Vomit Day #3: Driveway Roadkill, Part One

Who: We'll call him Mr. Leaver.

Date: 3rd. a.k.a. the expected sex date...on my very first official V-Day date. Fabulous timing.

Mood: Excited, hopeful, happy.

Outfit: Oooh, a good one--leather pants, brand new pink top, brand new, tastefully sexy boots with a decent size heel on them. 

Restaurant: Quaint, converted house.  Picture a mid-size bar adjacent a surprisingly small dining area--very intimate. The overwhelmingly quiet atmosphere around the bar and dining area made me nervous.

Me + new heels + small area + insane quiet = possible catastrophe.

Mr. Leaver: "Let's sit at the bar while they're getting our table ready."

The bar stools were unusually tall...dangerously so, actually. With my nice new heels, I lifted and balanced myself gracefully onto the stool. Phew.

Mr. Leaver and I talked for a few moments before he left to go talk to someone (I think he wanted to greet someone his family knew...that whole bit is a blur).

While my date did whatever, the front of house informed me that our table was ready.

*Keep in mind, the following happened very quickly, but it felt like slow motion*

As I tried to slide off the stool, I discovered something the mean science teachers failed to tell us in school:

leather pants + wooden seat = inability to slide, slight stuck feeling, and manufactured farting sounds when attempting to move.

Now, I don't know if there were some unknown variables, like whatever they used to clean the wood, the type of wood, or the type of leather pants I had on, but my rear end was essentially STUCK. 

Oh. Holy. God. 

The height of the stools were such that I couldn't put my foot down and hop off without the possibility of my leathery bottom bringing the stool crashing to the ground. And, as we have already learned, I cannot simply slide off without sounding like I had a flatulence problem.

Growing very hot, I began to sweat--not a good mix with leather.

I had to get off this stupid stool.  I slowly lifted my rear, one bum cheek at a time, and tried to ease myself forward until my feet could touch the floor. In doing so, these very strange *FLAWP* *FLAWP* peeling sounds rang out from my derriere.

The people at the tables closest to the bar kept a measuring eye on me; I couldn't tell if they were amused or if they were waiting to see if I would fall off the stool.

By this time, my feet were halfway to the floor, my body was slightly tilted on the stool, and I was in deep danger of the whole stool tipping over should I move one more inch.

I dared to try one more little slide. The only thing I accomplished was the sound of gas.

Grab Guy (sitting behind me at the bar): "You okay, there?"

Me: "I can't get off the stool."

Grab Guy: "Why?"

Me: "My leather pants--they're sticking to the wood. I need you to lift me off the stool."

Grab Guy: "Um, how?"

Me, sighing: "I need you to stick your hands under my bottom and just...peel me up."

Grab Guy, laughing: "I would, but I have a girlfriend."

Me: "I'm not asking you to grope me...just kindly help me off this thing, otherwise my pants will continue to make obscene sounds and eventually succeed in knocking over the stool. Please, I need your help...I can't reach the floor. Now, stick your hands under there and peel!"

Grab Guy, quite literally laughing his rear end off, aided in my dilemma, and I was able to hop off the stool with his, um, forklift-type-help. I did stumble a bit and, in doing so, my heels made an appallingly loud clip-clopping sound as people turned to look at the crazed leather-pants-wearing girl.

I thanked Grab Guy, and rejoined Mr. Leaver--the clip-clopping prompted him to leave his acquaintances and attend to his frazzled date. After assuring Mr. Leaver that all was well, we followed the waiter to our table...

...which had wooden seats.

It was only the beginning.