One Night Standoff

One Tuesday night, after a(n) (amazingly heart-piercing) show by the (amazingly heart-piercing) Amy Kuney at the Bootleg, my dear friend, ironysradiocheck and I are feeling a little prowly. We decide to hit up Tenants of the Trees to see if any of nature’s fine-looking (comma tall comma witty comma kind-hearted comma well-read comma well-dressed comma dark/broody) specimens are planted by the bar – or, anywhere within its walls. We’re not picky.

Door Guy: I like your stomach.

Why thank you very much, sir, for that uniquely worded compliment. (I was wearing a very cropped crop top.) (I am sharing this part of the story not only because I am super proud of my baby abs in training, but also because sometimes wearing half a shirt makes you a quick target for casually sexist, racist, disabled-ist a$$holes.)

Enter Attractive But Maybe Slightly Too Macho Dude.

I spot ABMSTMD on ironysradiocheck’s and my quick, catlike stroll around the patio. Eyes lock, gazes linger, etc etc. (The etc etc is the part where I then proceed to stare down everyone around him, just to let him know I’m, like, totally chill and I definitely wasn’t checking him out at all.)

ironysradiocheck doesn’t see anyone of immediate interest/ABMSTMD doesn’t seem to be making any moves from where he’s standing, so we stroll back to the bar area/debate calling it a night.

Me: Yeah, if no one intriguing appears by the end of this drink, I say we call it.

Just as we’re about to leave, I see ABMSTMD has maneuvered his way a few feet down the bar.

Me: That guy might be kind of cute.

I look at him. He looks back. I look away. (Just as chill/casual/nonchalant as before.)

ironysradiocheck: Oh yeah, dude. I think he’s coming over here. Score.

ABMSTMD: Hey.
Me: Hey.

Well, this is starting off well. (ironysradiocheck has found something super interesting/enthralling a few feet away with which to occupy herself.)

ABMSTMD: ABMSTMD.
Me: Stacie.

Please say this single syllable thing continues for the rest of our convo.

ABMSTMD: Did you see me checking you out earlier?

Welp. That hope was fleeting.

Me: Ha. I did.
ABMSTMD: Why didn’t you say anything?
Me: Why did it take you so long to say anything?
ABMSTMD: Look, it’s 2016. I think that women should be equally responsible for initiating the conversation.

I love when guys are adamant about the need for gender equality – but, you know, starting with the ways in which it would make their lives easier as men.

Me: Ha. Let’s maybe start with the wage gap and work our way down from there.
ABMSTMD: You ladies really just want it all don’t you.

I respond with an eyebrow arch.

ABMSTMD: Oh, calm down. I’m just kidding. Where are you from?
Me: I’m originally from Nebraska.
ABMSTMD: Midwestern stock. Nice. Here, what are you drinking?

The conversation continues as he orders my Tito’s soda with mint.

ABMSTMD: So how old are you, Stacie?
Me: 32.
ABMSTMD: Oh wow.
Me: Oh wow?
ABMSTMD: I just thought you were younger than that. Don’t worry about it – I never would have guessed you were that old.

That old. Don’t worry about it.

Me: Ha. I’m not too concerned about it.

I stare his non-baby face straight in the eyes.

Me: How old are you?
ABMSTMD: 38.
Me (smirking): 38. Wow.

He gets the ‘aren't you a little old to be hanging around bars, attempting to pick up 20-something chicks’ inference. Now that we’ve set the combative tone for the night! 

ironysradiocheck pops over to say she’s peacing out. Hugs. Love. Promises of texts.

ABMSTMD: I love how girls always do that.

I love how guys “always” make statements about all girls always doing dumb girl things.

Me: What do you mean?
ABMSTMD: Just leave their friends with a total stranger. I mean, you’ve been talking to me, so you know I’m pretty normal, but she has no idea.
Me: I mean, I guess sometimes we forget that we’re just walking prey.

Are we flirting or do we hate each other? I decide it’s probably both. He starts planning our wedding.

ABMSTMD: You don’t have any crazy in your family or anything, do you? I don’t want to end up with some weird Asperger’s kid or something.
Me: You’re going to feel really bad about saying that when I tell you my brother’s autistic.
ABMSTMD: Oh no, so you’ve got f*cked up genes?

