Charming, but single

I have my quirks — a couple of things I do out of a bit of fear that is so mild and silly that it is more superstition or habit than anything else.

Each night I go through the apartment to make sure that the lights are all off. As I walk from my dark living area and into my bedroom, I speed up my pace a little bit and as I get about a foot and a half from the edge of the mattress, I leap right into the bed and quickly crawl to the middle, never letting my feet get close to the edge.

When I was little I was afraid a witch was going to grab my tiny little ankles and pull me right down into her lair, which was under my bed. And 20-some-odd years later, I am still worried about this — but only at night.

I also always check to make sure no one is in the shower when I go in the bathroom. Anyone’s bathroom. My bathroom, my friends’ bathrooms, my parents’ bathrooms, bathrooms at a hotel, bathrooms at parties.

You don’t even want to know how many gross showers I had to peak in when I was at parties in college at some crappy house shared by four boys with one bathroom that they cleaned maybe once a semester when their parents were coming to visit.

It is a mild obsession. I know no one is in the shower. But until I see that for myself, I am tense.

My sister is the same way. It was mildly reassuring for me to know that I wasn’t the only one who was checking for a psycho (dressed in a very scary clown mask, natch) in the shower with my conditioner, shower gel and exfoliating mitt.

“It just makes sense to hide in the bathroom if you’re a crazy axe murderer,” my sister explains. “Because you’d definitely catch the person off guard and with their pants down.”

Not me. Because I have a plan.

If I ever find someone in my shower, I’m going to pull the shower rod down and whack them over the head with it. And then run screaming into my bedroom, lock the door, push something in front of it and call the police.

I just hope the Witch isn’t under the bed when I get in there.

* I know “of which I am scared” is proper grammar. But, seriously.

Note: Part 1 is here. Read it first!

We snagged some barstools and I arranged myself confidently, shoulders back, purse in front of me on the bar, my light-pink tipped hands folded in my lap, enjoying slow sips of wine as I caught up with Single Girl, made plans for the next weekend when Party Girl would be in town and successfully defended myself from The Blackberry’s numerous attempts to pick me up.

He was persistent. Hand on my shoulder. Snappy lines. Invitations to dance – to this I rather cruelly drew his attention down my smooth legs to the heels I’d perched myself atop – they were black and tall and bare, with a mere one-inch strap of leather holding my foot in the shoe.

“I don’t own many shoes suitable for dancing,” I said coolly.

He left me alone for a bit after this. I texted Prom Date, “At the bar. You need to save me.” And then I engaged one of The Blackberry’s friends in a debate about who would maintain control of the Senate in the election and the friendly bet of a drink was wagered.

Then The Blackberry was back, with two women flitting around him, both in costume.

One was dressed as Tinkerbell, with the reddest of red lips to accompany. I recognized her immediately as the woman he’d bent over Prom Date’s lap and kissed weeks before. Her friend was dressed in a mishmash of black clothes with a purple wig messily placed upon her head. A homemade sign taped to her said, “Getting Wiggy With It!”

I was immediately glad I’d opted against wearing a costume to the bar.

The Blackberry teased me about being cold, about not liking him, about having an agenda.

“If I have an agenda, then I would love to see a copy of it,” I snapped back, as I sipped from my second overfilled glass of wine.

He tripped over his words and came up with, “You know what your agenda is.”

“No, I don’t. When you figure it out, e-mail me a copy.”

He motioned to Tinkerbell and started talking.

“The last time I saw her, you had her bent over to make out with her.”

He denied it, but not very convincingly.

He ordered drinks for himself and Wig Girl. They took a few sips and he announced that they should dance, and left their drinks by me, with instructions to watch the drinks for them.

Prom Date arrived and a few minutes later The Blackberry was back, with Wig Girl hanging on him. They retrieved their unscathed drinks and he looked at me.

“You snooze, you lose,” The Blackberry said, shooting a pointed glance at Wig Girl.

“Oh really?” I said, with as little interest as I could muster.

“You have such contempt for me,” he said. “I don’t understand why.”

“You don’t like me because I’m honest,” I said. “And contempt is a strong word. I have contempt for murderers and child molesters. I don’t have contempt for you.”

At this point I’d ordered a third glass, but switched to my own tab, figuring that I didn’t need to mooch off of The Blackberry all night. Single Girl was chatting with a professor who was now bankrolling her drinks. And as I reached for a third overfilled glass of wine, I was starting to feel a little warm and fuzzy. Like I needed a hug and a long slow kiss. Like someone should be taking advantage of my prettiness.

