Uncle Saturday Night

My grandmother used to call smarmy men “Uncle Saturday Night.” I don’t know where she got the phrase, but she started using it on one of my slimeball uncles who tried to romance anything in a skirt — and the shorter the skirt and the younger the woman, the better. That old crone is in his 70s and is still picking up chicks.

Unfortunately, I usually have my own harem of Medicare candidates vying for my affections. My latest one is more persistent than most, and all I have to say is WHY does he think I would be interested in HIM?!?!

There’s this dude who does contract work for the Veggie Patch. He’s in the office sporadically at best (although NEVER would be best!) He was once the executive director (like, back when I was in Pampers), and for some reason, they keep him on as a consultant, although why, I have no idea.

Anyway, sleazemuffin has taken a shine to yours truly (and who wouldn’t?). We’ve been working together for the past two months on some random project, so he’s impressed with me because I am candid, unafraid and efficient. So impressed that he wants to get to know me better.


On Tuesday, he spent the day hanging around my office area. Not coming in, just wandering around. And I have a lovely corner office that is practically in Siberia — if you’re in my area, it’s either to see me or annoy me, which are often not mutually exclusive. There’s a coffee station not too far from me, and I saw his ragged ass there a few times, with his head turned in the direction of my office. I have a window that looks out into the hallway, so I could see him. Ugh. I shut my door for the better part of the day.

I also forwarded my phone into voice mail for the day, too. Nothing was overly pressing, and I’d been working offsite for a few days, so I knew the messages were piling up. And I was in no mood for anything that wasn’t able to be solved by e-mail.

Alas, though, Uncle Saturday Night stopped by around 2:30 p.m. on Tuesday. Pulled up a chair right under my nose and thanked me for my help during the past two months. Mmm hmm, OK. Whatever. Said he owed me a beer. I joked that that sounded great. So he said he was serious — what time would I be done with work that night?

Thank the heavens, I already had dinner plans with Tiff. I politely declined, suggesting a raincheck sometime in the future.

Oh, but he was not to be deterred. He asked what time I would be done with work on Wednesday. Knowing he had a flight to catch that evening, I said probably not till 6 at the earliest, probably later. So he told me (yes, told me) to be at the bar for 5:30 so we could have time to talk. He said, “I’ll be the one sitting on a barstool in a suit and tie.”

I told Scot about the sleazy offer, and he said my response should have been, “I’ll be the one who’s not at the bar at all!”

In any event, I hemmed and hawed but finally, reluctantly, agreed. And spent the next hour thinking of how to get the fuck out of that trap.

Anyway, when sleazypants entered my office on Tuesday, he had asked, “Did you get my message?” Of course, I hadn’t, because the phone was forwarded.

I called off yesterday (Wednesday) to sit with Alex for 13 hours because Shan’s movers didn’t show up and her fucking worthless mother-in-law decided she didn’t feel like coming over to watch Alex. I’d expected this and was ready to step in unasked. Anyway, early in the a.m., I’d e-mailed Uncle Saturday Night to say, curtly, “Calling off today. Helped a friend move last night. Not up to leaving the house. Have a safe flight!”

Read: no rainchecks. No further discussion. Get out of town and harass someone your own age.

I came in today to a full mailbox. I deleted four messages from him before I finally just logged out of voice mail because I didn’t want to hear him again.

The message was on there, of course, that he had mentioned. It was a simple, “When you’re off the phone, come to my office. I need to discuss something with you.” Next call, a hangup from his extension. Then, after we’d talked, a message popped up at 3:46, whereupon he gave me his home number (and the requisite bullshit about looking forward to this. blah blah blah). Then a message popped up at 3:48 (yes, two minutes later) to give me his cell phone number, which he noted, “This is the number I rarely give out to people.”

I haven’t been brave enough to see if there are more messages, but there sure is an e-mail. Tell me if this isn’t fucking creepy — I barely know this guy!:


Got your message and you will probably find a couple from me. Tell me you’ll accept my “rain check” for some night in late August or early September. Also take a few hours in the coming weeks to play “hooky” and get to know Washington a little better.

When you told me Tuesday that you couldn’t point me toward (far-away) Airport, I realized that you are probably in great need of a tour guide or directions giver. Feel free to ask this old fart anything. I’m an expert at playing hooky and my knowledge of Mid Atlantic America has no peer.

When your (Veggie Patch Gazette) schedule gives you a moment to breath [sic] , shoot me an email and tell me what is new in your (Veggie) world and use me as a source of information about the stuff that’s going on the world of (stupidity).

Finally, did (your esteemed university) write a piece on Dawn? Can I see a copy? Let me know.

Uncle Saturday Night


How do I get rid of this one? I would like to assume he’s harmless, but my intuition is screaming to the contrary.

On iTunes: Tara MacLean, “Jericho”

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