Tell me, was his orange? Reservoir, formally Nantha's Kitchen, is quickly becoming my favourite Friday night hangout: the beer is good and inexpensive, the crowd is eclectic and unpretentious, and the snack foods are exceptionally good. On Friday, the usual suspects and me headed out for sushi at Sakata's at around 7:00 p.m. and then over to Reservoir for about 9:30. We were all giddy from being back together again after a two-week hiatus from work. Or maybe that was just me. Finding a table upstairs, I discovered a distinctly house-party atmosphere. Already becoming a favourite among some of my other acquaintances, I mingled a bit among the tables and the bar, saying 'hello' and passing around New Year's greetings to the people I knew. Did I already say that I was giddy? One of my colleagues brought some friends along and I got along particularly well with one of his guests. At around 1:00 a.m., as I was about to leave, this charming young man asked if I wanted a nightcap at his place (conveniently two blocks from Reservoir), and I consented after making him list the contents of what I hoped was a fairly well-stocked liquor cabinet. There was no single-malt scotch, but the thought of Pastis with lots and lots and lots of ice sounded particularly appealing. Happily, his apartment was large and airy and comfortable and clean, unlike some bachelor pads I've stumbled into (is that pile of clothes moving or is your cat just happy to see me?). Armed with Pastis with lots and lots and lots of ice, I got a tour of the apartment, which, in the end, included an extended visit in his very orange bedroom. Remember the orange bedroom, as it's key to the rest of the story. (Skip the bits between the asterisks if you want to jump to the punch line.) **** **** **** **** **** **** **** **** I left at around 1:30 p.m.and walked to my car, which was parked near Softimage. I'm good at finding free parking, but that means that the Bug is never parked in the same place twice, and I sometimes have to force myself to remember exactly where it is. I walked to the corner of Clark and Prince Arthur to find that my car wasn't there. As the panic rose and as my cheeks flushed, I forced myself to think, think, think. I remembered moving it from that spot after discovering I was in a residential parking zone. I just couldn't remember where I had moved it to. Jeanne-Mance? Ste-Famille? Milton! It's on Milton! I got home to find the Gazette still there, but that someone had snitched the Globe & Mail, deeply marring my wish to curl up on the couch and read the Globe's Style and Book sections cover to cover. With extra time on my hands, I decided to take care of my bills and logged on--or tried to--only to discover that my internet banking service no longer recognized either my userid or my password. I hauled out my banking card and placed it against the screen and double-checked that each and every digit was the same. They seemed to be. I called the bank in another panic, with thoughts of some hacker having gotten in and changing my password and transferring my meagre funds to some untraceable bank account. Their tech support guy told me to check some security settings and try again. I did. I even logged off and on again. I reentered my number. When I entered the number, it looked bigger. It was taking up more space in the entry box. Poof! I was logged in. Duh! **** **** **** **** **** **** **** **** I went to meet friends at an opening at Oboro (this was on Saturday for those of you who skipped on down here), an artist-run space renowned not only for quality shows but a damn fine buffet. Three of my gal pals and I recounted what we had gotten up to the night before; two of us had gotten lucky. I started listing my charming young man's statistics. His name is "___". He's 28. He's a programmer. He lives in the Plateau. My friend J. stopped me and said, "You know I've been corresponding with a 28-year old programmer named "___" who lives in the Plateau through this internet dating service. Does he have a cat?" "Yes, he does." "Is his bedroom orange?" "Yes, it is." At this point the four of us whoop in unison, drawing the attention of everyone in the gallery, as we realized that we had to be talking about exactly the same person. J. has never actually met "___", their contact to this point being solely via e-mail. Between the two (three?) of us, we've put a whole new twist on never messing with someone one of your friends is interested in. There just isn't any girlz dating book in the world that covers this scenario. This situation also highlights something that many yulbloggers have blogged about from time to time: just how small the Montreal anglo community can be and how everyone is typically separated by one--not seven or six or five--degrees. Blork posted this in 2001 and yulblog newcomer Westexpressway posted this very recently. Did I mention I was giddy?

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