Like me.

So I flipped open the cell phone. The Crier/Good On Paper was out of town. And I landed on The Nurse.

Now, I am not particularly proud of this, but after careful consideration, I decided that the pursuit of hugs was worth a little embarrassment. So I sent him a message.

“Ok, I know we don’t hang out. I am kind of loaded. My place later?”

I regretted it the second I pressed send. Single Girl (who works at the same hospital as The Nurse) chastised me. Half-drunk Prom Date pointed out that even if he didn’t call me back, I’d surely be no worse off – I wasn’t really losing anything by asking.

This sounded reasonable to me.

The Blackberry was back. He had Wig Girl cornered off two barstools away from me. He’d still flutter over to me at times to make a comment. He opened his wallet to show me he’d kept my card – but he unwittingly pulled out someone else’s before he finally located mine.

I turned back to my wine. Single Girl continued talking to the professor.

Not getting a response from The Nurse was grating on my nerves. I couldn’t believe he wasn’t calling me. I couldn’t believe I cared. The Blackberry escorted Wig Girl out, I assumed to take her home with him.

“Finally!” I slouched in my barstool. “I thought he’d never leave.”

A few minutes later he was back at my side.

“Where’s your friend with the Wig?” I asked.

“She went home,” he said. “And I’m saving myself for you.”

And he came up behind my barstool and slid his hands around my waist, pressing his body in closer to me. And he leaned in and – inches from my neck – he began whispering in my ear. I felt his hot breath on my skin and I straightened up in my chair as he told me he was going home and asked in hushed tones if I was going to come with him.

“I’m good here, thanks,” I said.

He left alone and shortly thereafter Single Girl took me home. I straightened up around the house – possibly because I thought The Nurse might call. A few hours later, I woke up sitting in a chair in my living room, still dressed, still tipsy, still alone.

I have updated my blogroll. Finally. And it was waaaay out of date. I started with 148 blogs this morning. I ended with 233. That’s right. I added 85 blogs to my blogroll. And then I got tired.

I am mortified that some people blogrolled me months and months ago and I am just adding them now. Mortified. Like forgetting to send a wedding present mortified. Like leaving the house in a white shirt with a black bra mortified. Sorry.

I may take Charlotte’s lead and get a blog personal assistant.

So, I went through Technorati links and my e-mail and my sitemeter and my comments. But I KNOW I forgot some. So, if I did, please e-mail me, comment here, comment on the blogroll page. Do all three if you want. Also, e-mail me if I misspelled your name or blog title or whatever. It was a lot of cutting and pasting and coffee.

A few notables from the new additions to the ‘roll:

Best blog title of the new bunch added to the ‘roll: I was told there would be bacon

This is funny. Especially since I hate bacon. If I were told there would be bacon, I would not be excited.

Best Halloween costume posted about on a new addition to my blogroll: The Franzia Box from bee-spot. Dear God, how much Franzia did I drink in college? My old roommate and I would alternate who bought the box. I want to puke just thinking about it.

Fellow NaNoWriMo participant: Life of a Georgia Farmer

Bring it. Because I have 50,000 words inside of me. I know it.

The anti-NaNoWriMo blogger new to the ‘roll: Jen All Day

I will not abandon my blog. I will not!

Two men after my own heart: Girlfriend ’07

Because I also want to have someone special to make out with on New Year’s Eve.

Pimping the online dating: Yahoo! Personals Blog

Yes, Yahoo! Personals has a blog written by their online dating experts. If I date online any longer, I may become an expert on how NOT to online date correctly. E-mail me, Yahoo! Personals Dating Experts! You read my blog. You know I need serious help with the online dating.

The blogger whose pain I feel because I am a professional wing woman at times: The Misadventures of Wing-Woman

Because I always wanted to be a red head, but no amount of hair dye and watching “My So-Called Life” could do it: Thoughts of a Crazy Red Head

Guys, this is who you blame when you have to ask your girlfriend to marry you in some crazy way. Because, seriously, if this works out for him … you’ll all be screwed. (“Flowers? Candles! HE PAID $2.5 MILLION FOR A COMMERICIAL!”): My Super Proposal

Because I’ve always wished I had a British accent: Girl Dates London

I really like the word copasetic: The Copasetic Fish

At some point during the day on Friday, I had decided that I was to look devastatingly hot that night when I joined friends for cocktails at a cigar bar.