Is he f*cking serious? Hate. It’s definitely hate.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, as the case may be), his friends arrive at this moment, halting the diatribe of death that had just begun its expletive-ridden exit from my mouth. They happen to be wonderful. We bond. We hug. We dance. I realize the two drinks I've had are going straight to my head.

Me: Is anyone hungry? I didn’t have time for dinner and I am starving.
Amazing Friend #1: Omg yes. I could totally go for some food.
AF #2: Yeah, same. Let’s do it.
ABMSTMD: We could go to the diner by my place.

We pile into an Uber. But wait!, they say. First let’s just make a quick stop-off at a house party – there’s supposed to be a cool band playing! Sure, I say, pretending I’m not about to pass out from drunken starvation.

An hour later, it becomes clear this is no quick stop-off. I announce my planned departure via Uber.

ABMSTMD: Hey, I’ll go with you. Let’s go get you the food I promised. Sorry about these guys.

Somehow, the promise of food and the surprise of an (unnecessary) apology makes me forget my general abhorrence of him as a human.  (Vodka, powers.)

At the diner:

ABMSTMD: Sorry, you can’t come over after – my dad’s staying with me for the week.

Oh good Lord. Abhorrence suddenly v v remembered.

Me: I think I’ll find a way to get over it.

He follows this with some other horrendous thing regarding our possible sexual future that I have blacked out due to an inherent distaste for vomiting.  I order my omelette.

I eat well over half of the very large diner omelette.

ABMSTMD (broadcasting shock/dismay): Wow, you’re really going at that thing, aren’t you.

Straight face. Single blink.

Later, when the waitress comes to clear our plates/ask if I’m all done with mine, ABMSTMD goes ahead and throws his answer in on top of my affirmative.

ABMSTMD: I think we can all agree she did a pretty good number on that one. 

At what point do I have legal grounds to stab him.

The contempt-laden conversation stubbornly continues its journey back to the good ol’ days, eventually landing on the topic of interracial marriage.

ABMSTMD: I just don’t think it’s fair to the kids.

HI, 1952. So nice of you to drop by/add your antiquated views to the ever-growing pile of backwards bullsh*t. 

Me: You mean, fair to the rest of us because they’re so beautiful? My nephew’s half black and is seriously the most perfect child you’ve ever seen in your life.
ABMSTMD: So your sister f*cked a black guy, huh?
Me: My sister dated, married, and started a family with an amazing guy/father who, yes, is a black man.

Where oh where is that knife when you need it. He pays the check before I’m able to summon the waitress.

Outside, waiting for Ubers:

ABMSTMD: Text me when you get home, okay?

I stare at him, taken aback by the sound of this gentlemanly statement coming from his very ungentlemanly face. He misinterprets the stare.

ABMSTMD: What? You didn’t expect me to drive you home when I live right around the corner, did you?

Thank God this battle is almost over. I am exhausted. 

Me (V. slow. V. measured.): I don’t expect anything from you at all.

…

Two weeks later…Sunday night, 1:28a text message:

ABMSTMD: How you been?

Okay, that I did kind of expect. Sorry to leave you in suspense, ABMSTMD, but I’m gonna go ahead and tap out of this dear little donnybrook. It's been...really, really, tragically real.   

Yogurtland: Fake Flavors, Real Rewards

INT. HER'S APARTMENT

HER is sitting cross-legged on a floor pillow, balancing an overly warm MacBook Air on overly warm knees. Phone rings. She answers. It's her dinner date, announcing his very prompt arrival.

HIM: Hey, I'm here.

HER: Ok cool! Just one sec and I'll be right out.

Silence. Except for her fingers clacking on the keyboard.

HIM: Are you on your computer?

HER: Yesss. Why?

HIM: What could you possibly be doing right now that's more important than fried rice balls?

HER: Um. I'm just registering my Yogurtland card. I'm almost done, though!

HIM: Registering your what?

HER: My Yogurtland card! You know one of those, like, for every 3 purchases, you get one free sort of things. 

HIM: Right. And you're registering this because...?

HER: Because they forgot to swipe my card the other day, but the guy said you can go on the site and enter in the order number and they'll credit your account! 

