I don’t know about you, but I like my sake warm. Icy sake leaves me thinking of a cold eel pulled from the water, squirming, chilling the palm of my hand. Warm sake slides down the throat effortlessly, warming the centre of your belly. Kind of like laughter. Today, Sally Thelen is my sake. Please guffaw at this week’s story from Summer Chick Tales.
It was two days before my big date with the hot Japanese cop that I’d met at my friend’s party when he texted me to surprise me. Not in a romantic, cutesie, “I-can’t-wait-to-see-you-again” kind of way, but in a “Hey-guess-what! My-supervisor-is-going-to-join-us-on-our-date” kind of way.
Needless to say, it worked – I was, well, surprised.
But, hey, maybe this was just the Japanese way?
After all, what did I know? I hadn’t exactly been dating up a frenzy since arriving in Japan two years prior to meeting the hot cop. It’s not that I wasn’t interested in dating Japanese guys – I was. It’s just that they didn’t seem all that interested in dating me. Or, maybe “not interested” is not the right term for it — more like “completely terrified of the prospect.”
Not that this was anything new. I’ve been told my whole life that I can be a little bit, well, intimidating. I’ve never been completely sure what it is about me that puts men off – whether it’s my fierce independence or my intellect or my biting sarcasm or, say, my tendency to get loud and sloppy at parties and start dragging boys across the dance floor by their lapels in an effort to make them