A newly single girl that moves from Montana to Nashville, Tennessee, is asking for a world of change. From wide open spaces to a million plus population. From riding horseback to road rage. It was like learning another language!
But one thing Nashville does have that this Montana girl loves is SPORTS! Within the first month I called the universities and got their football schedules and was put on their mailing lists. At one school I gave the man (“Brad”) my name, address, phone number, and email address. Then he asked for my date of birth…odd…
About a week later, Brad called me…TO CHAT! I thought that was strange and told him I couldn’t talk but thanks anyway. Then he called again a few days later, but he was a little smarter this time; he started by telling me about an upcoming sports event. Then Brad told me he looked just like Brad Pitt. I told him I didn’t think Brad Pitt was all that good-looking, but he assured me HE was. It was obvious that he was pining for a date, but I wasn’t biting. (Twice bitten, you know, after Bring a Hooker to Dinner Man and Handjob Man.) Brad called a few more times over the next month to let me know about events and talk about his good looks but I quickly brushed him off. Then one Sunday my phone rang.
Brad: Hi! I’m in your neighborhood. I thought I’d drop by and say hi!
(Remember, I gave this loony toon my address when I signed up for sports events. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.)
Ang: Absolutely not, and that is entirely inappropriate.
Brad: Too late because I’m standing on your front porch.
I held my hand over the phone while my daughter Kate (who was nine at the time) and I ran to the door to make sure the deadbolt was in place. It was.
Kate: What will you do, Mom?
Ang: I don’t know. I’ll probably call the police.
Brad: Are you there? Hello? Open up! I promise you’ll like me. I’m gorgeous!
Gorgeous isn’t the point. Insanity is the point. Stalking is the point. But I had a peep hole on my door so I decided I’d take a look. Before I describe what I saw, I must relate what Brad told ME about his enormously well bred looks. He had described himself in earlier (short) phone conversations and long, laborious emails as a Brad Pitt lookalike, a veritable Adonis, a walking time bomb of steamy sexual energy just waiting to be released on the unsuspecting female population. But really, none of that matters if Brad Pitt is a complete lunatic, right? I know some women would disagree, but I was really in no mood for lunatics—even gorgeous, steamy, running-amok lunatics.
Kate sat on the stairs behind me while I peered out the peep hole. Then I turned back to her.
Ang: Kate, if you were to take a bat and beat me about the head with it I’d still look better than what is standing on our porch right now.
Kate: (Laughing) Open the door, Mom. Let’s take a look at him.
Ang: Are you insane? He might be a murderer or something!
Kate: (Looking out the peep hole at Brad) We could take him, Mom. Noooooo problem.
Then we both started laughing because I knew she was right. So I opened the door.
I remember Brad so vividly and yet I think the trauma of his visage appearing on my front porch occasionally clouds the moment. He was about five feet three inches (is Brad Pitt really that short?) and weighed…oh, in the neighborhood of around 250 lbs. His hair looked like a rusty old brillo pad and his skin was the color of yellow chalk. But it was his sideburns that locked my gaze. They were ENORMOUS. They looked like a couple of wild, bristly squirrels that had been flattened as roadkill and then glued to the sides of his waggling jowls. His bottom lip protruded from the rest of his face like Pier 14. And those were just his God-given physical attributes.
Brad wore what looked like double knit polyester slacks—beige, of course. The Zanzibar type. And he wore a brown and beige velour shirt with yellow polyester piping. Dude so needed a style. His burgeoning belly peaked from under the edge of his shirt. He had man boobs. And I’m certain, if he’d turned around, we would have met Sir Norge as well.
Brad: Can I come in?
Ang: No. The porch is fine.
I stepped out on the porch and pulled the door a little so Kate couldn’t see but could still hear. I knew she was glued to the edge of the door listening and was ready to pounce in case Mr. Pitt turned into Son of Sam.
Brad: I was thinking you’d go out with me sometime.
Ang: Brad, do you understand how inappropriate it is for you to be here right now?
Brad: It’s no big deal. I do it all the time. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d say hi and see if you wanted to go to the movie.
First of all, his school is about an hour’s drive from South Nashville and unless he moonlighted as a tree doctor on weekends there was absolutely nothing in my neighborhood that would draw him here.
Ang: Brad, I’m not going to the movie with you.
Brad: You sounded so beautiful on the phone, and you’re beautiful in real life!
Brad: I don’t think I’ve ever gone out with a girl as beautiful as you.
Brad: You have a perfect body.
Brad: What size bra are you?
Pause. After my last two otherworldly dates, even this did not surprise me.
Ang: (Remarkably calm) Brad, it is apparent to me that you are not a regular in the world of dating. Neither am I, but I can tell you this: even if you were an eighth grader, there would be no appropriate juncture in conversation to ask a girl that question.
But Brad just couldn’t stop there. He had to jump off the ledge and into the Ang abyss.
Brad: I’ll bet your nipples are the size of Coke cans!
I remember I was wearing my green hiking boots because they were part and parcel to Brad’s launching off my porch. I took one step back and solidly planted my right foot against his man boobs. The front door swung open and Kate became the sole witness to Brad’s glorious flight to the grass four steps below.
Brad didn’t bother us again. It was another insane adventure in the bowl of Nashville Nuts; but the experience wasn’t a total loss. Kate had been nervous about our safety and how we would navigate a new, big city. Later that day we treated ourselves to a couple of lattes after the Brad-butt-kickin’.
Kate: Mom, you totally rock.
Ang: Yeah. I know.
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