Charming, but single

Friday

Overjoyed that the workweek was finally over and pleased by some news regarding a possible raise, I promptly forgot the trials and tribulations of the week and strolled out of work that afternoon humming the theme to the Mary Tyler Moore show.

“Who can turn the world on with her smile / Who can take a nothing day, and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile?”

I actually caught myself twirling in the hall. It was casual Friday and I had worn a bright pink v-neck under a little sweater, with my “long” jeans (tailored specifically so I can wear heels with them), dangly earrings and my version of the pointy-toe, high-heeled boot that every woman I know lives in on the weekends from late fall to winter. So I was feeling particularly cute and young.

I’d dodged looks from the ladies at work who are older, married, mothers and grandmothers. The looks that say, “You are going to twist an ankle in those boots and rip an earlobe off because of those dangly earrings. And your chest will probably fall out of that low-cut shirt.”

When I get those looks, I just smile and strut down the hall like I own the place in my three-inch heels, which I’ve worn so much that they really are comfortable now.

So I did a little dance through the empty halls at almost 5 p.m. (most people either work four days a week or come in so they can leave by 4 p.m.), because I was suddenly feeling relatively invincible.

“You can have the town / Why don’t you take it? / You’re gonna make it after all.”

I met two girlfriends for a small Greek feast for dinner. We ate spicy falafel and salad with strong feta and drank Santorini wine and munched on pita and humus. I ate more calories that I probably care to admit.

After dinner, my married pal headed home to see her hubby and The Banker joined me at a small bar for another glass of wine (which quickly turned into two).

We were engaged in a conversation about men, of course. How you meet them, how long you should date them, how those of us who grew up in unbroken homes are just as screwed up about them as people from splintered homes.

It was one of those conversations you can have only with another single woman. My married or seriously committed friends, bless their well-meaning hearts, assure us tritely that “He is out there” or “Marriage isn’t all it is cracked up to be.” And they’re probably right on both accounts at times. But the last thing any hopelessly single woman I know wants to hear is something patronizing like, “Oh, ladies, be glad you don’t have a husband around to mess up the house” or “I remember back when I was single, I used to think I’d never find someone! And then I met Him!”

Seriously, Well-Meaning Non-Single Women of the World, stop.

We appreciate that you’re trying to say things to make us Single Ladies and Hopeless Romantics feel better, but what you could really do instead is not give us pitying looks when we talk about disaster dates, suggest in a concerned tone that maybe we could bring “just a friend” to your weddings when we don’t have dates or (and this is my pet peeve) bring the roses your boyfriend/husband/significant other sent you around the office for a tour o’ cubicles before you place them on top of your bookshelf so that everyone walking through Cubeland can see how loved you are.

Really, it just pisses us off. But I’ve digressed.

I was having one of those conversations about being single with The Banker. We were discussing the pros and cons of online dating and generally having a nice time when I spotted a woman in a booth across from our table motioning to my chest.

“Do you see those?” she asked her friends as she pointed to my breasts. “I mean, that is just ridiculous.”

I tried to slyly look down and prayed that I wasn’t having an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction. I had leaned in a bit while The Banker was speaking because the music was kind of loud and the very edge of my lace bra was peeking out of my round-necked top. I adjusted it, but it certainly wasn’t a major issue and my breasts were certainly covered and not inappropriately displayed.

The neckline of my top was pretty open, with a princess seam under my bustline. I’m going to admit, the construction of the shirt does not hide the fact that I have a chest, but I am careful and generally try to avoid letting the low neckline slip down so that you can see too much cleavage. (In fact, when I stand up and sit up with good posture, you can’t see cleavage at all.) Unfortunately, short of binding my chest down with freezer tape, there is little any shirt can do to hide the D-cups. I certainly don’t have Pam Anderson’s chest, but I have my fair share in the breast department. And I’m hoping working out and eating healthy (save the three glasses of wine from Friday!) will take some extra pounds off. Sometimes when women make catty comments about my chest, I want to just whip my head around and tell them, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was burka night tonight at the bar. Forgive me for offending your delicate sensibilities. Bitch.”

