Posts Tagged ‘wingwoman’

Leaving it to Fate

     I celebrated the New Year with good friends at a small family owned bar.  They treated patrons to a champagne toast every hour until our time zone reached midnight.  My wingwoman, Half-pint, was picked up by a twenty-year-old kid, and I was followed around by his older cousin, Puppy-Dog, for a majority of the night.  At the end of the night, when my friends and I decided to leave, Puppy-Dog had the gall to grab his coat and exit with us.  Hey Buddy, following me around all night like a puppy-dog and not once even attempting to buy me a drink, isn’t exactly paving the way for a New Year’s shag.  Just sayin’.  Needless to say there was no shag-time, and even though he asked for my number, the comment of, “If nothing ever happens, I just want you to know I had a good time tonight,” clearly pointed out that he was never going to use my number.  I was spot on with that call and haven’t heard from him…and I’m not losing sleep over it either.

     The first week of the New Year down, and the dating “project” for this year decided, it is time to share.  Now, this decision may bring tears to some of your eyes, as it did with Buddha Babe, but it must be done.  In my years of date-blogging, I have tackled online dating, a self-help book, speed dating, set-ups, etc.  It is time to try the only thing I haven’t tried…FATE.  This year I’m leaving the luck of my love life to Fate.  That being said, my date count will drop drastically not leaving me much to blog about.  So, unless Fate sets in motion something earth-shattering, this may most likely be my only post this year.  Don’t fret too much, I’ll still be tweeting it up from time to time.

     I thought giving myself and blog a proper send-off was in order, so I compiled a “The Best of Zia” list to keep you entertained in my dating absence.  

Post that was  numerously retweeted, reposted by other bloggers, and stirred up a hefty comment discussion: Check Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself

A Sample of the Prince Charmings that I’ve come across: Careful What You Wish For 

Even in my non-dating life I find rare jewles…and, well, maybe posting on Craigslist had something to do with it too: Oh, Sammy Boy

Zia in a guest appearance: Treasure Down Under 

Example of how I’m a class-act on a date: More Bug Wine, Please

     Thanks for reading, and best of luck to all of you in 2012.  Go out there and get your flirt on!

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Curbside Attraction

     I have hit a dry spell in my dating life, and the lack of male prospects, at times, makes me a bit delirious.  It’s probably nothing to be alarmed about, but you tell me.  This is what happened at the beginning of the year during my last drought.

     One Saturday night I was heading out to meet my wingwomen for a movie and then drinks.  I pulled up to a traffic light and saw one of the homeless guys, I sometimes pass, on the corner.  I always do my best to avoid eye contact since the change in my pocket barely covers my gas to work, and a movie and drinks is splurging.  Although I avoid eye contact I do read the signs they hold.  His is my favorite, “If nothing else, give me a smile.”  That day his sign was propped on a trash bag and he was talking to some woman who was also by the corner.  Given that there was a low risk of eye contact, I stole a glimpse of the homeless guy.  He was kind of young, probably around my age, little scruffy but not all that dirty for a homeless guy.

     After the movie and a couple of drinks, I started to tell my crew about my epiphany on my car ride over.  Later I found that my friend Subtle-T was texting all this to my BFF Suzie Q.

Subtle-T: Zia has a new boy prospect.  He has a reliable location and can’t run away.  He’s a one-legged pan handler who’s very cute.

Suzie Q: Lol. What does that mean?

Subtle-T: It’s code for the homeless guy who stands at the corner.

Suzie Q: Very cute, huh? Well, there would be hope for the kids look wise.

Subtle-T: His sign even says “at least give me a smile.”

Suzie Q: Did she at least give him a smile?

Subtle-T: He wasn’t looking.  Zia has named him Jack.

Suzie Q: Sounds like she has a crush…

Subtle-T: She does, even making up stories of how he lost the leg.

Suzie Q: Oh my.

     I had decided that he lost his leg in battle.  And after returning from the war, found himself homeless.  But, after a few weeks had gone by, there was no Jack sighting.  I was beginning to think that even a one-legged homeless man had given up on me.  But then…reason to text…

Zia: There was a Jack sighting! He hasn’t left me. I’d recognize that metal leg anywhere. Unfortunately, I think we have to break up. He’s a smoker.

Subtle-T: Are you disappointed?

Zia:  Yes.  He really should take better care of himself. He had a friend with him today.

Subtle: Competition or choices for you?

Zia: Nah, this guy looked too scruffy.  And he had both legs, not my type.