...

Silence.

...

HER: Hello?

HIM: Oh, I'm still here. I'm not really sure why I'm still here, but I'm still...right...here....

HER: We should maybe pretend this conversation never happened, huh.

HIM: Yeah...that's probably a good idea.

...

...

...

Apparently, some things are really hard to forget.

The Californians: Recruiter Edition

Dear Recruiters,

Lie to me about office culture. Lie to me about the likelihood of promotion. You can even get shady on the salary front. Don't you dare lie to me about the commute.

xo
Freelancers Everywhere

...

Recruiter: Great. So we'd love to bring you in next Monday or Tuesday, if either of those work for your schedule.

Me: Ok cool, that sounds great. Tuesday should work just fine. Where are the offices located?

Recruiter: Just south of downtown. We're in what's called Vernon. It's actually much easier to get to than all that downtown stuff.

Vernon?? Where the F is Vernon. This sounds smoggy. And murky. And very, very far away.

Me: Ah. Nice. 

Recruiter: Where do you live?

Me: Beverly Hills.

Recruiter: Ok, great. Yeah, so it's just a straight shot down the 10 from Beverly Hills. That's an easy drive. 

...

"straight shot down the 10"

HAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHA

HAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHAH

HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAH

With a commute like that, I'm sure my day will consist of several straight shots...down the hatch.

​

Rezi Rating

Wherein icouldtalkironyforever and I dissect dinner date destinations in the Beverly Hills/West Hollywood area. It gets deep. 

icouldtalkironyforever: these days are so crazy
like giving up the hottest date night
or middle of the week
both days are hothothot

me: hahahahhaa right?
i think ima say wednesday

icouldtalkironyforever: YES
can you go somewhere cuter than mastros?

me: i know right?
i kind of don’t love mastros at all
like at all at all

icouldtalkironyforever: for some reason i can only see dinner with you at eveleigh

me: hahahahhahaa
and little door! and doms!
places with trees inside

icouldtalkironyforever: i hate mastros
i think of bad food
yes trees inside

me: yeah, and cheesy people
and like a thick, weird atmosphere

icouldtalkironyforever: thick

me: and i always do something awkward in the entryway

icouldtalkironyforever: ALWAYS

me: it’s always so uncomfortable
so much staring

icouldtalkironyforever: bouchon is a great alternative
dim lighting

me: ooh yes

icouldtalkironyforever: also church key is sooo good for dates
and they have a dim sum cart
that comes BEFORE you even order your food
boom

me: ooh realllllly
i like this idea

icouldtalkironyforever: the vibe is fun

me: didn’t you say their food was subpar?
no
wait

icouldtalkironyforever: yes
hahaha

me: oh haha
ok 
that was the place

icouldtalkironyforever: but some stuff was coo
and they have a banana split

me: um
brilliant

icouldtalkironyforever: but anything involving bananas is too suggestive on the first date
or maybe not…bc I love bananas
my dates/non dates are SOOOOOO aggressive
sorry

me: i feel like its esp too suggestive for men over 32
hahahhahahahaa
i love your dates

icouldtalkironyforever: we have great dates

me: haha we really do

icouldtalkironyforever: he should take you to doms
bc u love it there right?

me: comfycozyhomesweethome
my fave

icouldtalkironyforever: unassuming
love it 

5 Stars for Dominick’s. 7 for banana splits. 

…

The date still occurred at Mastro’s.

Good talk.

Love, Sex, & Onesies

INT. THE BEDROOM ifyaknowwhatimean

Him: Wait. What are you wearing?

Her: My favorite onesie?!

Him: Yeah. Take that off.

Her: You don’t like my onesie?

Him: No.

Her: But it’s so adorable!

Him: I don’t think that’s what you’re going for in here.

Her: Oh, you’d be surprised.

…

Silence.

…

A few to eight hours later…

Him: Are you wearing that terrible thing again?

Her: My totally adorable onesie?

Him: Yes.

Her: Yep! And don’t you worry, I have a wide and varied selection of the sort. I even have a snap-front one with sleeves and legs and the whole bit.

Him: I’m sleeping with a seven-year-old.

