"Hey, do you have a sense of humor? You like jokes?"
We knew immediately that we were about to stop having fun. I mean, a little white-haired man at the hotel bar had just sidled up, threatened to tell jokes and simultaneously implied that our failure to laugh would mean that our sense of humor was impaired. What could go wrong?
"Sure, jokes," said my polite friend Mimi.
"Of course," said I. "Jokes are great."
Man, we're nice people.
"Wonderful. I like jokes. Just like my grandson," he said. "My grandson. Last week he was telling me about his plans for my birthday..."
It is known that invasive old men come in two flavors. The good kind is The Grandpa, who can't stop showing pictures of his grandkids and carrying on about their accomplishments. Their vastly less cute counterparts, of course, are the dirty old men. As we were about to discover, what we had here was a Dirty Old Man in Grandpa's clothing.
"My grandson, ten years old, he comes to me," says the man. "My grandson says, 'Grandpa! I have good news and bad news about your birthday present.' Guess what he said."
Absurdly, we were unable to guess.
Old man says, "The boy tells me, 'Grandpa, the good news is that we got you a stripper.'"
Oh.
"A stripper, eh? You understand?" says the old man, who apparently thought my friend and I might have such hopeless German that we couldn't follow this very sophisticated story. "The good news is there's a stripper. So I say to my grandson, 'What's the bad news?' And he says, 'The bad news is that she's the same age as you, Grandpa!'"
The old man laughed uproariously. He didn't slap his own knee, because I'm pretty sure no one actually does that, but he may as well have. "The same age as me, eh?," he said.
Oh dear. Fishing for compliments, too.
My friends Mimi, Jenny, Florence and I were at the hotel, a lovely spa near Vienna, for a one-night getaway from our little kids and/or jobs timed to occur before I give birth. (Newborns have many marvellous qualities, but they do poorly in saunas).
This is not the type of thing we usually do. Until recently we could be found trying to talk over too-loud music in sweaty clubs, dancing barefoot in the forest rain, or quatsching for hours in smoky bars.
Nowadays between work and toddler I usually don't have evenings. Instead I have a brief window between lunacy and collapse that I reserve for gobbling trash food, picking up toys and folding laundry. For this reason, socializing in noisy locales does not add excitement. My heart rate is up all day anyway.
And this, I have discovered, is why the older you get, the likelier you are to enjoy spas. You no longer need to party to have a hangover. You are just constantly a semi-wreck, so run down that you'll willingly pay strangers to smear lotion on your face for you. No weekly big night out for me, thanks; I'll just skip ahead to the therapeutic application of green tea, bacon and nature documentaries.
God that's sad to see in print.
Anyway. The four of us had been at the spa hotel all afternoon and were thoroughly enjoying the fact that we could sit in silence or converse at leisure for hours on end without a single frantic email or sweetly bleating child to distract us. It was heaven.
That evening, before dinner, Jenny popped out to take Florence to the train station. Mimi and I stayed behind at the bar and continued to glory in our uninterrupted adults-only conversation. Until, as discussed, we were interrupted by unwanted conversation of the adults-only variety.
"Here's another one," the Dirty Old Man said. "A man and a woman are having trouble making a baby, so they go to a fertility clinic to see what the trouble is."
"Mm," we said.
"Fertility clinic. For making a baby, you see? They take home the little container for the man to put his sample in. The next day they go back and tell the doctor that they couldn't get it to work. The man says, 'I tried it with my left hand, but it wouldn't work. So I tried it with my right hand, she tried it with her right hand, with her left hand, she put it in her mouth...but we just can't get the lid off the container!' HAHAHAHA!"
A few moments of deliberative silence.
"Wow," I said. "I may never forget that."
"It's a joke," he explained. He squinted, considering whether we had failed to laugh because we're a couple of foreigners whose German sucks. "A joke. You see, they're talking about the container, but it sounds like..."
Our bartender, a fit and pretty lady who looked like she was in her late thirties, suddenly appeared. "This is Mr. X. He is always here. He sure likes to entertain people," she said, brightly. "Yep! He's a regular! Does anyone need a drink?"
"Ah...my favorite waitress!" said the man, gesturing in her general direction. "How old do you think she is? Doesn't she look great?"
We all agreed that indeed, she looked great.
"She's forty!" he said. "Imagine! But she's already a grandmother, can you believe it."
The conversation was so vacuous that it was starting to make a sucking sound. "My eldest is 19," said the waitress.
"You look great," I said. "Children are great."
"Yes! And you're expecting, I see," she said.
"I am," I admitted with a chuckle.
"Ah! That's wonderful. Congratulations," she said. "So. When are you due?"
At this moment Jenny arrived. Beautiful, lovely Jenny. She sat down beside us at the bar, and was assaulted from all sides.
"Welcome back!" I said.
"Hi Jenny!" said Mimi.
"Good evening to the lady!" said the Dirty Old Man, sticking out a hand.
"Oh, hello," said lovely Jenny.
"You're Austrian, right? You speak German, right?" asked the old man. "Do you like jokes?"
"Uh..."
The man sidled up real close beside her. "My grandson," he said, conspiratorially. "He got me a present for my birthday...Guess what it was?"
"I don't know," said Jenny.
The old man beamed. "A stripper!"
Never change, dirty old man. Because really, what would girls' night be without you?
