How Alaska Met Australia – Episode Two: Club Day, Sexy Secretaries and the “reach and lunge”

I am now officially “over due.”  People keeping looking at my stomach like a Sigorney Weaver style Alien is going to burst out of it at any moment.  Note to family – when I go into labor, you will know – quit staring at me like I am about to explode!


Since I am officially on maternity leave and I have nothing else to do with my time.   I am going to continue the epic “How Alaska Met Australia” saga that you have all been dying to hear about!  For a refresher, see Episode One here – or just scroll down two posts since I have only done four posts in total and I don’t think Archives are really necessary at this point.  

Every year the Santa Monica Rugby Club puts on a big Club Day, its a Saturday of rugby – everyone plays, the youth, the men, the women, and the “old boys” – aka men much too old to be playing rugby, running around the field inviting serious injury and pissing off their wives).  At the end of the day there is a banquet and a few of the old boys get inducted into the SMRC “Hall of Fame”, which pretty much includes anyone who is over 50 and once played for Santa Monica.

HE had arrived a few days before Club Day.  I was not going to the regular Tuesday/Thursday training sessions because I was still mostly broken and I really hated those training sessions.  It is not right to ask a girl to run back and forth between cones, dropping down at regular intervals to do push ups.  I’m not training to be a Navy Seal.  It’s CLUB rugby for the love of Mike!  Who cares if I am a little soft?  Anyway, when I arrived at Club Day to participate in the rugby activities I did enjoy (i.e. drinking beer and ogling the boys from the other team), I was immediately given a debrief from the other girls on the team about a new arrival on the men’s team.  Apparently HE was Australian and tall….I really didn’t need to hear anything more.  

HE was pretty easy to spot.  Tall, dreadlocks, good rugby player and the clincher – he had the best butt I had ever seen.  I staked my claim – yelling out “DIBS!” as loudly as I could. The ladies on the rugby team had a very sophisticated system for ensuring that there were no fights over boys.  It was something similar to announcing your intention to take the last bite of a shared meal or calling shotgun.  

Getting ready for the banquet that night was tough – what to wear – how to make myself appear “available” but not too skanky?  This is always a fine line to walk.  There was a very short skirt and high heels involved in my outfit that night so I think I erred on the side of skanky, but he was a rugby player!  They generally like trashier girls.  

We got to the banquet, I imbibed some serious liquid courage and got up the nerve to talk to him.  I have no memory of what we talked about, mainly because I was really not all that concerned with “conversation.”  What do I have to say to a rugby player anyway?  Not to be an elitist, but did I mention that I am a LAWYER, at a Big Law firm, I went to university for 7 years for crying out loud!  I am oh so brilliant.  To prove that conversation would not be the focal point of our courtship, at some point in the evening I distinctly remember having a conversation with HIM about applesauce.  Oh yes, the conversation was quite titillating.  Our relationship would clearly be built on mutual respect and deep conversations about politics and religion.

A couple of weeks later one of the rugby boys threw a party out in the Valley.  I know it sounds very L.A. to say this, but I never go to the Valley.  Its far away, its hot, its full of cars and chain restaurants … and the porn industry.  I just prefer to avoid it.  But this Valley party held the potential of seeing HIM again, so I made an exception.  The party was an “S” party – we all had to dress as something that started with the letter “S.”  Being the class acts that we are, the entire women’s rugby team went as some version of a “Sexy [insert random profession here]” – you fill in the blank – cheerleader, waitress, referee … whatever.  I was a “Sexy Secretary” (ah – alliteration – it has served me well!)  My costume involved a skirt, a shirt buttoned down far enough to expose my cleavage (see “class act” reference above), fishnet stockings and high heels.  I was H.O.T.!

At a certain point in the night I became convinced that HE was not going to show up and decided to drown my sorrows in the free keg – I believe flip cup and beer bongs were involved.  (Ed. Note:  Did I mention that I was 27 at this point!  When was I planning on leaving my college days behind me??  FLIP CUP!  BEER BONGS!  What is wrong with me?)  Once I was good and drunk, HE made his appearance.  I still believe that he planned his late arrival to coincide perfectly with the complete loss of my inhibitions, he is sneaky that way.  In any event, it all worked out well for him as I coyly sauntered over (read, carefully placed feet on floor so as to not trip over my heels) and started up what (I am sure) was a fascinating conversation about applesauce, or vegamite, or some other interesting foodstuff.  


Sometime in the midst of our conversation I must have become bored with discussing the myriad differences between food served in America and food served in the rest of the world and decided it was time to take matters into my own hands.  So I reached forward, grabbed his shirt to steady myself and lunged in for a kiss (see “class act” reference above).  At that moment, I am sure that HE knew with absolute certainty that I would one day become his wife!  How could someone not fall for such a lady … so poised … so intelligent … so graceful!  I was the epitome of everything a man wants in the woman he will spend the rest of his life with!  

In order to make sure the mood was not destroyed – when I gracefully lurched away from him, I giggled uncontrollably, found my ride and ran out of the party.  And thus, the classic “Reach and Lunge” move was born.  Ladies – use it wisely.

Ed Note:  At this point in our “relationship” I wasn’t really sure what HIS name was.  Reyes, Reeaz, Reeza – I couldn’t figure it out, so I just called him the “New Australian,” or the “tall guy with dreads,” or “you know – the new hot one.”  Most people knew what I was talking about.

On the next episode – Planes, Trains Buses and Automobiles.

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