Also, the woman harping on my chest was wearing a shirt that showed far more skin that mine. If she’d had my breasts, it would have been an unfortunate situation. And yeah, I had a sweater shrug on too, so it would be difficult to make the argument that I was just putting the Twins out there for all to see. (And even if I did have the Girls out for the world to see, who cares? It’s MY body in MY clothes that I pay for by working hard at MY job.)

I tried to ignore the women and their catty comments as they continued whining about breasts. But I caught this one curly-haired girl giving me a stare down. And it made me really uncomfortable.

We headed out around midnight and I was a bit frazzled by the whole thing, which I hadn’t brought up with The Banker, because she is a bit more conservative than I am and I doubt she’d want to discuss my breasts and their level of coveredness in public.

I climbed in bed, watched a few episodes of my recently delivered “Grey’s Anatomy” DVD and drifted to sleep around 3 a.m., feeling less invincible before, but ever-so-slightly like I might still be able to turn the world on with my smile.

Saturday

I woke up and took a friend to pick up a rental car. My Mary Tyler Moore-ness started to wane as I realized that there was some sort of electrical short in my car that had caused my windshield wipers and blinkers to stop working. (Not a good thing for a cold, rainy, overcast weekend.)

I went and saw the new baby, who is just so tiny and cute enough to eat. I held him and he looked so perfect wrapped up in a blanket with his tiny fingers and cute button nose. He is so little that I thought I’d break him when I changed his diaper.

My eyes glazed over as I whispered secrets into his sleeping ears about how special he was and how we were so excited that he was here. (Ok, he’s only like a week old, but it is never too early to start working on his self-esteem, right?)

“You do not need a baby.” My mom said, interrupting my daydream. “Not now, dear.”

I protested that I wasn’t thinking that I did and my Mom gave me a knowing look that said she wasn’t born yesterday. So I reluctantly left the cutie with him mom and went home.

Saturday night I met another girlfriend at the same bar (didn’t plan it that way, it just happened) for more wine and catching up. A crew of random people we knew stopped by the visit for awhile. I finally dragged myself home at around 1:30 a.m. and woke up with cottonmouth in full makeup with a Whole Foods burrito wrapper on the nightstand this morning.

Ah yes, the late night drunk carb fest.

At least they were organic vegan carbs, right?

I have been feeling oddly maternal lately. All of this started when I ventured into the Baby Gap a few weeks ago to buy a shower present for a family member. Soft cotton clothes in light pastel colors, mini baseball caps and itsy-bitsy socks surrounded me. And, much like a cartoon anvil comes crashing down on the unsuspecting coyote, my maternal instincts rushed through me.

It has only been recently that I’ve even owned up to the fact that one day I do want children. (One day. Not now. No no no. Not now.) So feeling overtly maternal, well, was more than slightly unexpected.

As I sauntered through the Baby Gap choosing between leaf green baby snugglies and soft fleece blankets, I was locked in a sort of intense daydream about children and having them.

(I swear, I just lost every last male reader I ever had. Ever. Guys do NOT want to hear about the wanting of the children. At least, I find that they don’t. Or the ones I know don’t.)

“Don’t you just love that?” a saleswoman asked me, as I fingered a twee nightgown with a bottom that tied closed. “It is so perfect at night when you don’t want to be messing with snaps. I always put my baby to sleep in that.”

I smiled and contemplated the size. The nightgown looked small. I could not imagine a person fitting inside of it. I was about to ask her how big, say, a three-month-old child was when she interrupted me.

“How old is your child?”

I was taken aback. I am not a Mom! I do not give off a Mom vibe! I was on my way to dinner with the ladies before seeing “Brokeback Mountain” for crying out loud. I was staying out late. On a weeknight!

“Oh, I don’t have one. I am, you know, shopping. For a baby shower.”

