Posts Tagged ‘bars’

Cherry Popper

     I started out with such hope for the New Year and my dating life.  Only great dates I promised myself.  And although my date Friday night wasn’t horrible, it didn’t have any earth shattering moments either.  But it did have a couple “firsts.”

     I arrived in heels and on a good hair day. We ran into each other outside. Did our introduction and then entered, and due to lack of tables, sat at the bar. I noticed he took his cell phone out of his pocket and put it face down on the bar. Little annoying.  I always put my cell phone on silent and leave it out of sight. I very rarely take it out and when I do I use it as an “I’m ready to leave” signal.

     We chatted about a few random things and then he started talking about dating.  In the midst of our conversation, his voice dropped off completely and I had no idea what he said.  I asked “what?” and he repeated in vaguely mumble words.  I tried to piece together what I did hear and finally let out one more, “huh?”  He repeated himself in a loud whisper and then it clicked.  He was referring to online dating.  I realized then that it was his first go around in the meet-a-stranger-from-the-internet charade.  Cripes.  If you can’t even say the words “online” in reference to dating in public then guess what?  You’re not ready.  He was like a teeny-bopper going in for his first kiss and not knowing where to put his nose.  First online-date: cherry popped.

     A little while after that awkward moment, his cell phone rang.  Irksome.  Apparently it was work.  Continued chatting and then the phone rang again.  This time when he looked at the ID he said, “It’s my mom.”  And not in a “this is an emergency” tone, more of a “this happens a lot and I was expecting it” tone.  He then proceeded to tell me how his mom always calls him when he’s out.  She checks in, wants to know who he’s with, what he’s doing, if he’s drinking he shouldn’t be driving – cause he’s thirty and needs checking on.  Then told me if he doesn’t answer, she keeps calling.  Oh, Jeez.  Please don’t answer the phone and talk to your mother.  Fortunately he didn’t.

     Night goes on.  He realizes he needs to run and put money in the parking meter.  Phone in hand, leaves.  Returns, makes some comment about his mother.  Christ.  Either he called her or she called again and he answered.  Date with a Mama’s boy whose Mama actually called during date: cherry popped.

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Bringing it in Right

     2010 was long, and filled with many men and dates.  But of all my meetings last year there was only one relationship that worked out.  It only seemed fitting to spend my New Year’s Eve with that relationship. 

     The first member of that relationship was found on Craigslist.  The others came from my golf lessons.  And by December I had a good collection.  So why not ring in the New Year with them?  Of course getting the whole clan on the same page was a little hard, but I did have half of my fabulous group of wingwomen with me.

     We started the night with pre-drinks at Buddha Babe’s (she has an insanely large collection of Buddha figurines) place and then headed to a bar.  Walked in already tipsy.  Walked passed a table of four pouting biddies, probably a good five to ten years older than us.  Good reason to pout, my girls are pretty hot.

     Were seated, scoped the place out…mostly women.  Kind of sucked.  Didn’t really care though.  We already had the plan that we were going to be the party.  A plan that worked out magnificently. 

First, ordered a round of beers.  Next, piled our three drunk asses into the photo booth they had set up.  Buddha Babe got in first, followed by Badger Gal (she’s a good’ol Wisconsin girl) in the middle.  By the time I got in, legs were everywhere and finding your “good” side wasn’t an option.  All of the sudden there was a countdown, a flash, and then suddenly “photo 4.”  Huh?  What happened to 1, 2, and 3?  We thought there might have been an error so we tried again.  Same thing.  Now that our slow-to-catch-on asses figured out that they just took them right in a row, we decided to try one more time.  Stumbled out of booth, had an audience.  Waited for pictures.  I bent down and picked them up.  Three strips of pictures that all came out with half of my head, half of Buddha Babe, and a big cheesy smile from Badger Gal front and center and looking anywhere but the camera.

     Holding the pictures, I made a comment about how bad they were.  Manager Dude with glasses saw that as an opportunity to checked me out, tell me I’m beautiful, and that the pictures weren’t that bad.  Due to the low testosterone in the crowd and him actually being kind of cute, I took the compliment with a smile said something vague and then stammered my way back to the table before looking like a complete incompetent lush.  Because let’s face it, I was heading in that direction.

     Night rolled on and our table was starting to collect people.  And why wouldn’t we?  When you are laughing and having a great time people just want to join you.  So they did.  This royally ticked off the table of pouty biddies.

     Next on my agenda of drunkeness was to help the needy.  A man in a gingham jacket and his friend were lingering around our table.  Buddha Babe was talking to the friend and Gingham just kept looking in my direction with eyes that said, “I’m trying to make eyes at you, but I have no game and don’t no how, and let’s face it, you’re out of my league.”  I could see that he was, very unsuccessfully, attempting to move to the beat of the music.  I don’t remember exactly what I said during my impromptu dance lesson, but I do recall shouting, “It’s all in the hips.  It’s all in the hips.”  The best I could get out of him was swaying side to side and he kept insisting on adding a little bounce to it.  Poor white boy Gingham.  But my lesson must have worked a little magic.  By the end of the night he was disturbingly rubbing up and grinding on one of the pouty biddies.  Guess she wasn’t so pouty anymore.

     The night was winding down, but of course it wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t give my number out to someone.  Throughout the night I was chatting it up with the DJ’s roomie, a thin black guy whose only been in LA about six months.  By this time names eluded me, but damn if he didn’t smell good.  My true kryptonite.  I shouted out the wrong number to him.  Then I read it.  Realized it was wrong and shouted out the correct one.  Fortunately, with mostly women in the bar, no one else copied down the number I was so freely shouting.

     Left the bar.  No cabs in sight.  Started walking in the direction of Badger Gal’s apartment thinking we would see a cab.  None.  Good thing we were toasted and couldn’t feel the pain of walking about a half a mile in three to four-inch heels.  That would be tomorrow’s problem.

     New Year’s Day was a day of vegging and recuperating.  And let me tell you, we were doing much better than our Ihop comrades, over hearing a guy with fresh stitches say, “Nothing a trip to the ER couldn’t fix.”  After Ihop, we made our way back to Buddha Babe’s to continue with vegging.  When I finally got off of Buddha Babe’s couch and drove home, I received a text from the DJ’s roomie asking how I was.  I told him I was fine.  And then he texted back:

“Do you remember me?”

Zia: I’m going to venture to say you’re the one person I gave my number to.  I remember you smelled really good…but I may need an assist on name…

“Lol.  That’s me.”

Zia’s Thoughts: Dude, name?  What’s your NAME?  I even fessed up to not knowing it.  Quick, be clever.

Zia: Soooo, you just want me to call you “Mr. Smells Good?”

     He finally texted back with his name and then fessed up to not catching mine either.

“I have you in my phone as beautiful.”

Zia:  Yeah, I go by that a lot.  Or when I’m not a superhero, my street name is Zia.

     Ah, year’s off to a great flirty sarcastic start already.  Gonna be a good year.