Keeping Hope Alive

     Mama J has always been supportive of me finding someone and, as a good friend, wants to help.  Pair her up with our college friend, Sarcastic Bride, who, ever since I’ve known her, has always wanted to pair people together and disregards science and believes love really does make the world go’round; this means no safe hiding place for me.  Mama J had every intention of being my wingwoman this weekend, so I gave her the opportunity to write this guest post of “Zia-in-action,” what she observed, and how she “helped” out.

Post by: Mama J

I love a wedding: the romance, the flowers, the dress, the cake, the open bar, and the start of a brand new life together.  However, for some of us a wedding can mean so much more.  For some it means, “Finally, my son found someone to spend his life with, so he can get out of my house.”  For others it means, “Young love still exists and there is still hope for the rest of us.”  Or it could mean, “Game Over.”  And for a few, such as Zia, it means, “Time to scope out what possibilities remain.”

For Labor Day weekend, Zia and I attended Sarcastic Bride’s wedding at a Virginia country club.  Everything was beautiful – the weather – the bride and groom – the flowers and, of course, Zia!  Here we are, at a wedding in the suburbs of Washington DC, hoping to find some hint of young available, professionally driven men.  Having lived here, DC is definitely the place to be for such hopeful connections.  My reinforcement in this wedding man hunt was Sarcastic Bride, another determined friend who wants Zia to find that perfect man.  She informed Zia earlier that she was strategically seated facing some available male wedding guests.  It was so nice of her to think about others during this most important day of her own life!

The ceremony was quick and hard to scan the guests, so afterwards, it was cocktail time.  Zia and I took a seat near the entrance to the bar and hors’dourves, to enjoy a good view of men coming and going.  Unfortunately, I am not smooth in my some of my behaviors.  One of the first guys to walk toward the bar, I apparently looked him up and down and said, “. . . No.”  I said it out loud!  Luckily he didn’t hear me, but Zia sure did and pointed out, “You know you said that out loud?”  Oops!  Oh well.  When Zia left to go to the restroom, I continued on my man hunt.  A robust, clean-shaven guy walked by, I glanced at his face, then at his hand for a ring, and then felt a hot stare from his girlfriend, who was walking behind him.  Claimed.  Oops, again!

We spoke to one of the bridesmaids and let her in on the hunt.  She said that her cousin was the best guy she knew and that she already approved of Zia and she should go for it.  He was dressed in his all white Navy uniform and was single and available.  However, she failed to mention that he was Claimed’s brother and a smoker.  So, I guess we can cross the White Knight off the list also.  Another eligible bachelor was the Maid of Honor’s brother, but he looked illegally young.

Well, it was time for dinner and we made our way to our table.  There were three sets of couples, two other single ladies, me, Zia and one eligible guy.  We got to the table and found we were facing the wall.  That didn’t fly with Zia since she was promised optimal viewing.  She managed to switch seats with a couple who wanted to sit next to another couple at the table.  This unknowingly placed Zia next to the eligible guy, Hopeful Henry.  He is a friend of Sarcastic Bride’s brother, who works in the government, but doesn’t talk politics.  That gave him immediate bonus points for having a real job and not boring us to death.  In fact, Hopeful Henry was genuinely interested in learning about Zia – her job, her college life, her friendship with Sarcastic Bride and the weather in LA.  He was a talker, but not an annoying chatty one.  At some point, Sarcastic Bride did present a slide show of photos from the couple’s past, which included a photo of her and Zia from their cruise.  Zia was wearing a striking red dress and we pointed out the photo to Hopeful Henry.  Zia said, “It’s hard to see well from this angle.”  At that time he said, “You good to me from here.”  (I wonder if he intended to say that out loud.)  Zia said, “Thank you.” 

Even though he didn’t ask her to slow dance (so high school), they seemed to have had a few good conversations throughout the night.  Also, he didn’t drink too much and he wasn’t macking on any other girls, like the other drunk guys.  More bonus points from me!  When he was leaving the wedding, he told Zia, “Well I hope to see you at the brunch tomorrow.”  I could see the glimmer of hope in his eyes.

And as it turned out, Zia and I were able to make it to Sarcastic Bride’s parents’ brunch.  Hopeful Henry was there and he flashed us a large smile when he saw us, I mean when he saw Zia.  I had my 3-year-old daughter with us for Sarcastic Bride and her husband to meet also.  At arrival, we gathered up some food and ate outside among family members, then found a nice quiet spot next to the Koi pond in the backyard.  My daughter wanted to explore, so I let her run about.  Hopeful Henry made his way through the sliding glass door and bee-lined in our direction.  They began chatting and I conveniently left Zia and weaved throughout the house and the other guests to find my daughter.  When I stopped by, only for a few minutes, to check in of course, they were talking about her travels.  I said a couple of things to him, and then left again to find my daughter…again.  After several minutes, Zia found me and said she had to go to the restroom and Hopeful Henry had gone back inside the house.  We lost track of him when Sarcastic Bride and her new husband arrived at the brunch.