She seemed disappointed that I wasn’t a member of her special baby nightgown club. And at that moment, I have to admit that I was too. I selected a baby outfit with a darling matching hat that is reversible (to give baby more fashion choices) and left the world of tiny trousers behind me. I felt a slight longing for kids while at the actual shower, but in general, the feeling waned.

A few weeks later I was watching my younger cousins one evening. They were miraculously well-behaved, eating bowls full of gumbo like mad and generally entertaining themselves with video games. They didn’t even fight me when it came time for baths.

The younger one was all dressed in his pajamas and sitting on the couch when I walked by straightening up. His hair was a little damp and it was pointing every which was but normal.

I smiled, grabbed a comb and smoothed his hair into place so it wouldn’t dry all askew.

“You look like a nice little boy now,” I assured him and kissed him on the forehead.

He got a devilish look in his eyes.

“Do I look handsome?”

He turned his head, pursed his lips and batted his long eyelashes, showing off his carefully groomed hair.

“Yes, babe, you look very handsome. Very handsome indeed.” I smiled. And those maternal instincts fluttered a bit in my stomach.

Just now, I overheard a coworker talking to her child on the phone. She had this fabulous animated tone, so much happier than her normal tone.

“There was a fire truck at work today! Can you believe it?” She relayed the story to her son.

“No, no. There wasn’t a fire. Or smoke. No, no one was smoking inside the building,” she laughed.

She paused and I could tell that the child was talking.

“Yes, dear. You are right. It is not good for people to smoke inside the building,” she said very seriously.

And now it’s back. Stupid silly feeling maternal.

I will knock this feeling, I will. I’m so going to dinner with the girls on Friday night, staying out waaaay late, flirting with boys, drinking wine and wearing uncomfortable shoes. I will be young and fabulous and irresponsible and I will prove that I am no more fit to be a mother than Britney “Look at my baby drive!” Spears.

Hear that, Maternal Instinct? I’ll show you!

I was trying to have an opinion on Valentine’s Day, I really was. I was trying to be upset or angry or happy or all “girl power.”

I wrote and rewrote and just butchered a post about the day last night. I didn’t have anything special to say. So I cranked the iTunes and tracked through some of my favorites.

I listened to a range of love-themed songs, from the classic wedding tune “At Last” by Etta James, which can single handedly melt my heart when I have become cynical, to the wrenching “I Can’t Make You Love Me” by Bonnie Raitt, which is enough to make me want to crawl under the covers and cry for days when I can commiserate.

There is the slightly sad, but ultimately hopeful “Ready for Love” by India Arie, about being ready for and open to mature feelings of love. And the dismal “I Know” by Fiona Apple, which captures that moment when you delude yourself into thinking he loves you and lower yourself to being in the background and waiting.

When I am coming out of the fog of romanticism and need to feel empowered, no song lifts by spirits like “Right To Be Wrong” by Joss Stone. But before I get there, I’m always going to stop by for some Aretha “R-E-S-P-E-C-T.” And I’d be lying if I neglected to mention that “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor is one of those cheesy disco songs during which I give myself permission to sing loudly and do hand motions while in public.

The bitter break-up anthem for people my age, “You Oughta Know” by Alanis Morissette has come in handy at times. (As has “Untouchable Face” by Ani DiFranco and the absolutely miserable “Grace is Gone” by the Dave Matthews Band.) And I’ve always found it quite ironic (but, like, really ironic) that the same woman who penned one of the most forcefully angry love-is-over songs also (on the same album) has one of my favorite songs for new loves and new crushes and possibilities in “Head Over Feet,” (from “Jagged Little Pill”) which I have giddily enjoyed since high school.

While we’re talking new love, I listen to “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?” year-round, because it describes that time in the beginning before the other shoe has dropped when you are just ecstatic to even be approaching the object of your affection. And songwriter John Hiatt gets me every time with “Feels Like Rain,” because who doesn’t love to spend a lazy rainy day in the arms of the person they love. And yes, Joni Mitchell, I can drink “A Case Of You” and still be on my feet.

