Charming, but single

I am loaded. Soooo terribly loaded. (It took me, like, four tries to log into Blogger because I kept getting my password wrong.)

I went to the newest downtown hotspot tonight. It was cool — I took my bronze leather sandals out on the town and they LOVED it.

My friend had met this guy online and she invited him to meet us. I think she figured that it would be better to meet him with her wingwomen there.

It was terrible. Five minutes into the thing I sent her a text message that said, “Abort!” He started the evening by asked her to dance on a table, because she made a joke about getting wild at night.

Guys who do not get jokes are TERRIBLY unattractive.

He was a dud and she spent most of the night on the phone with an ex. I talked to Dud Date more than she did.

He finally was so drunk that he sort of dozed off IN THE BAR. He was asked to leave.

Just wow. Wow.

So, the only people who hit on me were my friend’s Dud Date and a random guy who (after hitting on me) dropped his drink off of the smokers’ balcony. (He was a real winner!)

I’m going to be single forever. FOREVER.

I made serious eye contact with a cutie in dark-rimmed plastic glasses, but Dud Date wouldn’t leave me alone, so I couldn’t go flirt with the cutie.

Sigh.

He looked nice.

Blaaaah. I’m going to sleep.

Alone.

Blech.

I feel as if I’m in a bad relationship with this blog. I want to be loving and attentive, but I can’t figure out how to juggle everything. I’m always caught in the middle, with lame excuses and promises to show more affection. But I can never get a hold of it and always let other things distract me.

I’m not giving up. No no no. Relationships are hard work. Why should this be any different?

Gentle readers, my life has been a blur lately. My boss is going on vacay for a bit, so I made him (a very conservative) list of my pending projects. Holy crap. I almost cried. I do nothing but deal with ASAP requests and listen to conference calls lately. My brain is thoroughly fried.

I don’t even think I’m fun to go out with anymore, because I am a fountain of knowledge about my subject area. The group/service I do PR for? I swear, I used to never think I’d be rattling off stats and such, but I am a walking encyclopedia of random information. And I can slip it in to any conversation. Without even meaning to.

Sigh.

And there are so many things I could write about. My new, terribly on sale, itsy-bitsy Kenneth Cole bag! How I have totally been “girl dating” (as This Fish puts it) for weeks! My mom’s oh-so-helpful advice on how to pick a man! How I decided not to move into a particular apartment because it was not compatible with my shoes! A tirade on how past flings should be cordial to each other, instead of acting as if the other person has an extra nose growing out the side of his/her face or something!

Sigh. Any of that appeal to you?

I’m off to apartment hunt and eyebrow wax. I’ll try to, like, do something blogworthy while I’m out.

My dating life is, like, nonexistent for any number of reasons.

My shoe collection?

Expanding at a dangerously fast pace.

Meet the newest members of the family, both from Nine West, a store from which I am banned until at least September.

They are stunning — a pair of bronze sandals with a heel so high that I’ll only be sitting in them and a pair of chocolate brown espradrilles for all of those summer barbecues and casual Fridays.

I was sucked in by the salesgirl, who tried to hook me with the “I am your friend!” technique that has been employed on women who are “just window shopping” for centuries. She first tried the, “I own these shoes and they are soooo comfortable” line, but I knew that was a lie because there is no way in hell that those bronze heels are comfy. The heel is twisted for crying out loud.

I won’t even lie. Every night I wear those I’ll probably want to saw my own foot off with a hacksaw.

But I love them and I feel amazingly hot in them. And love and ego can make you do funny things.

So, when I didn’t fall for the “I have these!” line, she tried the, “You deserve these, you look like a hard worker.”

Really? My jeans-and-tank-top-wearing self looked like a hard worker? I had no idea that a white tank top was so telling.

Then she tried the friend technique, including crawling on the bench where I was sitting and trying the shoes on and plopping down next to me like we were at a slumber party.

As a former retail lady, I know what lengths you’ll go to double your sale. And I don’t blame her for selling to me, because that’s her job. She sells and I pretend like I’m not going to buy the shoes and wrinkle my nose at the prices and she tries her lines and I deflect them.

I was about to set the espradrilles down and only get the sandals when she threw all she had at me.

I was wistfully looking at the shoes, about to put them away, when she said, “I’m so glad you’re getting the sandals, because I can tell that you love them. So many people say they love shoes, but they don’t ever buy the shoes they love. I just don’t understand that.”

It was a line, a blatant line, a line akin to every line a man’s ever thrown at me at a bar or party. And instead being drunk on alcohol, I was drunk with sights of rope heels and cork soles and bronzed leather and shell accents. And I took the bait hook, line and sinker.

I took the shoes off and slid the espradrilles across the bench to her, mentally calculating the price of both pairs.

“I love these too,” I said as I fished my wallet from my purse.

Dear Hangover Gods,

If you could spare me the hangover that I so rightly deserve after drinking for hours and staying out until well past 2 a.m. on the night before I have an 8 a.m. meeting with my boss and other people, I would appreciate it.

Could we schedule this hangover for another day? Perhaps Saturday morning? I will never be this irresponsible again. I swear on a case of Woodchuck.

I owe you one.

Thanks,

S