Her: Hey, some men go to jail for this sort of thing. You get it risk-free!

…

…

…

I think HER won. 

Men Want What Women Want What Men Want

When I told my mom I had been maintenance-texted by a boy, she squeezed my hand reassuringly, “I wouldn’t look at it that way – I’d look at it like he was thinking about you!”

Thank you for feeding my delusions, Mother. That explains so much.

I can’t blame my mom for her indefatigable optimism regarding the intentions of the unfair sex. When she was walking the hallway of hormones, things were a lot more straightforward. My dad and his best friend flipped a coin to see who could ask her out. My father won. The end.  Or, more aptly, the beginning.

Many people like to blame the disintegration of chivalry on modern technology. Sure, the advent of texting and social media, and the ensuing fissure in formal communication, have thrown the game onto a whole new playing field; but, I think the real anti-courting culpability lies elsewhere: A serious lack of shotgun-wielding fathers.

If any man-child had so much as attempted to maintenance-anything my mother, Grandpa Smith would have taken to his pickup truck, Winchester in hand, prepared to supplement the fear of God with a few well-placed bullets. (Just ask my dad about the time he came to pick up my mom…on a motorcycle…with long blonde hair and short denim shorts. Let’s just say he’s lucky he has a good sense of humor – and happened to hold the state track record in the 400m.)

I would wager that, for most of us in our mid-to-upper twenties, our fathers are harboring such severe concerns over their daughters’ unceasing singledom that they wouldn’t dare scare off a potential suitor. Any suitor. Any suitor at all.

And they don’t need to; apparently, we are doing a good enough job of that on our own.  Basing this entire theory on personal experience and a solid number of conversations with individuals on both sides of the gender line, I have determined that men are now terrified of women.  In the words of one such shaky soul, “It’s just hard to figure out what you girls want.”

That’s fair. When last June’s Atlantic cover boldly declared that women can’t have it all, many of my friends and I found ourselves asking if we even really want to have it all. And what does “it all” entail, exactly, in today’s society? Then we realized we might be jumping the gun a bit. How are we supposed to boldly assert our right to rule the corporate world, with a ring on the finger and a baby on either hip, if we are still referencing the words of “Why Men Love Bitches” in daily conversation?

I am confident in my beliefs. When I know, without a doubt, that I want something, I have no problem stating that. But what about when what I want really depends on if you want it, too, but you’re not sure what I want, so you’re not entirely certain that it’s what you want? A magazine excerpt I spotted in a MoMA exhibit had a delightfully delicate turn of phrase for this dilemma: “You are your own woman in the hope of being just what someone else is looking for.” This clipping was from the 1950’s, suggesting that this is not a new predicament. I would venture to state that this is an age-old issue, exacerbated by the current lack of clear societal rules.

Women are getting married and having children later in life. They are no longer branded an old maid if they’re thirty and single, and long gone are the days of the virgin white bride. In the immortal Pretty Woman words of Kit and Vivian, “We say who, we say when, we say how much.”

By the same token, men are no longer compelled to commit.  The image of that sad, single adman drinking alone at the end of the bar, while his postwar suburbia peers sit huddled about the TV with their families, has been replaced by a group of laughing, boisterous, middle-aged tech tycoons flirting shamelessly with acquiescing blondes, twenty years their junior. Even if they do plan on settling down eventually, there’s no rush. I can almost guarantee you that there was not a single group of men discussing the potential freezing of their eggs over dinner last night.

Yay! Even playing fields! Betty Friedan would be so proud.

Unfortunately for us indecisive types, this basically means that you either figure out exactly what it is you want, and cling steadfastly to that banner, or you linger indecisively in insecure trepidation around a multitude of romantic possibilities, until one ultimately (hopefully) pans out.

Yeah, I’m probably going to go with option B, too.

Nice Guys Don't Finish Last - Weak Men Do

"I didn’t think there was any way you’d take that shot," said the stranger, his delivery laced with forced bravado.

I turned to face my verbal assailant. Stony stare. Left eyebrow slightly peaked. Irritation in full effect.