I am a huge fan of the terribly overplayed and over hyped “Bless the Broken Road” by Rascal Flats, because at my core I always be a hopeless romantic and I can honestly still say I believe there will be a moment when all of the dating disasters, the unreturned phone calls, the silly games and emotional unsteadiness, crying into a pillow and having “just one more glass of wine” will make sense and end with me happy with a guy who is going to love me for all of my ridiculousness and flaws and who will just get me.

And if there’s not, there’s always tequila and Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name.” Sing it, man.

A dear lawyer friend of mine moved to a suburb of New Orleans in early August. She got a great job in the city, rented a cute condo and was settling into N’awlins just fine. Just fine indeed. And she was well poised to continue her storybook life as a high-heeled, well-suited attorney with a nice firm. This was the life that she’d dreamt of and that dream kept her focused through each all-nighter, each early class, each final. And she loved the life she’d earned.

Things didn’t work out as she had planned, obviously. Mother Nature is stronger that human will sometimes. But she’s a hard worker, a nose-to-the-grindstone type. And she wasn’t content to have her story end somewhere around a molded out townhouse and the end to her dream job. So she did what a high-heeled, well-suited attorney should do. She sent out more resumes than we can count. And she landed a job, making more money, at smaller shop in her hometown of sorts. And she bought herself a cute little house and some new furniture and things are very different, as she misses New Orleans very much.

And on Saturday, friends, family and new co-workers met at her cute little home for a housewarming. I made the trip to the North Shore for the occasion.

It reminded me of why I love this place so much. There was food, rich with flavor and so many fat grams and calories that I didn’t count. Gatherings like these – complete with loud talking, music and overflowing drink – are the same in every household ‘round here. Sure, there are different ingredients each time, like how my friend’s family puts corn in their gumbo and mine is more the okra type, but the end result is the same. It was spicy and good, like the company.

After the “grown-ups” left, we drank more. Did shots. Played cards. We were loud and cursing and young. And it was fun and relaxing.

Sunday morning I woke up still dressed in clothes from the night before on an air mattress in the spare bedroom with hair mussed and head pounding. A small crew of friends had crashed on various couches and beds, and we convened in the kitchen to relive the night before. (Apparently I had called the girl who got in the actual spare bed a whore because I’d wanted to sleep there and demanded that my friend bring me “my pills,” because I wanted to take a Tylenol before bed. Angry drunk, I guess.) And we munched on leftover crackers with cheesy spreads and crisp carrots in ranch dip and muffins the Lawyer’s mom left for the occasion. My friends tried to convince me that the “hair of the dog” would perk me right up. They made Mimosas and Bloody Marys, but I was in no mood for more alcohol.

People slowly dispersed. I lounged around, trying to build up the energy to drive home.

“Do you want to go?” asked the Lawyer. “Do you want to go see where it flooded?”

I didn’t. I’d been avoiding this for months, changing my New Year’s plans just days before the big night because I didn’t want to go to New Orleans. Tears had welled in my eyes as I’d driven in on Saturday, just to see the thinned out treeline and debris lining the roads. And I hadn’t seen anything yet.

Some people I know had been to the city and visited the hard-hit areas. The Lower Ninth, Chalmette. I’d never gone. Something about it just seemed improper, as if I’d be sightseeing in someone else’s personal destruction and misery.

But I needed to see what happened, I suppose. And the Lawyer wanted to take me. I think she wanted to tell the story and to have her friends know just how bad it was, since telling doesn’t work. Everyone always told me that pictures don’t do it justice.

And everyone was right.

“It doesn’t always look like this,” she said as we drove through her town. “I mean, with the trash. And the trailers everywhere. It should be cleaner.” She made excuses because she didn’t want me to think poorly of where she’d grown up.

“I know, baby. Sweetie, I know.”

Trees were mangled, houses blown out. Or sometimes there were just pilings, with no house to be found. And the Lake was smooth and calm looking, not angry and vicious like it was six months before.

