This blog is about ladies who brunch, but we love our male counterparts quite a bit too. Below, Joseph William Lindberg, the First of His Name, Lord of the Floundering Voicemail, Duke of Ink and Sovereign Viscount of Conversation (his words, not mine) makes his guest columnist debut. 

There are two things you need to know about me before your eyeballs judge all my words. 

First, I listen to a fair amount of highly-romanticized folk music. That means, mostly, that my imagination spends huge chunks of time in a world with non-political sex positions, with a widespread cultural acceptance of typewriters for personal correspondence and with children who build tree-houses by saving up lemonade stand money to hire the neighbor to build them to spec. 

Secondly, I see the world through absolutely ruthless realist lens. In fact, I’m quite certain the world, when given the chance between cutting me a break and screwing me over with my pants on, will chose the latter a disturbingly consistent amount of the time. (But it should be noted that I’m  not a morose person - in fact, if I may be so bold, I’m a delightful conversationalist.)

This story is about the collision of those two worlds. And a terribly placed heating duct. 

While deciding to eat every lunch at the same cafe for 1.5 weeks hoping to find the waitress that served you that one time a ways back, but you can’t recall exactly when isn’t the most suave way to find a mate, it’s what I decided to do this time. And 1.55 weeks into the experiment, alas. I found her.

After the most passive-aggressive relationship in the history of modern dating ended late in my sophomore year of college, I decided there was less than zero benefit to passive modes of communication in the dating world - or any world, for that matter.

“Take what’s yours!” is now my mantra, a la Ron Swanson’s Pyramid of Greatness. Or at the very least, make it known what things interest you - keeping that shit to yourself serves no purpose, and is about as useful as Dumbo’s magic feather. 

So while I’m seated on the left side of the cafe, I move to the right, for obvious reasons. I also happen to be wearing my favorite blue work shirt this day, and feel quite fresh. When she comes to take my order, I casually ask if she’s worked here very long. She has, and in further conversation she offers up the fact she was working nights for a while to help a friend. Excellent. Caring, stunning eyes and a long Laura Croft ponytail. 

At this point, it’s obvious our child would be the CEO of the neighborhood tree house effort. Razor sharp intelligence (deduced by her choice in glasses) coupled with a take-no-prisoners attitude (deduced by the way she pours coffee to the asshat in the corner) equals victory. There is no way our offspring would stoop to any kind of lumber-moving-bitchdom. 

I mention, casually of course, that it would be nice if she kept working at this time of day. I’m a journalist, and I work right next door. It’s often quite hectic. It would be a nice respite to have lunch in good company, such as yourself. I get a big beaming smile. We’re in mutual agreement. 

Booyah, world. 

I get up to leave in a sort of smug stretch, taking my time to gather myself as she comes back with the check. What happened next would have been prevented if I sat *literally* anywhere else in the building. The heating vent spit some devil dust in my general direction, and, naturally, it enters my right eyeball.

Booyah, the world snickers back. 

Of course, I try and maintain composure as she returns. I could have done so many things to end the fiery pain in my cornea. Rubbing my eyeball. Pulling at my eyelid. Wiping my face with my sleeve. I could have poured a glass of water all over my face and I could have avoided what happened as she handed be the check.

I winked. Her smile evaporated.

I stammered for .5 seconds, tried to recover for another .5 seconds. Too. Late. Her last word to me was a half confused, half disgusted, “Riiggggght,” before fleeing. 

Let me tell you something about that wink. It was not a sexy wink. Nor was it an inviting or playful wink. That was a wink that said, “I have said a few clever words that have planted the seeds of mutual attraction, and now, I shall require us to grind our genitals together, post-haste.”

Besides the fact I’m not exactly the sort of fella who can pull off any kind of wink, it was more than mildly irritating the world found a way to violate my hindquarters once again. 

But I tell you what. One of these days, the world won’t be paying attention. The only person who’ll be able to mess it up is me and my certain set of ways. I like my odds. 

Joseph Lindberg is an old-fashioned newspaper man residing in the fair town of Faribault (heh heh). He loves whiskey and typewriters.