding the corner and throwing me out into the cold air where the police were just arriving.
It took almost two hours before everyone had given their statements and we were finally allowed back in to retrieve our jackets and my purse, which surprisingly, was still sitting under my chair, albeit in a lake of beer. Reportedly the hockey game had gone into overtime, but fittingly enough, no one knew who had even won. Awesome.
At home, Jason iced my bruised knuckles but didn't have a lot to say.
"Are you mad at me?" I inquired.
"No, not mad" he said, "I'm just realizing I'll have to really watch my mouth from now on. Jamie's packing heat!"