Cars, boats and trucks decorated the sides of the road and people’s front yards. No person could destroy in this way. Not with a million machines and bombs and the will of an army could you cause such uniquely terrible devastation in a mere matter of hours. It is so terrible that there are no words, and I don’t even know why I’m trying to force there to be.

I blinked back tears behind the big sunglasses I’d worn specifically to hide my emotion. And the Lawyer pointed out landmarks, houses of people she knew. There was a sense of randomness about the damage, with some homes just being totally demolished and others looking like they just needed a good gutting and some remodeling.

“You know, people work their whole lives to get here,” she said. “To live on the water, on the lake. This is their retirement, their nest-egg.”

“From rich to poor,” she said. “From the nicest houses in the town to trailers in their front yards.”

I left shortly thereafter. I didn’t go see my family’s property; most notably because it’s been years since I’ve been and street signs and landmarks are hard to come by right now. (“You’ll never find it, babe,” Mom said when I’d called and inquired about the street name. “And if you did, I know you wouldn’t recognize it. Not now.”) It’s just as well, I suppose.

I wasn’t paying attention when I left and I got on the wrong Interstate as I went westward home. I felt nauseous thinking about driving on a bridge that was previously washed out and passing by New Orleans East.

From the highway I could see blue-covered roofs, with tarps to protect the homes from the elements. And homes where the tarps weren’t necessary, because you can’t cover a gaping hole if you don’t have a roof to begin with.

More tears, only this time there was no reason to hide them, as I was alone. Words to sad songs filled my mind. And I let them, because sometimes you need to be sad, to get it out, to wallow in pain.

“Rained real hard / it rained for a real long time / six feet of water in the streets of Evangeline”

I grabbed my phone and called a friend who’d moved back to the city for his graduate program just a month ago. He was free, so I promised to hop of the Interstate for a glass of wine and to catch up for about an hour. I’d avoided being in the city for long enough. I am a big girl, a grown up. And it was now or never.

“Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans / And miss her each night and day”

I knew I was nearing the city when the driving became more defensive. Out of shock because of the missing rooftops and tangled trees, I’d unknowingly dropped my speed to barely 45, much to the chagrin of my fellow drivers, who flew around me with angry eyes.

Yes, the angry drivers meant I was back. It wasn’t exactly same in the city. A lot of things are closed and still boarded up. But is was similar. I still missed my exit. I still turned the wrong way and had to loop back around. I still got lost.

“Some people got lost in the flood / Some people got away all right”

But at its core, the city still has that certain je ne sais quoi. I know this because I always get a feeling of history and wonder and culture and everything good when I am there. And as I passed familiar restaurants and shops – Rue De La Course and the Whistlestop Café, where for some reason I remember I’d eaten breakfast with my great aunt one time many, many years ago – I felt that sense of amazement creep back in. There is something brilliant and intangible about this city. It feels so old, like it has seen so much, and that if you listen it will tell you. “It’s been a real hard time, cher,” the city would say if it could speak. “But don’t cry, because darlin’ it’s gonna be alright.”

It is odd to see gorgeous uptown homes spray painted on the front or on the sidewalk, marking the houses as checked for survivors or those who perished in the days after the storm. (I think.) Some are painted over, but some you still see, like a scar you can cover with make-up. But is doesn’t go away.

I had Merlot at my friend’s new place. It is smaller, which is probably for the best since he didn’t save much furniture from his flooded apartment.

He seemed to be doing okay. He said he misses living in a fully functional city. When I said I had to get back on the road, he said, “I want to go home, too. I wish I could go with you.”

“Now, now, do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?” I teasingly quoted Louis Armstrong, pronouncing it “Or-leans” and not “Awlins,” as we often do down here.

“You will be fine. You’re in New Orleans! A great city! A fabulous city! You will be fine.”

And just like that, I conquered my fear of seeing a place I love in such disarray. I sighed as I left, remembering nights at bars, good dinners, walking down Canal Street at 3 a.m. in a panic because I couldn’t find my hotel. Parade-watching during Mardi Gras and that year when I was a child and I tumbled off of my parade seat atop a ladder, falling head first to the ground, on what I think was St. Charles Street. I had really wanted a doubloon from that parade and I’d leaned forward and slipped out of my father’s firm grasp. I stood up screaming, and my parents cleaned me up and I’d shaken it off.

