Two Guys, a Girl, & a Pita Place

Last night, I went to grab a casual bite to eat with two guys I’ve been friends with for years now.

One girl. Two guys. Lookin’ like a baller, right? Apparently not.

The scene: California Pita on Beverly Dr. 7:30pm. Outdoor table. Friend A sitting to my left, Friend B directly across from him.

We are mid-convo when a woman walks past our table. As she patters by, she bends down slightly and reaches in, placing something next to my carefully self-assembled table setting.She gives it the ol’ tap/slide, and murmurs knowing-slash-confiding-ly, “This is for you.”

I pause. Seriously? Of course.

Looking down, I expect to see the oft-received-in-my-life psychic ad, fluttering alongside my precautionary stack of napkins. (You never know what’s going to happen when that tangy yogurt sauce is around…)

What’s it going to be this time? Tarot cards? Palm Reading? The color of my aura?

…

It was none of those things.

Yup. An advertisement for a novel entitled, Too Old to be a Hooker, Too Young to be a Madam. According to the card, it is a story of ‘champagne decadence, dangerous liaisons, fame, bisexuality and betrayal in the Hollywood Hills colliding with a lusty Jewish American Princess from Beverly Hills in Laurel Canyon’. Breath.

Friend B’s token of reassurance? “You’re never too old to be a hooker.”

Duly noted.

Did I Stumble Into Some Bad Lighting?

Dudeikindofdig is coming over to my apartment after work! Must make sure I prepare accordingly before heading to the office, so as to avoid being caught unawares, sporting unkempt hair and an unflattering outfit. Cue: Clueless scene where Cher carefully preps for Christian’s arrival. (Note to self: Next time pick a different movie moment to look to for inspiration. Preferably one that doesn’t end in him being gay and her saying, “I don’t get it.”)

…

Winning ensemble:
Hair carefully spiral-curled. Sheer, black & white polka dot blouse (with a cami underneath for reasons of work appropriateness). Black, frilly skirt. 60’s cat-eye liner and red lips. (Pencil, not lipstick, for reasons of the hopefully-there-will-be-a-stellar-makeout-sesh variety.)

After work, I have 30 minutes for any touch-ups. One of these touch-ups involves removing the conservative cami to reveal a black lace bralette beneath the sheer blouse. 

Scandalous.

Dudeikindofdig comes over. I proceed to behave in a (un)characteristically shy and awkward manner. Because I’m five. We have a lovely floor picnic, as I still have not managed to purchase a kitchen table. #beverlyhillbilly

Mid-picnic, dudeikindofdig asks, “Is that what you wore to work today?”

Fair question. There are two possible answers.

Conundrum. 

Answer A:
"Yep! Well, minus a tank top - I’m not going to walk around the office like a ho."

Translation: “I knew you were coming over, so I started removing my clothing.” 

Awkward.

Answer B:
Yep!

Translation: I am the office whore.

Obviously, I went with Answer B. You know, to avoid any awkwardness.

…
…
…

I’ll be back after I go feed my cats.

I'm a Terrible Liar

Post-drinks at Churchill’s, a friend and I end up back at my place.  I ask if he wants a cocktail. His initial affirmative response quickly inverts to an, "I’ll just have water," after a viewing of my potential offerings.  (Including an entire case of white wine in my fridge - a vestige of a recent-ish charity event. I don’t really drink vino of a non-red nature, and the greatest amount of available storage space in my apartment lies inside my refrigerator. His face is judging. Cricket. Cricket.)  

I pour his requested water slowly, hoping he’ll tire of this unnecessarily lengthy endeavor and wander out into the other room. He does. Thank God for predictability! At which point I proceed to mix up a vodka coconut water for myself. (For some reason, I think this will lessen my awkwardness. One guess on whether or not that works.)

I hand him his refreshing, non-alcoholic beverage. "Thanks. What are you drinking?" 

"Coconut water." Yup. I don’t want to go the whole, "Don’t mind me; I’m just getting myself liquored up over here" route, so I lie.  I am overly open slash honest by nature, so lying never works out well for me.  Like it doesn’t here.

"Can I try it?"

Right. Yup. Of course. In my head, I’m thinking there is no way he will be able to taste the vodka in one little sip.  

…

"Did you put vodka in here?"

Welp. Guess I was wrong on that one.

At this point, I could easily employ the wide-eyes-sheepish-smile-I-got-caught-acting-like-an-idiot look - with a tiny nod attached - that I have spent years perfecting…but no. No. I shake my head no.

"Really? It kind of tastes like there’s vodka in here." Why can’t he just drop it already? Sigh. Too late to back out now. In typical Stacie form, I prematurely fumble out a line of reasoning that is going to lead nowhere normal.

"I think there was earlier." I’m attempting to insinuate that this was the glass I had my pre-bar cocktail in, but I ramble nonsensically - especially once I remember he was right there when I pulled the glasses out of the cupboard. Basically, the entirely uncomfortable conversation ends with a faltering, "I haven’t washed my dishes in awhile."

…

…

…

That is disgusting.

Just for the record, the only dishes in my sink were from that day, and all of the dishes in my cupboards are clean, thanks. 

…

Meow.