Devastatingly hot meant moisturizing, deep conditioning, plucking, exfoliating, polishing, moussing, straightening, brushing, combing, shadowing, concealing, powdering, smoothing, spraying and glossing entire sections of my body and being into a frenzy, boosting my bosoms with a cleavage enhancing bra and topping it all off with a black dress and three-inch heels, accessorized with dangling earrings and my new pink clutch from Latico NJ.

This all took considerably longer than I’d hoped and left me craving a soft Henley and my sweatpants. But dressed to kill, I ran on my tippy toes to my friend Single Girl’s car as the wind whipped around my smooth legs, which were feeling excessively bare in the crisp October evening air.

“Damn. You look hot. I just wore jeans,” Single Girl said.

“You look great,” I said. “But I had to look fantastic tonight. I decided earlier today that because The Blackberry didn’t call, I was going to remind him of what he missed out on by ignoring that there was a process.”

I checked my lips in my compact and smiled at my reflection. I was going to melt his smug face right off.

“How do you know he’s going to be there?” she asked.

“He will be there. He is always there.”

“And so your plan is to …”

“Look hot and see what happens,” I said. “So far, I can tell you that he isn’t my type and that I’m not going to go home with him.”

“Uh-huh.”

I don’t know why I was so intensely focused on this. Maybe I was a touch hurt that after weeks of bad flirting, I’d given him my number, sure that he would call. And his ego was too bruised from me rejecting him to call me. Which, in turn, bruised my ego because a man I didn’t really feel a great chemistry with had rejected me.

It is the calculus of attraction. I didn’t make it up; I am just powerless to its equation.

We entered in the back of the bar, past the band and I saw several men glance in our direction. The bar was running a bit slim on guys our age, and we passed through the loud back room and into the hall that would lead us into the area that is more of a smoking lounge.

As I shuffled along the brick-paved hall, trying not to tip forward in my uncomfortably tall heels, The Blackberry breezed through. As he passed me, he looked me up and down and stammered, “Well, hello.”

I nodded, tucked my clutch under my arm and walked by, channeling my inner catwalk queen.

Single Girl was aghast.

“That was him?”

“I told you he wasn’t my type. Also, he’s in a Clark Kent turning into Superman costume. He doesn’t wear glasses.”

We milled around the back bar waiting for drinks. Single Girl ordered Crown and Coke and I frustrated the bartender by ordering a wine that they didn’t have behind the bar. Single Girl sipped her drink and started a tab while I waited, quite impatiently, for my wine.

No more than two minutes passed and The Blackberry whizzed back into the room, honed in on me, his target, and was at my side.

“So, what’s going on? And will you be my Lois Lane?”

“I think they couldn’t find my wine,” I said, ignoring his second question as I motioned to the bartender, who was uncorking the bottle and pouring me a generous glass. I introduced him to Single Girl. He shook her hand and then took mine and kissed it.

“Hey!” he called to the bartender. “She drinks on me. And her too.”

The bartender nodded and slid a very full glass of wine to me.

“She’ll take care of you. She’s an ex-girlfriend of mine,” he said, sliding his hand into the small of my back. I tensed up and pulled my body from him as his fingertips grazed the soft fabric of my thin black dress and I turned to him to smile. He leaned in for a kiss and I turned my perfectly blushed cheek, thanked him for the wine and focused my attention back to Single Girl as he moved on to his next target.

He was barely two steps away when Single Girl leaned into the bartender and said, “Transfer my drink to his tab.” And she slipped her credit card back into her purse.

“[Single Girl]!” I gasped with mock horror.

“Oh please,” she said, rolling her eyes and pausing for a sip of Crown. “If he thinks showing off and buying our drinks is going to woo you, then I say that tonight the drinks are on him.”

A few weeks ago I did an interview with a content producer from Associated Content, which is a Web site of freelance writers.

You can read the interview here. Kind of long. It is me talking about why I blog, my views on dating and relationships and the future.

It’s kind of odd to be called an “up-and-coming” blogger and a “rising star” of the blogosphere. I’m going to hire that Nick Katers to write my online personals profile.

And, yes, I mentioned that I’m doing National Novel Writing Month. So I guess that means I have to now, huh?

Damn.