I wish I’d seen a Streetcar on Sunday, because as long as I can remember, I’ve associated the Streetcars with the city. They are in all of my romanticized memories of New Orleans. When I was little, I’d always been so scared when we drove on the cut throughs across the Streetcar lines. I’d worried the Streetcar would smash into our little van and push us into traffic, which I’m sure has actually happened more than once. And as an adult, when I saw weeks ago on the news that the Streetcars were running again, I’d cried just like a baby. Just like when I fell off that ladder into the street.

But I didn’t see the Streetcar on Sunday evening, so I guess I’ll just have to go back for more visits.

‘Cause, Louis, I do know what it means to miss New Orleans. And the feeling’s getting stronger the longer I stay away.

I slid up to the bar, in between some girls with shiny hair flat-ironed within an inch of its life and tans that would have looked fake at best in July and just looked ridiculous in February.

“Hey, whatcha doing here?” B asked, as he motioned to a barstool a few seats away, as I had unwittingly interrupted a “Girls Night Out” and was getting a stare down for accidentally taking an absent member’s stool.

B tends bar two nights a week at this popular (if slightly cheesy) Mexican restaurant. Other days he manages. He talks a good game about opening his own bar with good beer and heavv-ish bar food, and I wish he would, instead of staying chained to someone else’s bar.

“I just saw a movie with Our Friend and she was tired, so she wanted to go home. I wanted a glass of wine, made a few calls and no one wanted to really get out in this torrential downpour,” I said. “But you, you HAVE to be here.”

He nodded. “White or red?”

“White – do you have anything but Chardonnay?”

He rolled his eyes. I ask that all of the time. And the answer is always no and that people come here for large quantities of margaritas and tequila, not wine.

“Chardonnay, then,” I sighed, playfully giving him a hard time. “If it is just Chardonnay, I’ll just have the House, I suppose.”

He grinned at my slight snobiness as he poured my glass.

“Ah, my dear,” he said as he motioned to the bottle of cheap, mass-produced wine. “January 2006, it was a good month.” And he placed the glass before me.

***

We chatted a bit while he kept an eye on the Girls Night Out at one end of the bar and a few patrons who were nursing their drinks. Though we have spoken, I don’t think I’ve actually seen him since I had a drink with him and The Other Woman. We work opposite schedules and it is simply impossible for me to go out drinking past 2 a.m. during the week and be peppy, personable and prepared at work at 7:30 a.m.

He was called away by the Girls Night Out. He clearly loved the attention and these girls are they type he always thinks is so attractive. Too young, too made up, too “Ohmygawd, like, wow. Awesome.” All eyeliner and lip gloss. He took their picture for them, freshened their drinks and generally enjoyed himself.

I sipped my wine and studied myself in the mirror behind the bar. My hair was pulled back in a tight, low chignon at the base of my neck, with my caramel streaks peaking through and my bangs pinned to the side. I need to schedule a color-touch up. Maybe in a few weeks.

I’d scrubbed my face clean of the day’s makeup before the movie. I had applied a light dusting of powder on my face and hadn’t seen the need for more concealer or base and only a thin coat of mascara darkened my brown lashes. To complete the look, a swipe of light pink eyeshadow and a light layer of gloss, most of which was probably left on my Diet Coke at the theatre.

I hooked my heels on the rungs of my barstool and just watched. B with the Girls Night Out. A group of Country Boys, also too young, who drooled over the Girls as well.

B came over to wait in the Country Boys. They talked about the girls, B joked that he had the best seat in the house. And much to my amusement, the Girls left, oblivious to their admirers across the bar.

“Aw, where are your girlfriends going?” I asked B teasingly.

The Country Boys tried to order shots and B got to show off his knowledge of whiskey and tequilas while they picked one. They clearly were more into quantity than quality.