I know what you’re thinking - that icebreaker wasn’t that bad. And you’re right.  It wasn’t. It wasn’t rude; it wasn’t crass; it wasn’t ridiculously cheesy…it was just annoying. Do I happen to enjoy the process of taking shots? No. Did he know that? Nope. He didn’t know anything about me. 

Presumption and banality are the curse of a nervous pick-up line. This wasn’t some misogynistic a-hole; this was a nice guy pumping himself full of false confidence and attempting to run game.

“Where are you from?”

“Originally? Nebraska.”

“Nebraska?! Ha. I’m sorry.”

…

Seriously?

Nice-guy negging is one of the saddest phenomenons to come out of The Game. Essentially a how-to guide for picking up chicks, The Game perpetuates the myth that the quickest way to a girl’s heart is to cut down her self-esteem.

First of all, this only works if said girl is 18 years old/or seriously damaged. Second of all, good-hearted, well-meaning dudes just don’t do it right.  They don’t fully commit. They can’t bring themselves to say something totally barbaric, so they pick a mundane topic and quibble it to death.

Kill. Me. Now.

At least when a guy’s a complete dbag, you can tell him to f*ck off and continue your evening in peace.  These awkwardly aggressive shy-guys manage to pull at your heartstrings, even while firing up every single one of your neuroses. How long are you supposed to wait before you tell them you JUST DON’T CARE? You don’t want to hurt the poor dude’s feelings.

Approaching a girl at a bar can be a nerve-whittling experience.  We get that.  And we appreciate when legitimate men make the effort.  When we say nice guys are hard to find, what we really mean is, nice guys who haven’t been beaten down by their needless insecurities. If the sweet sector of the less-fair sex would simply embrace their congenial qualities and let that affability fuel their swagger, the dating world would be a much saner place.

And just in case there is any confusion, ignorantly insulting a girl’s home state - or her BlackBerry for that matter - will not get you laid.

Ever.

It's All Fun & Games Until Someone Eats Dinner Without You

Last night, I met up with imawkwardlyreallyawkwardtoo for a couple rounds of last minute cocktails. This Honor Bar session was to serve two purposes: 1. To continue plotting our world domination 2. To figure out why the F the young man she was supposed to be out with - Emphasis on young. Because he’s younger. Rawr. - had decided to eat dinner without her. 

This conversation got lengthy.

Boy had made activity-unspecific plans with her for the evening. As pick-up time neared, she had to push it back slightly, due to a work conflict. Shortly thereafter, she texted him that she was back in action. He replied, asking if they could meet up later. Much later.

Why? Because he was just sitting down to dinner with a friend. 

…

Oh. Right. Totally. Of course.

She let him know that A. His newly proposed time was, indeed, too late and B. There was no need for him to make it up to her another night.

He seemed surprised.  Seriously? 

…

This brought to mind a similar experience of my own.

A gentleman I had been to drinks with a few times asked if he could take me out on the upcoming Friday.  I said yes. Friday, he texted to lay out the details, explaining that his post-work commitments would probably last until 9 or 10. Oh, and he would probably be eating there.

…

Ahh. How fascinating.

Needless to say, I didn’t exactly swoon. This gentleman also seemed surprised by the lackluster reaction his comments had elicited.

How do these men-children not see the error in their all-too-casual ways?!

imawkwardlyreallyawkwardtoo and I began to wonder if we mistakenly set an ultra-lax tone from the beginning.  We’re both easygoing to an occasional fault and are generally more than willing to go with the flow and play things by ear…but there is a line.  And when this line is crossed, we quickly shift from gypsy-boho-whateverstotallyfinewithme to Type sarcastic A-hole. Is this shift too quick? Is there a specific trigger?

Maybe. And yes. Dinner. The trigger is dinner.  Are we totally cool grabbing drinks and hanging out at random dive bars? Absolutely. Are we totally cool grabbing drinks and hanging out at random dive bars after you just told us you pushed back our date time to eat dinner with your friend? Absolutely not. 

Why? Maybe because men have spent half their lives telling us the difference between the girls they take to dinner and the girls they take straight to the bar for tequila shots. One such man even brought this up when he and I were two courses deep: 

"If I didn’t like talking to you, I would have just asked you if you wanted to get a drink."

"Why would you take someone to drinks, if you don’t even like having a conversation with them?"

