Even though I was there with the team last night - and we moved our group out to the Joe's patio to enjoy the warmer weather, we lost. We lost because I forgot Ronald Reagan's middle name. We lost because I can't rank the Great Lakes by order of size. We lost because I got the Fathers of the A-Bomb and H-Bomb confused. We lost.
But, funnily enough, it didn't matter because I had a great time last night. Kacoon had come with me, and she got along like gangbusters with Debi and everyone at the table.
One of the first things Kacoon heard was that Debi found out that her future husband was circumcised when they first met ... but she didn't find out his last name.
We were having such a good time the whole night, in fact, that we ended up talking long after we would've usually gone home. We did vagina impressions. We told parents-having-sex stories, sick-drunk stories and all that sort. Because I wasn't drinking cider and being obnoxious this time around, Michael the Artist doused my sweet tea with salt this time around.
That incident led me to putting a dash of salt in my hand and throwing it over my shoulder for luck, which would've been fine if there hadn't been people sitting right behind me.
The funniest moment of the night, though, came early.
For some reason, I was talking with Kacoon about the sheer number of cute guys that always manage to be at Joe's during trivia. Or something like that.
And it led me to randomly compliment myself on my post-London attitude.
"I've been feeling really good-looking lately," I said to Kacoon earnestly.
Midway through my self-aggrandizing statement, Debi burst into a fit of uncontrolled, high-pitched, lingering giggles.
I think my face turned red. Then, I started laughing.
"What was that?" I asked Debi. "Am I not good looking?"
She just kept laughing. And Kacoon started laughing.
People with permanent confidence, I imagine, don't say those kinds of things randomly.
Throughout the night, whenever talk would turn to me, the statement, "... who feels really good looking," would be added.
To concede, I offered to worsen my limp and regain the 15 pounds I'd lost, but Debi just told me that it was the joke-of-the-week regarding me, "like last time with the cider." So, apparently, this is a running thing.
Debi's son Ian saw fit to point out Jeff the Waiter several times to Kacoon, so she'd know the one I always flirt with or hit on, even though he acts completely retarded and talks like a pullstring kewpie doll.
"Jessika ... Jessika ... THIS IS JEFF," Ian kept saying to Kacoon, while Jeff was STANDING THERE, TAKING OUR PLATES. "Jessika ... this is the one he hits on ..."
My eyes almost fell out of their sockets, swear to God.
So, to not be completely embarassed, I introduced Jeff to Kacoon. And then, after he left, Kacoon proved that she did the best impression of his intentionally squeaky, slow-talking voice.
Later, I mocked Ian's behavior, calling him a "son of a bitch" in front of his mother.
Yeah, we're a fun group. The fact that I'm the target of most of the pranks and mockery, I think, is a good thing.
Next week, Nick the Cute Waiter is supposed to join us, which should prove to be even more fun.
Hmm ... I wonder if Nick will help me play a prank on Ian.
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