“Um, well, there is always Southern Comfort,” B suggested half-heartedly.

“SoCo?” I shuddered.

“Yes. It’s a shot they’re pushing. SoCo and lime,” B said.

“Ew.”

One of the Country Boys interrupted. “You don’t like Southern Comfort?” he asked me. “Seriously, where are you from?”

“Uh, HERE.” I said, wondering if my drawl isn’t pronounced enough because I am not from in The Sticks. “Born and raised. And I haven’t had SoCo since we used to hide a bottle at a friend’s house and mix it with Diet Coke before we went out to dances and parties in high school. When I was 18. You know, back when they dinosaurs roamed.”

“Hey! It wasn’t THAT long ago,” B protested, because he is a year older than I am.

***

I talked with the Barback as he stocked beers and ice bins.

“How do you know B?”

I leaned back and paused, tracing the edge of my wine glass with my fingertips.

“You have to think?” he asked.

I laughed. “A mutual friend,” I said. “A mutual friend introduced us.”

“That’s typically how it goes.”

“I had to think because I’ve known him for so long. You know how when you’ve known someone for five years and you’ve been friends with them and you have to think back as to how you met, because they’ve just been a fixture in this phase of your life?”

“Yes, I think I do,” he said.

I was working on my second glass of wine.

“So, you’re just hanging out?” The Barback asked.

“Yeah, my friend didn’t want to have a drink with me after we saw a movie. This is why it’s good to have a Bartender friend on a boring Friday night. Plus, the people watching is amazing.”

“Yeah, you’d be surprised how many women come in here and just have a drink alone,” The Barback said. “You see a lot when you watch the people here.”

He was right. In the past I’d seen first dates, worst dates, drunk women throwing themselves at men and vice versa. I feel extremely normal and well adjusted when I people watch at bars.

“Well, I could have had a glass of wine at home. But why do that when I can come here? The things you see. The people and what they’re wearing and how they’re interacting.”

***

I’d finished my second glass of wine. B motioned for me to join him. The place was closing down and he was taking a minute to eat dinner before the bar closed. I sat with him at a table and teased him for shoveling the food in his mouth.

“Bar and restaurant food is all I eat now,” he said. “I have no food at my house right now. I am always here.”

He finished and we returned to the bar. I tried to talk him into coming out for a drink with me, since he can’t drink at work. As we bantered back and forth, he being too tired and me being not tired enough, a woman and her guyfriends were arguing or conversing loudly at the end of the bar.

“She’s in here all of the time,” B said. “She’s nuts.”

“Good nuts or bad nuts?”

“Just nuts.”

They paid for their drinks and took their food to go, gathering packages of chips and boxes of enchiladas and rice.

I teased B as he directed The Barback and inspected his work, making sure everything was cleaned, that the margarita machines were refilled and that the beer was restocked.

“You can revolt,” I told The Barback. “You shouldn’t listen to him.”

“He’s the puppetmaster. He is in charge.”

I sat sideways on my stool, and rested my feet on the stool next to me, my knees bent, watching the staff close and the patrons trickle out, conversing some with B as he emptied his tip jars and traded quarters for dollars.

“Well who invited you! Who invited you!”

Down the bar, Nuts Woman was yelling at her friends. “Who invited you!”

“No! Who invited you!” her friend yelled back, and stormed out into the rain. She was still yelling at him.

“Bye B, she you later!” Nuts Woman yelled to B, who just waved and laughed, as if it was totally normal for someone to scream and carry on as she left. Apparently, in this woman’s case, it was.

“And YOU,” she directed her angry gaze at me. “Bye! AND THANKS FOR THE DIRTY LOOKS! THANKS A LOT!”

She stomped out and my eyes got big. I turned to B and The Barback, who were beside themselves with laughter.

“Was I giving her a mean look?” I asked. “I wasn’t giving her a mean look at all. I don’t even know her!”

B thought it was hysterical. “She just nuts.”

“Nuts,” he repeated for emphasis.

“And THAT is what you get for people watching,” said The Barback.