Lucky Number Seven

My horoscope for day 7 (Monday) said luck was turning my way. Little did I know it would come in the form of a Syrian offering me discount asparagus and pimping me out to his cousin...

After a long day of ruthlesly billing clients I stopped off at the fishmonger's for some salmon. It sucks to tell the fish guy I only need one steak and getting that "oh, so you're dining alone now" look. To receive a look of pity from a guy who spends his days cleaning fish is not a happy thing.

Across the street from the fish guy is the local grocery store. Not a chain, but one of those middle eastern mafia owned places. Surprisingly, nearly every market in Oak View is owned by people of Arab descent. Anyhow, the checker with personality, Eddie, was working at the grocer. Eddie is the nephew of the owner and we always chat when I go in. His cousin, who always looks at me and then runs away if I look back was there as well. Of course, Eddie, who has never in the four years I've known him asked about my boyfriend, asked me yesterday. He was very excited to learn I was single and even gave me a discount on my asparagus. I left happy and with an extra 49 cents. There was my good luck. But just as I was getting in my truck Eddie came running out, calling my name. He wanted my phone number for his cousin. Yeah, the one who is scared of me and hides behind the Frito Lay display whenever I come in. Apparantly the mute cousin wanted a date with me. At first, I refused but Eddie persisted. My guard was down, ego slightly boosted by some interest, and I consented. No sooner had I said yes than I wanted to suck the words back into my mouth and snatch my phone number from the clutches of sweet Eddie's hands. Too late, he saw the look in my eye and ran back in to tell his cousin the good news. I felt like I had just been sold at the Tehran farmer's market.

When my phone rang later that night I knew I shouldn't answer. Not surprisingly, it was the cousin - also named Eddie - calling to arrange our pre-arranged date. I gave my best efforts to illicit conversation and soon learned he lives at Pelican Point, an apartment complex of dysfunctional bachelors in Ventura (ironically, the highest security prison in California is called Pelican Bay...), his favorite restaurant is "The Sizzler" (add Arabic accent for effect), and he has no hobbies and works seven days a week and really just wants to meet a nice lady and I seem sweet (not usually a term reserved for me). The last time he went out it was to go to an Indian gaming casino with his brothers. I didn't have the heart to say no and so we're set to go to dinner Wednesday night - no doubt at the Sizzler.

So why am I going out with this poor guy? Other than my "I'll go out with just about anyone once" rule, I honestly have nothing better to do, he's harmless and could end up being interesting (having immigrated from Syria), and if nothing else, it should be blogworthy. Besides, other than a toothless carnival worker with a 12 pack of Milwaulkee's Best five years ago, this is the only time I've been hit on at the proverbial grocery store. I'm still on the fence about cancelling but those all-you-can-eat shrimp are calling my name.