However, Hopeful Henry made a point to find Zia upon his departure.  He reached into his pocket and said, “This is a little cheesy, but here is my card.  If you are ever in DC, definitely get in touch.”  Even though I came to the conclusion that he’s a safe bet and lacking some physical shazam, I, of course, hammed it up by saying, “Remember, we’re trying to get her to move here.”  He said with smile aimed at Zia, “That sounds good. Talk to you later.”  I did notice that the card was not in a case or a wallet, but loose inside his pants.  To me, this means he thought about putting it there for a reason, being hopeful.

Get Your Flirt On (Part 2)

     My previous post left off with me sending smoke signals via flirt moves to a guy in a bar I was hoping would rescue me from Drunkass’ slobber.  Here’s how the night turned out:

     During one of my look up, look away moves, I turn to Shortstack to say something and then suddenly the lone trio member is standing in front of our booth.  Victory!  He’s standing there with a smile and making eye contact.  (Ooh, I’m on the receiving end of Move #1.)  He introduces himself and then all of the sudden, like vultures, the entire trio is at our table and Drunkass is out numbered.

     There is some awkward shouting from across the booth conversation because I still have Drunkass sitting to my right.  Nothing a quick trip to the bathroom can’t fix.  I tap Drunkass’s shoulder (Damn it! – Move #5) and excuse myself.  When I return to the booth there had been some seat shuffling and Drunkass was gone…for now.

     I plop myself down and next thing I know I am sitting between my Rescue Ranger and his buddy, Mr, High-5.  (The dude was all about some high-5 action.)  Not a bad turn of events.  And since the flirt machine was already turned on, what makes you think it would suddenly turn off?  Flirtalicious was still on the loose and seemed to be contagious.  My girls and the trio were all over open-ended questions (Move #13), laughing at jokes (Move #10), and lots of smiling, eye contact, looking away and then back again (Move #1 and #3.)  Really, this just sounds like people with drinks in them having a good time.  But hey, who am I to second guess the Doc?  Drink on Flirt on my friends, flirt on.

     At one point I heard my last name being said across the booth.  Since Half-pint and I have the same first name, she was distinguishing us by our last names to Dimples (the third member of the trio.)  Rescue Ranger overheard my last name and this led to our big moment…

Rescue Ranger:  Italian?

Zia:  Yes.

He puts his fingers on my wrist (received Move #5) and then slides my hoodie up my arm a bit.

Rescue Ranger:  But you’re not hairy.

(Eeerr…received Move #11 – Compliment?)

Zia:  No.  No, I’m not.

     With moves like that, I am sure this guy gets his pick of the litter when he heads out.

     The night rolls on.  Drunkass makes a return and falls asleep in the booth.  Rescue Ranger hits the pool table, Mr. High-5 chats up a storm, and Dimples maybe said seven sentences all night.  But who really cares?  He had dimples.  Duh.

     Closing time and my clan and I start heading out.  We say our good-byes and this is where reading these sixteen moves would have been beneficial.

“Move #16 – When leaving, say you’d like to see him again.”

     I have to walk by the pool table, where Rescue Ranger is, to exit.  He interrupts his game for a minute and stops me to give me a hug good-bye.  We make some comments about the game and then I walk off.  Huh?  Oh yeah, I – walk – off.  “Hey, let’s hang out again sometime” never made it into my brain.

     We get outside and Shortstack gets into Miss Fererra’s car and they drive off.  I hop into Half-pint’s, we sit there for a sec, and then she says how she had such a great time and wishes we could do it again. 

Okay, let’s recap:  Three of them, four of us, and no one thought of doing a number exchange!? – Idiots, the lot of us. 

     Did we screw up?  Well, that can easily be answered.  As Half-pint backed out and started pulling away, I spotted Mr. High-5 rushing out the door.  But it was too late, we were on the road.  I made brief eye contact with him but all he got out was one final wave.  Flirtalicious, sure.  Smooth Operator, hell no.

     Let’s hope, armed with these rules, things go a little better as I hit the town with my wingwoman, Miss Independent, tonight.

The Trial Run

My first night out with Miss Independent was very eventful, to say the least.  Here are the highlights:

We arranged to meet downtown at a street crossing, one block away from the action so we could find each other.  I get a text saying she has just parked.  I get to the corner, look around, no wingwoman. Waiting.  Waiting.  Finally get a text asking where I am.  I look around and see a young couple on one corner, a middle-aged man on another, and a homeless bum with a cart full of bags on the other.  Unless Miss Independent thought we were going incognito, I didn’t figure any of them to be her.

