Seriously? Seriously??? SERIOUSLY?????? After all this time, the Dating Karma Gods were not inclined to send me a 'gimme,' huh?
And lest you immediately think that I was putting too much on this meeting with Strange Dan... the whole way there I was saying, like a mantra, "just have fun, no big whoop," and I found I really meant it. --Hold on, I have to go check the Equity website and see if the audition I was going to get up at the crack of ass for tomorrow (sorry, Mom, language,) is any other date as well so I can finish the rest of the bottle of the Sancerre rose as I fume here for a bit and then finally, eventually, relax by catching up on last night's installment of "The Riches" and whatever else my DVR has in store for me.
Done, there's a Thursday call too. Game on! So:
He walks in - looking not too far from what I was expecting. Good... I thought he'd be a bit taller, but I was wearing the sexy high heels. Not un-cute, amiable, I thought "okay!..." Seats at the crowded bar had opened up just after I arrived - a scant minute before he came in. (Hey, KARMA, thanks for the seats. I'd have preferred to stand...) He looked a bit casual for a Date - khaki shorts, polo shirt, sweater vest (well, he's no iron man so it looked even more casual than I would have thought...) but, well, now, in all fairness, I should tell you what I was wearing...
Sexy heels (we've been over that part.) Sexy designer grey/black skinny jeans. Black tank top with tie at waist. Nice black Calvin jacket (of the 'Anthem Calvin jacket's,) cute red bangles on wrist, silver hoop earrings, and Mom n' Dad-given emerald pinkie ring with tiny diamonds surrounding: it screams 'class,' it does. Point is --- I LOOKED HOT!!!! CASUAL YET PUT-TOGETHER, FUN YET SEXY, AND HHHHHHOOOOOTTTTTTTT!!!!!
But he looked fine, not awful, I mean it. (Just had to stress how comparitively hot yours truly was.)
Ok, so we start chatting about wine - he appreciated my choice at the wine bar (Mascarello Dolcetto D'Alba) and I was quizzing him about his work since it's such an unsual, seemingly interesting, and essential (!) job... well, a wee voice in the back of my brain was saying, "This guy's either really relaxed and casual, or he's drunk." Comes to pass that a big project was finished today and he'd gone out with co-workers four hours earlier and had had FIVE MARGUERITAS before meeting me. I was so taken aback that I don't know if I can spell 'marguerita' properly. (I keep trying and nothing looks right. Forgive me, Mom.) I mean, you all read the earlier blog, right?, you know I had one glass of wine to calm the nerves. ONE. I can't scream in caps louder - Ohh Ehnn Eeeee. One.
But, okay, like I posited earlier, maybe he was nervous, AND he was celebrating the end of a busy period at work... I'm soooooo generous. So we keep chatting. I start to become aware of this very silibant "sssss" at the end of some phrases. And I see his hands floppily gesticulating at each point he made. Now I'm thinking he's GAY. I-suddenly-can-see-him-sidling-up-to-my-gorgeous-gays-at-a-party-I'm-throwing-and-then-sneaking-back-to-the-bedroom, GAY. And then I think, well, maybe he's loopy. But then I think, while he's chatting away, that none of my gays would give this buffoon the time of day, so why the hell am I? But I am nice. And generous. And willing to give the guy a break.
So we keep talking. I ask a lot of questions. He asks... a couple of questions. I indulge my growing boredom while at the same time answering a rare question by telling the very interesting story of how Mom got me into the Mets. (Thanks, Mom, I love you!) I ask about this, I ask about that... and suddenly, before I know it, he starts up and I'm on this passionate defense of my industry and career as a whole. He's blasting the concept of Unions, and I'm trying to assert my critical yet supportive view of my relationship with mine. He is relentless and vehement, and I'm looking at this guy and thinking, "This is a Date?!?" He is coming at me from angles that make no sense and are righteous and this isn't a conversation and the bartender is all the way down at the end of the bar and my glass is empty, not like I want to stay but please help me dull the pain...
And he throws his Amex down on the bar. "Here," I go, reaching for my purse. He offers, "No, I got it." "Well, let me contribute!" I say cheerily. I pull out two twenties. He shoves them under the Amex, reaches in his pocket, pulls out a billfold, hands me a five, and says, "You're emasculating a Southern Gentleman, here."
AHHHH!!!! I think if he's a Southern Gentleman, he should push the two twenties back to me and insist it's on him! I'd take them back at that point. But HE GAVE ME CHANGE while tsk-tsk-ing me! And, also, I don't think that's emasculation. Emasculation is when you are drunk in a bar and you wantonly kiss a very cute guy who works for the circus, and you decide you don't think he's a very good kisser, so you give him KISSING LESSONS right there in the bar, complete with verbal instruction as well as practical application. In front of his friends and everybody. THAT'S emasculation, my friends. (But, Angus, it was worth it, right?!) (Oh, crap, Mom, you didn't read that last part, did you?)
Well, at least I was thrilled we were paying the bill. I gracefully said goodnight, thanks for the conversation (!?!?!?) and I hope to jehovah he didn't think I was cute. I teetered home on my sexy heels, put on the sweats, poured a glass o' vino, and here I am.
Let me just say, the guy who finally gets me - is going to be one lucky, fulfilled, adored, challenged, supported, sexually over-satisfied sonofabitch.
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