We knew immediately that we were about to stop having fun. I mean, a little white-haired man at the hotel bar had just sidled up, threatened to tell jokes and simultaneously implied that our failure to laugh would mean that our sense of humor was impaired. What could go wrong?
"Sure, jokes," said my polite friend Mimi.
"Of course," said I. "Jokes are great."
Man, we're nice people.
"Wonderful. I like jokes. Just like my grandson," he said. "My grandson. Last week he was telling me about his plans for my birthday..."
 |
| A sewing machine. |
It is known that invasive old men come in two flavors. The good kind is The Grandpa, who can't stop showing pictures of his grandkids and carrying on about their accomplishments. Their vastly less cute counterparts, of course, are the dirty old men. As we were about to discover, what we had here was a Dirty Old Man in Grandpa's clothing.
"My grandson, ten years old, he comes to me," says the man. "My grandson says, 'Grandpa! I have good news and bad news about your birthday present.' Guess what he said."
Absurdly, we were unable to guess.
Old man says, "The boy tells me, 'Grandpa, the good news is that we got you a stripper.'"
Oh.
"A stripper, eh? You understand?" says the old man, who apparently thought my friend and I might have such hopeless German that we couldn't follow this very sophisticated story. "The good news is there's a stripper. So I say to my grandson, 'What's the bad news?' And he says, 'The bad news is that she's the same age as you, Grandpa!'"
The old man laughed uproariously. He didn't slap his own knee, because I'm pretty sure no one actually does that, but he may as well have. "The same age as me, eh?," he said.
Oh dear. Fishing for compliments, too.
My friends Mimi, Jenny, Florence and I were at the hotel, a lovely spa near Vienna, for a one-night getaway from our little kids and/or jobs timed to occur before I give birth. (Newborns have many marvellous qualities, but they do poorly in saunas).
This is not the type of thing we usually do. Until recently we could be found trying to talk over too-loud music in sweaty clubs, dancing barefoot in the forest rain, or quatsching for hours in smoky bars.
Nowadays between work and toddler I usually don't have evenings. Instead I have a brief window between lunacy and collapse that I reserve for gobbling trash food, picking up toys and folding laundry. For this reason, socializing in noisy locales does not add excitement. My heart rate is up all day anyway.
And this, I have discovered, is why the older you get, the likelier you are to enjoy spas. You no longer need to party to have a hangover. You are just constantly a semi-wreck, so run down that you'll willingly pay strangers to smear lotion on your face for you. No weekly big night out for me, thanks; I'll just skip ahead to the therapeutic application of green tea, bacon and nature documentaries.
 |
| A rocket. |
God that's sad to see in print.
Anyway. The four of us had been at the spa hotel all afternoon and were thoroughly enjoying the fact that we could sit in silence or converse at leisure for hours on end without a single frantic email or sweetly bleating child to distract us. It was heaven.
That evening, before dinner, Jenny popped out to take Florence to the train station. Mimi and I stayed behind at the bar and continued to glory in our uninterrupted adults-only conversation. Until, as discussed, we were interrupted by unwanted conversation of the adults-only variety.
"Here's another one," the Dirty Old Man said. "A man and a woman are having trouble making a baby, so they go to a fertility clinic to see what the trouble is."
"Mm," we said.
"Fertility clinic. For making a baby, you see? They take home the little container for the man to put his sample in. The next day they go back and tell the doctor that they couldn't get it to work. The man says, 'I tried it with my left hand, but it wouldn't work. So I tried it with my right hand, she tried it with her right hand, with her left hand, she put it in her mouth...but we just can't get the lid off the container!' HAHAHAHA!"
A few moments of deliberative silence.
"Wow," I said. "I may never forget that."
"It's a joke," he explained. He squinted, considering whether we had failed to laugh because we're a couple of foreigners whose German sucks. "A joke. You see, they're talking about the container, but it sounds like..."
Our bartender, a fit and pretty lady who looked like she was in her late thirties, suddenly appeared. "This is Mr. X. He is always here. He sure likes to entertain people," she said, brightly. "Yep! He's a regular! Does anyone need a drink?"
"Ah...my favorite waitress!" said the man, gesturing in her general direction. "How old do you think she is? Doesn't she look great?"
We all agreed that indeed, she looked great.
"She's forty!" he said. "Imagine! But she's already a grandmother, can you believe it."
 |
| A train in a tunnel. |
The conversation was so vacuous that it was starting to make a sucking sound. "My eldest is 19," said the waitress.
"You look great," I said. "Children are great."
"Yes! And you're expecting, I see," she said.
"I am," I admitted with a chuckle.
"Ah! That's wonderful. Congratulations," she said. "So. When are you due?"
At this moment Jenny arrived. Beautiful, lovely Jenny. She sat down beside us at the bar, and was assaulted from all sides.
"Welcome back!" I said.
"Hi Jenny!" said Mimi.
"Good evening to the lady!" said the Dirty Old Man, sticking out a hand.
"Oh, hello," said lovely Jenny.
"You're Austrian, right? You speak German, right?" asked the old man. "Do you like jokes?"
"Uh..."
The man sidled up real close beside her. "My grandson," he said, conspiratorially. "He got me a present for my birthday...Guess what it was?"
"I don't know," said Jenny.
The old man beamed. "A stripper!"
Never change, dirty old man. Because really, what would girls' night be without you?
