“Joanie, you weren’t kidding–I thought one animal on a spit was funny, but two–wow, that’s even funnier!”

Damn right. If the last post got you all teary-eyed re: flame-cooked meat, you can follow the plot here, which details the second lamb roast; the third lamb roast is detailed here; and the fourth, here.

But wait–I think all that lamb roast talk reminds of something else…and there’s the screen going all wiggly again…you’re getting whooshed back to…

Tuesday, February 24, 2004
Reader, I did not marry him.

The New Year’s meat-fest reaps dividends:

Last week I’m on the Chinatown bus from DC to NYC, and this guy starts chatting me up. My flimsy magazine is not barrier enough to conversation. I’m absolutely terrible at extricating myself from these things. I can’t say no, or as Adrienne, Queen of Reno, puts it, “kill someone’s mojo.” Especially when there’s no bathroom to run off to. But he seems nice enough, and he does dangle some interesting conversational tidbits about how he used to party with Krush Groove and stuff.

But the ride wears on—there’s rush-hour traffic well past Baltimore—and he’s getting more flirtatious, borderline leering. Talking about how he wants a woman to share his life with. How he’d like to see me “get loose” in Miami. How I caught his eye when I first got on the bus.

And it’s already clear this guy is not my dream man: “I’d like to take you out on a date. Have you ever been to Tavern on the Green?” he coos suavely.

No, I haven’t, and I have zero desire to go, and I can’t think of a more terrible idea for a date—all glitz, no substance. This place seats many hundreds, and specializes in rubber chicken and corporate Christmas parties. The kind of place you go if you want to impress someone with your money but have absolutely no sense of good food.

By now the bus is completely dark—I certainly can’t go back to reading my magazine now. The only thing I can do is feign sleep, but I don’t want to close my eyes with this guy around.

So my strategy to cool his affections while still remaining polite is to emphasize our dissimilarities. What are my turnoffs? he asks. Guys who brag about their money—he’s been talking about the Ferrari he’s going to buy. (Remember, we’re on the Chinatown bus, roundtrip NYC-DC for $30.) I don’t “work hard and play hard” (his claim)—I work not very much and play pretty well.

Finally, the greatest opportunity of all arises: “What did you do for New Year’s?” he asks.

We-ell. You saw the bloody pictures. Poor guy had mentioned early on that he’s a vegetarian. I tell him all about buying the lamb, and the fur on its head, and the little chopped-off legs—and of course how delicious it all was. He did keep up his end of the conversation after that, but the dinner invitation was not repeated.

If the carcasses on a spit hadn’t worked, I had only one more piece of ammo (as yet untested, but I suspect it’ll weed out the wrong kind of guy): I was wearing my new thong underwear that said “Live Poultry – Fresh Killed.”