Let’s be honest.  Those of us of the female persuasion are known well for our internal TKOs.  Even the most confident can be masters of self-destruction…builders of impenetrable brick walls…our own worst critics.  But an unexpected compliment can, for a time at least, kick our chins back up and push our shoulders back.

Friday Night (pre-compliment):  James is involved.  He is on the move.  He has more energy than a fully-loaded and cocked (hehe) Fourth of July bottle rocket.  He’s invited a large group (including Susan and I) to a farewell party for one of Houston’s oldest steak houses and creepy old-man, dark bar hangouts.  Why?  Because James, using just the steam of his overflowing reserve, has created an organization called Amnesia Houston (www.amnesiahouston.org) - dedicated to preserving and protecting Houston’s waning architectural history.  In a city obsessed with new! and Bigger! and EVEN NEWER! this is a worthy endeavor, indeed.  And we support him wholeheartedly.  Even if it means showing up in the bar of an old-school restaurant we’ve never laid eyes on.  Now that’s dedication.  And also two girls who desperately need a night out.

I know what you’re thinking.  That’s where the compliment was tossed out - from one of the elderly, bleary-eyed alcoholics rolling about in their caster-wheeled, round-backed chairs.  They probably bent their thick, red necks back and slurred something like “well, you sure are a couple of fine-lookin’ young fillies” or “take a look at these sweet little tarts” (it is Texas).  But you would be wrong.  Those ole boys didn’t bat a single, blood-shot eye our way…they had more important things to worry about - like their favorite bar biting the dust.

After consuming a vodka tonic and some goulash from a hot plate, Susan and I decided to skip James’ next stop (a 70s prom-themed party with his favorite retro disco band) and headed to the newly refurbished nightspot - The Social - a hit or miss hangout located in the up-and-coming Washington Avenue / Heights area.  We parked in the abandoned bank parking lot across the street and strolled into the large patio with high hopes for an atypical Houston night. 

“Patio looks fairly similar,” I said, pondering the reason for the three-month shut-down.

“Yes, I’m confused,” Susan replied.

We walked inside.  Uh huh.  Nice.  New, high-backed red booths, fancy hanging pin lights…maybe some new tables?

“Looks good,” I said, determined to stay positive…the night depended on it.

“Uh huh,” was all I got from Susan.  “Wanna go sit outside?”

“Uh huh.”

 We grabbed a couple of beers and sat at one of the few unoccupied (new?) patio tables…directly across from a makeshift BBQ area, serving $5 hamburger/chip plates and manned by three 20-something man-boys.  Smart move, right?  Would have been if the barely legals hadn’t been obnoxiously hammered and pushing burgers on us like street corner crack-peddlers.  We declined…approximately twelve times.  At which point they offered to melt pre-packaged American cheese slices and whip us up some “delicious” queso.  We politely declined again, causing one of the charming young souls to deem us “ungrateful bitches”.

Hmmmmm.  I’m not sure I enjoy The Social’s redesign. 

But, troopers that we are, we turned our heads, tuned them out and proceeded to do the one thing that our married girlfriends often chastise us for…we dove into deep conversation about “that awful Oprah episode” and cried some tears for the latest, tragic news story and essentially built a wall around us that no single man is willing to chip through.  Except for one…

“Oh, Lord,” I said under my breath.  “We got a doozie coming over.”

Cut to disheveled man, weaving toward our table.  Susan quickly looks over and back.  “This can’t be good.”

“WELL, HELJO YADIES!”

“Um, hi,” we respond.  The man is not sober, not even close.  And, let’s face it, his hair could use a good washing.  But a proper Southern upbringing mixed with a healthy dose of guilt disallows us from immediately casting him aside.  Which wasn’t such a bad thing…because, drunk as Cooter Brown or not, his next words were, well…needed.

“I don’t mean ta bodder you yadies, but I gotta say…yur the most bewtful women I ever seen…the most bewtful women in the world!”

Well, maybe he isn’t THAT drunk.

“In the world?  Wow,” I say with a hint of sarcasm.  “That’s a pretty bold statement.”

“I mean you got Angelina Jolie…Grace Kelly,” Susan adds.

“I mean it,” he continued.  “And…don’t laugh…”

“I don’t think you see us laughing,” we say in unison.

He looked directly at me and (weaving a bit) said, “You know why?  D’you know why I sink ure so bewtful?”

“Oh, no, don’t say it,” I’m thinking.  “You’ll ruin the purity of the first line.  You may be drunk, but we can take ‘you’re the most beautiful women in the world’, tuck it in our back pockets and pull it out on zit-faced, bloated, boy-didn’t-call days.  Stop there!  Please stop there!”

But he didn’t.

“You know why?  D’you know why I sink ure so bewtful,” he repeated.

I shook my head.

“Jur eyebrows.  So dark and bewtful.”

A frightening thought came rushing through my brain…what if he has a hidden camera…what if he’s taking a shot of my eyebrows right now and when he goes home tonight, he’ll download the shot, and post it on some creepy site called “Gettin’ off On Brows” or “Brows, Boobs and Babes”.  Shiver.

I gag a little and turn my attention back to the “brow pervert”.  My southern gentile-ness has subsided.  I want him to leave.  He stands there…staring at my brows…swaying.  We say nothing.

“O-kay,” Susan finally says.  “Thanks for the compliment…but we’re going to get back to our conversation. Have a nice night.”

He lingers, and several uncomfortable moments later, finally takes his leave.  Only to sit several tables away (with his even more disheveled - and presumed fellow brow pervert friend)…both of them staring over like a couple of rabid wolves in heat.

“Can we just remember his opening line,” I ask Susan.

“Uh huh,” she replies.  “And as I shall recall it in the days and months to come, he was a hot, confident yet respectful clone of Patrick Dempsey…and he was a doctor.”

“Yes, indeed,” I say.  “Can I use that version the next time my ex-boyfriend calls?”

“Why wouldn’t you?  It’s the truth.”

“Yes…that it is.  That it is.”

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