September 14, 2007
Ruthie does Utah and WAC?
"Perhaps Dan slept with her, then in the morning he rolled over and filled with disgust at his lapse throttled her and buried her in the desert." - GeekLawyer, September 7, 2007
"Well, Holden, she finally showed up in Utah unharmed so I could get down to work, get it over with...she was very grateful....so pleased with myself that I actually started screaming my own name...." - WAC?, September 9, 2007
Holden Oliver, at your service. But I need you to help me out. As apparent from our recent posts (see here, here, here and here), last week, English solicitor-blogger Ruthie of Ruthie's Law spent 36 hours or so with my boss in Salt Lake City. I'm busy getting ready for meetings in Detroit next week, and I haven't had a chance to read his memo to me, so in the interest of speed, here's the unedited version, verbatim:
TO: Holden Oliver
RE: Meeting up with Ruthie in Salt Lake City
Look, Holden, I'm busy getting ready for my "Women in the Law?" seminar, so just do a post based on this memo about my "meeting" with that whack-job Ruthie. But don't screw this up. Don't quote any of it verbatim. Write, edit, proof. Soften a lot. OK? Don't want anyone to know how shallow I really am. Below are a few blogging points. They correspond with my usual post-conquest self-evaluative check list employing standard criteria:
1. The Sex. Well, she finally showed up in Utah (she was hot) unharmed so I could get down to work, just get it over with. Physical part was good, really good. She was very grateful. I appreciated that--but didn't make her pay me or anything. Just regular stuff at first (see Point 8 below)--rope restraints (she brought her own), handcuffs, blindfold, whatever. The usual. Nothing fancy. But she made lots of
odd chirping and raccoon noises, especially at end. Annoying, but made me feel good--you know, her being a foreign gal and all. Like when you help blind kids learn to play backgammon, or cribbage.
Anyway, quite a performance--by me, just over 3 hours and 23 minutes. Was so pleased with myself that I actually started screaming my own name and it sounded all over the 10th floor of the Marriott. WAC? was on fire--never could stop thinking about that 23 year-old ex-figure skater I met in Monterey. And get this--this English babe even knew about the hotel help "help" I had before she arrived. Good sport, at least....One advantage you always have with English tarts is that Brit men are such artless lovers you barely have to try; don't be too impressed with my making this Limey dame so freaking happy.
2. Marketing possibilities. She has no clients we would want; however, she actually believes all that client service rubbish we write about--wants to be my first English woman client. What a ditz.
3. Intelligence level. Just covered that. Not as dumb as the chamber maid in Mainz, but pretty close.
4. Her Appearance and Demeanor. She's no Parker Posey or Ellen Bry--told them both I was on last-minute hunting trip with Mitt Romney--but Ruthie's very, very attractive, somehow, mainly. Especially in certain lighting. At 5'4", and late twenties, she's a little short, not an actress or athlete, and too old. On age parameters, FYI, I am still using the same formula: beginning at age 36 (my age the year I adopted the formula), I divide my age by 2, and add one year. Ruthie doesn't quite pass that test, but she impressed me in other ways.
The old girl compensates. For a Brit broad, she's quite pretty. She's got most of her teeth (first thing I checked). Non-crapped out and basically white choppers. She didn't have one of those wierd "pinched-in" faces most in-bred English babes have, like Julie Andrews after a near-fatal car accident. (One huge island with 2000 years of same DNA; hence just 6 or 7 remaining female mug patterns filtering through at this point.) Great strut, and quite a "hitch in her git-along", I'd say. Pretty legs. Semi-athletic. Great butt. Nice chest. Redish hair. Her eyes: well, I never look. Didn't smell too bad, either--always a big plus when philandering internationally. (I refer here to the Kent waitress last spring using Vicks VapoRub for perfume.)
5. Flatulence. Inconclusive--at least not when I was in room.
6. Stress test. She passed. Called her names like "LimeGirl", hit upside head with my Inspiron cord (twice). Made her talk to Salt Lake natives who worked in hotel for almost 15 minutes until she started to scream (that's the record, by the way--Google it).
7. Habits, Money, Princess Quotient. Talks and jabbers a lot--what else is new? (Just stopped listening after 2 or 3 minutes.) Eats a lot, too, like really shovels it in; not shy about room service. Brought her own whiskey, though. She twice grabbed the phone and ordered steaks, a Big Marriott Milkshake, club soda for her whiskey, and "a shitload of bread, my good man". However, she brought me a large Diet Coke from a machine as a "gift". (GeekLawyer told me she was a cheap-as-hell broad--so I was surprised and impressed.) Further, she drank the whiskey both with soda, and straight up at my suggestion...and after a few drinks agreed to do the Antler Dance. Pretty good at it, too. Used dirty shot glasses...nice! Ate with her fingers a lot. Said she had used forks or spoons in past, just not recently. Used much soap in the AM, though. Too early for maids so I let her clean the bathroom before parting. Happy to take an old bus to airport. Only had to give her a fiver.
8. Dress. Trench coat? A trench coat? Yeah, and odd in Utah heat. But then I realized this covered her "mistress" outfit: leather, riding crop, and then a mask and leash were produced--all a first for me. She looked good in it. It even came with a black helmet thing. Pretty interesting when she did the Antler Dance dressed like that. Also, almost forgot: she was LOUD during the first hour and all, but I had the TV on. Turned up sound on some local infomercials, re-runs of "The Patty Duke Show" and "Bass Masters".
9. Head-lice. Forgot to check. Sorry.
10. Social class. High prole.
11. Other. Am still in hospital in Salt Lake City, a truly weird city unless you are Norman Bates, Ted Bundy or Lou Reed. At the ER a young MD, Ruben Larsen, a Provo native, was very upset and alarmed by my welts, bruises and strange still-developing skin rashes. Told him how I've been living for last 15 years since Mary Beth (still in that "home" in Glover Park near Georgetown Hospital) evacuated back from our East Capitol Street place across from the Folger and I moved into the Irish Times Saloon near Union Station. Told him about all the rehabs. About that funny "bar" in Budpaest last year. And the Ree-Lax Parlor on U Street, N.W. More hysterics. Told him to have a drink or two and calm the hell down. Twit.
That's all I can tell you for now. Keep this in our usual file. AGAIN, please read this before you print it--okay? Don't screw this up. I got some of the other good-looking women bloggers thinking that I am sensitive, wear lavender shirts, go to art museums, admire Oprah, etc.
Posted by Holden Oliver at September 14, 2007 10:26 PM