Okay– so I ended up driving a couple of people from the golf course to their cabins over the weekend for copious drinking reasons. Mate was my copilot, but because he was the one getting “beard” (get it? Beer in his mustache, so “beard”) I was the one behind the wheel.
The second time was with his coworkers, “Park” and “Bob”, who are very nice guys but also very straight guys, and the things that seem sort of common to anyone who reads this blog were not so familiar to them– and the following conversation took place:
Me (I have night blindness, so I’m a very cautious driver where there’s no streetlights): Okay, so as long as nothing jumps out at me, I’ll be fine.
Mate: Don’t worry, there are no bears in Tahoe.
Me (lasciviously): Well, I’m sure there’s a few.
Park (very earnestly): No– there haven’t been any bear spottings at all in Tahoe.
Me: You just haven’t been going to the right bars!
Park (remember, he’s drunk): No, they’d scare them off before they got to bars.
Me: No bear is afraid of a bar!
At this point Park and Bob are getting very confused– Mate clarifies: She’s talking about hairy gay men– you’ve never heard that expression?
Park: No. Really? Hairy gay men are called bears? Am I a bear?
Me and Mate, together: No, you’re definitely an otter.
Bob: Am I a bear?
Me: No, hon, you’ve got a little boy’s face, you’re pretty slim, you’re an otter.
Bob: But I’m hairy.
Me: On your chest and back?
Bob: No– oh God no!
Me: Besides, you’re too small to be a bear.
Park: Yup, everyone needs a few more inches–where have I heard that before?
Bob: Yeah– just two more inches– I hear that all the time.
Me: So you are an otter!
At this point is a horrified silence, and then Bob breaks into startled laughter: “I still think I’m a bear!”
I think they were both adorable– and very good sports.