Called and asked if she was on the corner of 2nd.  She said yes.  I said I didn’t see her and asked where she was standing.  “By the movie theater,” she replied.  Uh, yeah, the big 3 on the road sign stands for 3rd Street not 2nd.  We’re off to a great start.

Went to dinner and had a very chatty waitress that I believed had a few screws loose.  The dish I was eyeing came with rosemary, so I asked how strong it was.  I don’t mind a hint of rosemary, but it is a potent flavor if there is too much.   She said not too bad but she served it last night without the rosemary.  I was sold.  

Dinner came; plate full of rosemary.  Edible, but not a fave.  When she came by later and asked how it was, I said fine but it was a bit too much rosemary.  She said, “You can always take it home.”  Uh. . . okay.

We then hit a bar that Miss Independent had heard about but hadn’t been to yet.  Popped in for a drink.  Swanky setting and the drinks weren’t bad either.  What was bad was the blatant ogling of my wingwoman by the group of guys standing next to us.  With absolutely no subtlety, instead of just an eye scan, the man bobbed his head up and down.  Dude, mirrors on both walls.  She totally saw you and wasn’t impressed.

After the drink, she took me to what she said used to be one of her “hot spots” but hasn’t been in a few years.  We walked in and realized…oh crap, it’s spring break.  We were two of the oldest people in there, aside from the few 60-year-old men who apparently took a wrong turn down Delusional Lane, thinking they belonged.  But, being older and still getting checked out by college boys is a great confidence boost.  Then, of course, they open their mouths and ruin the whole thing.

One guy walked up to us, crossed his arms and stared.  After about thirty seconds of awkward staring, he opened his mouth.  Nothing came out.  Then he waved his hand across his face, moving his lips, but still saying nothing.  Then, hands on hips, says, “I’m shy.”  Crossed his arms again and stared a bit more.  Really, that’s your opening line?  Act like a mime, gawk, and hope for results…dude.

Then we had another man walk past and stand behind me.  I could tell by Miss Independent’s expression, she had something to say.  The guy was invading my personal space and not in a good way.  Out of no where, some woman says his name and he hesitantly responds and sheepishly hugs her.  He clearly did not want to be found.  Once he left, Miss Independent said he was peeking over my shoulder and making weird eyes at her.

Next we have the return of the ogler.  He daringly approached us, asked if we got tired of the other place, and then introduced himself.  I heard him say Martin.  She said no, it’s Bart.  Since it’s a new friendship, there needs to be a compromise.  So, for argument’s sake, we’ll call him Bartin.  Bartin was a spitter.  And for whatever reason, chose to talk to me.  Great.  But Bartin’s charm didn’t stop with the three spit sprinkles to the face.  Obviously flabbergasted by the clear bubbly substance I was consuming at a bar, asked what I was drinking.  Before I could answer, he said, “Water?  Can I get you another one?  Do you need a refresher”  As he was pulling out his wallet to buy me another.  Guess he’s not aware that alcohol can be clear too.

We worked our way to the dance floor.  A little short guy approached Miss Independent and I heard her ask if he was on spring break.  Oh man, she’s losing her vision.  The guy clearly had a grown man look, rougher skin, no baby-face.  The guy was 32 and a bit offended.  As he walked off I caught a flash of white shirt behind me.  I turned and caught a glimpse of Mr. Miami Vice, shirt unbuttoned to his naval, and 22 years old on a good day.  He was doing what I was assuming to be his drunken mating-call dance moves.  And, oh yeah, those were directed at me.  He was piroetting more than a ballerina on crack and eventually. . . lost his way.  So sad, he was a real keeper. 

We decided to call it quits and headed back to our cars.  She believes she’s in the same parking garage as me.  We get to the parking garage and she doesn’t see her car.  She figures she must be back at the other one we passed.  She wasn’t drunk, but a was a little nervous leaving her because I had a gut feeling her car wasn’t there either.  I made her promise to text me when she got to her car.

I left.  Drove all the way home and still didn’t have a text.  So, I texted her to find out where she was.  She still didn’t know where her car was.  Oh, man.  Since she was all turned around on the meeting point I figured she did the same thing with her car.  I told her to check one block up in the other direction.  We hung up.  About a half an hour later she called back and finally found her car.

Discovering these little qualities about my wingwoman was a great find.  She’s a wonderful conversationalist, entertaining, directionless, and if we ever hit the circus she will most likely lose the “guess my age” game.  And with all of that factored in, I am now even more confident that Bartin’s name is actually Martin.

  

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