"Why do you think?"

…

Charming. Noted. Guard promptly reinstated in its upward and locked position.

… 

Back at Honor Bar: As we reached to pay our check, our server askedimawkwardlyreallyawkwardtoo for her phone number - his friend had wanted to stop by our table to ask her to coffee, but he didn’t get a chance.

He should probably tell his friend to make sure there’s a scone with that latte.

Match Made in Theory

A very dear friend of mine set me up with a somewhat dear friend of hers, based on our shared love of words and other things that are funny. Deep breath. Lots of trust. Let's do this.

Date #1: Post-work drinks at Misfit. Let’s keep this fun/easy/casual. I get stuck at work for an extra half hour-ish, cutting close to the end of happy hour. Not one to miss out on a great deal, my date decides to stock up on cocktails, while awaiting my arrival. This would have been a smarter idea, had he not also decided to consume every single one of them within that half hour. Let’s just say, he was plastered by the time I located him at the bar. Let’s also just say, it wasn’t love at first eye-roll.

Memorable notes: Girls aren’t funny. Girls can’t write. He was expecting me to be dumber. He had already managed to accrue a grand total of 3 DUI’s.

Swoon.

Date #2: Writer-y thing at the Hammer Museum. Assuming that his ego-charged, unintelligent barbs were due to accidental over-intoxication, I decided to give it another go. We make it to the museum just in time, but the seats are already filled. Hashtag fail. Let’s go have a drink back at the house and figure out where to go! Hey! Actually, why go anywhere when drinks here are free?!

Right. Why would anyone ever leave the house? Let’s just say he kept both the cocktails and the over-aggressive-quintessential-negging flowing, and I ended up…well…crying. Yes; apparently, I do have emotions. Shuddershuddertwitchtwitchtwitch. Overall, not a great success.

…

He tells our mutual friend he is both apologetic slash mortified. In addition, he has decided to x-nay alcohol from his life.

Our mutual friend asks if there’s any way I would give the dude another chance, as he would really like to make it up to me. Deep breath. I get it. He’s a nice guy with drinking issues that make him less of a nice guy. I am willing to see how a sober date would go down, if only out of pure curiosity.

Cue: A barrage of fascinatingly half-hearted, yet persistent, attempts to have me meet him at x,y, or z bar/or his apartment. I ask which edition of Emily Post’s Etiquette he favors. He confidently asserts that he doesn’t believe in chivalry.

…

How charming.

…

In the interest of full disclosure, here are our final two conversations:

Him: Let’s hang out this weekend!

Me: I’m having a staycation in Malibu this weekend, but will be back Sunday evening, if you would like to pick me up and take me to dinner.

Him: Are you going to Malibu with a suitor?

No response.

I wasn’t, just in case you were curious. Shocking, I know.

Him: Come to my pool on Sunday!

I mean…

Literacy. Reading comprehension. Social cues. Anything?

One week later…

Him: Last chance. Meet me at [insert bar-name-I-can’t-remember] at 8.

Seriously? Last chance?

It hurts.

Me: How compelling.

And scene.

…

I really thought that one was going to work out.

A Girl's First Booty Call

I just had my first legitimate booty call.

Obviously, this was not the first late night call I had ever received, but it was the first that I both answered and accepted.

Sure, there are other evenings that probably technically landed in the booty call column; but, on those occasions, the dude had the integrity to mask his true intentions with a quick round or three of drinks out in the real world prior to laying it on thick.

At least he brought tacos this time? Before you nod in enabling support, let me add that these were no Tacos Por Favor or Pinches…these were (brace yourself) Del Taco. Insult. Injury. Sigh.

There was a 3 minute (This number would prove to be foreshadowing in events to come) pretense of Boardwalk Empire viewing. Literally. 3 minutes. And then, you know…

But usually, “you know” with this person is actually enjoyable. Like, for me. Like, he makes sure it’s enjoyable for me. Apparently, that’s a chapter they left out of the booty call handbook? In accepting his midnight call, had I unwittingly agreed to a 3 minute sex session, guaranteed to leave only one of us satisfied?

Cuddling? Sure. Conversation? Of course. Let’s keep this on the up and up here. Let me interject at this point to add that, two months ago, I thought this person and I actually might be dating. My ensuing confusion and need for closure/or validation were the damning impetuses for this new life low.

