A group called the Young Republicans used to meet at the top of the Sorrento Hotel in the early 1970s. It was a great way to mingle while taking advantage of the cheap drinks offered.
It was important for us guys to take on the air of legitimate Republicans who were not on the prowl for ladies, although that is exactly why we were there. Even if otherwise attached, it was necessary to check out this scene once a month for other possibilities.
Not all guests mingled to the extent that my friends and I did. One particular fellow stuck out. He wore a full-length fur coat and just stood there and stared. His name was Ted Bundy.
One day I opened an invitation to a benefit they were hosting for the Seattle Symphony in a mansion on Queen Anne.
This would be a great place to take my new friend from Ballard, as she would be duly impressed with my status among my peers; I was very wrong.
I should have known her state of mind when I dialed her number and felt the phone turn into a solid piece of ice. The icicles were dangling from the phone cord, and my breath turned into a fog as I began to speak.
I mustered up a positive greeting, which must've been my first mistake. She answered with a very curt hello.
"Our relationship is purely platonic. You have too many parties, and all your friends party and drink too much."
It proceeded downhill even further, so I decided telling her about the benefit would not be the best thing to do at this point.
I was knee-deep in the ice as she ended with a stiff, "Goodbye, Richard."
That Friday, I started getting nervous, as I had no prospects for the fund-raiser, which was only three hours away.
I looked through my little, black book and found one possibility. With a slight defeatist attitude, I cracked open a beer and dialed the number.
She answered the phone with a cheery, "Patricia Stevens Modeling Agency. May I help you?"
Then, to get it over with, I said, "Hi, this is Richard Lehman."
Before I could say anything else, she told me how much fun she had at our last get-together on a houseboat in Lake Union. I was beginning to feel better about asking her out.
I blurted, "There's a party on Queen Anne at a mansion tonight. Would you like to go?"
"Yes, but I won't have time to change after work since I live in Woodinville. I'll have to wear my runway clothes."
She drove to my house, and all 5-foot, 11 inches of her got out of the car wearing thigh-high, laced boots and hot pants. That turned my frown upside down!
Pulling up to valet parking, I could tell by the parking attendants' faces my date was quite acceptable.
We got our nametags, and suddenly Young Republicans surrounded us, saying hello and calling us by our first names. I found this unusual since no one much spoke to me before at the other meetings at the Sorrento.
We wound our way down many flights of stairs to the ballroom, where we were served wonderful white wine, which was far better than the Thunderbird served in Madison Park.
A window seat beckoned to us, so we sat there and chatted, the smile on my face a constant.
The crowd had grown, and ev- erybody was having a good time. I turned and toasted my date, telling her what a great evening it was.
I looked toward the long, winding staircase, and there at the top of the landing were two young ladies, one with her mouth wide open looking surprised. It was the young lady who earlier gave me 102 reasons why I wasn't a great catch.
I raised my glass to her to indicate I was OK, as I thought she would be relieved, but she turned and left with her friend in a huff.
My phone rang off the hook after that night, but I didn't answer as I had a feeling it was her. She, who dumped me just hours before, was calling frantically to get the skinny on that evening.
I laughed gleefully knowing she was seething. The very idea that I was having fun after her sanctimonious tongue-lashing was totally unacceptable. Not to mention that my date was a little more than average probably really lit her fuse!
A very short time later the "dumper" did get a hold of me, and instead of ice hanging in sheets from the phone, honey oozed from the receiver and spilled out onto my carpet. Could this be the same person?
She invited me to dinner, and on subsequent dates, I noticed a distinct improvement in our relationship, and I didn't even have to change a thing about my behavior.
I am not implying that creating an incident as I did is proper, but playing the green-eyed monster card can be crucial in the dating dance.
E-mail Richard Carl Lehman at krlehman@comcast.net.
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