Most of the conversation involving his recent life activities featured other girls, of course – not girls with whom he was getting down (that would just be uncouth,) but I could safely assume he at least momentarily entertained the idea.

God, he’s SO DESIRABLE. I am SO LUCKY he’s here right now.

…

Perhaps the morning sex would be better.

It started out well…and ended quickly. How lucky for him that he was now content and able to sleep.

Must. Be. Nice.

Around 8:30am, he decided it was probably time for him to hit the road. Did he save a shred of my dignity by conjuring up some tragically unbreakable breakfast-interfering plans? Nope. No plans. Just done here.

Interesting. That makes two of us.

…

My stomach feels like Del Taco.

Hibernation Inspiration

ithinkironyisSOfunny and I decided to go to The Den on Sunset last night to grab a couple drinks and a bite to eat. A nice mellow, casual place for a girl-talk-catch-up-sesh.

Enter Keith. Name has been changed to protect the ego of the offender.

Keith was our waiter. Keith decided to sit down at our table with us.

Ok. First of all, I sort of have this thing about personal space, where I cherish it and do not appreciate when its existence is completely and totally disregarded.  Initially, his awkward level of immediate comfort  was fascinating enough to render it amusing.  I was even willing to crack a smile at his layman banter about the three of us dating. (What? I had just moved back to LA at the time.  I was both hard up for humor and hesitant to turn my back on any potential neighborhood-bar-friendship. Momentarily.)

5 minutes later, he was still sitting there, my cracked smile had realigned into polite, obscured annoyance and ithinkironyisSOfunny and I made unobscured eye contact of the whenishegoingtogetupandtakeourorder variety. 

The answer was not any time soon. Keith launched into a less than scintillating autobiography.  I half-listened, awestruck at his inability to discern that ithinkironyisSOfunnyand I possess individually supreme senses of narcissism and were apathetic about both his career choice (actor) and training center (Beverly Hills Playhouse).

At the end of his diatribe, he stared at me, expectantly. Oh, right.  This is where I respond with signs of interest.

"Ooh."

"What does ‘ooh’ mean?"

"It means I’ve never heard of that and know nothing about it, but I’m not judging you."

…  

Things started off well.

We finally coerced Keith into taking our order and leaving our general area for a peaceful moment. Our catch-up convo took a turn for the serious, when guess who socially-ineptly chose to slide right back into our booth.

Pregnant pause. Awkward expressions clearly broadcasting the silent version of dude-are-you-serious.

Ignored. Keith was back and ready to chat.  This time about the relationship he and I were allegedly about to begin.

Deep breath. Where the F is our food?

Oh. There it is. Being brought out to us by the chef. It had apparently been sitting there for awhile, dropping drastically in temperature. We sent Keith away to procure us some utensils.

He came back with more than silverware.

"Are you a famous actress and should I not be hitting on you right now?"

"Is that a two-part question?"

We then learned that he once told Jon Hamm he should be an actor because he was such a charming man.

…

Swoon?

Somehow, we got him to leave again and picked up our heart-to-heart chat-sesh, ignorantly believing we would finally be granted a little bestie alone time. When Keith sauntered over again, he was a man with a purpose. 

"You guys should come to our karaoke night." Turns to face me. "Actually, you and I should go to karaoke somewhere else. When I’m not working."

*crickets*

Now, I love the sh*t out of karaoke, but even my microphone mania has its limits.

"Your boyfriend would probably be upset."

I nod.

"You have a boyfriend?"

I nod. “He’s mildly protective.”

…

Attempt at humor. Awkward linger. Uncomfortable shifting.

…

…

…

Eyes down. Pay bill. Exit Quickly.

The Classic Leave Behind

I may or may not have had a sleepover with a new friend. New friend may or may not have used his roomie’s car to take me home the next morning.

2 weeks later I may or may not have received this text:

My roomie came home from his trip today and went on a date and she found this in his car. I wish I could’ve been there to see him talk his way outta that one. How about you take me out and reclaim this so I don’t feel like I was used as a piece of meat? ;) 

...

I love you, Mom.