Charming, but single

I am pissed at The Nurse.

Not because of the disappearing act or anything like that. Life’s too short. Seriously.

No, I’m pissed at him because he rocked my world and then took it away. He gave me exactly what I craved and left me without it.

He introduced me to the only terrible hole-in-the-wall bar in town that serves Fat Tire – my favorite. Illegal to sell here, natch.

And now I can never go there again.

Bastard.

I was contemplating this beer because it reminds me of my favorite upcoming season of all.

Holiday Beer Season.

I had my first of the year tonight, Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale 2006.

The full flavor of ale, the slight bitterness, the extra oomph of a bit of spice. Divine.

All I can think is, “Please let the Anchor Steam Christmas Ale get here soon. I am wasting away without it!”

Melodramatically, I wrote bad rhyming poetry to mark this important occasion:

Pilsners and ciders and stouts, oh my!
So many varieties of beer to try.

But of all the beer I’ve come to toast;
Holiday brews, I love you the most.

Last night at dinner we were sharing dating horror stories. It quickly became a competition to see who had the worst date story. Like a parlor game for singles, winner to be decided by the loudness of the groans heard ’round the table.

My friend went out with an engineer who had a very rigid schedule. When they were discussing lunch plans, he said he always took lunch for exactly an hour at 11:15 and said he liked only two restaurants. It did not go well.

I one-upped her with the guy who didn’t drive because it was an “urban mindset thing.”

She countered with the man she met for a sushi lunch date, who, upon receiving the check, agreed to split it with her (she offered) and then proceeded to pull out a rubber-banded roll of money, give her his half of the bill and tell her to put the whole tab on her credit card. Also, he didn’t contribute for tip.

So I shared the story of the guy who cried when we saw “The Break Up” at the movies. And then talked about burning his ex-girlfriends things.

And I won.

I always win with that story.

Friday night, after a grueling work week, I did my best to drag my tired self out of bed and into the shower so I could go out. I’d sent out an e-mail to some pals telling them I wanted to go out and I wasn’t letting a 13-hour work day and plans to work all day Saturday keep me from a glass of Evolution No. 9. Not now.

Not ever.

I ditched the black dress I was planning to wear in favor of an outfit I love – jeans, my favorite boots and a silky maroon top with an empire seam right below my bust line. Topped with a cute shrug if it is cold. This is one of my favorite go-to outfits for a casual cute night out.

An hour later, Prom Date picked me up and we headed to my favorite downtown wine bar. Love the wine and atmosphere, hate the pretentiousness of having to wait for a table or a couch or an ottoman. All of the tables are marked “reserved” and two men alternate stopping you at the door and keeping you from just sitting – they even went so far as to put a “Reserved” sign up as we were paying our tabs later that night, just to make sure no one took our table when we left.

But the wine is good, the place is relaxing and kind of hip and it is smoke-free, which my recent throat surgery having self really appreciates.

Prom Date and I caught up and were joined by his younger cousin. The three of us joked around and after two glasses of wine and a few chance meetings with a couple of friends and acquaintances from years ago, Prom Date and I headed to a cigar bar for another drink before bed. (This bar has a pretty good ventilation system for a cigar bar and the smoke doesn’t seem to stay in the bar for very long.)

The cigar bar is a favorite of The Blackberry, who may or may not live in the attic of the bar, judging from how much he is there. I had seen him a few weeks before (didn’t write about it) and we’d actually had a normal conversation. He wasn’t terribly drunk as he’d been a few weeks prior and all was well. We’d messaged back and forth a few times later and that was that.

I settled in on a leather couch with Prom Date, who gleefully lit a cigar and ordered a gin and tonic. I celebrated my long week with a cosmo. We were talking about work when the Blackberry came through the doorway of the back room where the band was playing and into the quieter room where we were drinking.

He took one look in our direction and made a beeline to me. He barely grazed by Prom Date and slid in next to me on the couch. Kiss on the cheek, arm on the shoulder in less than a minute, clearly a record of some sort.

He was in full flirting mode. Prom Date kept giggling and giving me these looks as the Blackberry teased me and checked me out and commented on how soft my hair was. (As it should have been, what with the deep conditioning, the pin straight mousse, the pin straight shine spray, the hair spray and the Brilliant Brunette shine cream. But I digress.)

“You have to come dance with me,” he said. “You must.”

I giggled and motioned to my full cosmo, which was clearly not dance floor appropriate. And I crossed my legs and The Blackberry looked down at my high heeled boots and was taken aback. He called them sexy and asked me to dance again.

I declined again and he excused himself to the back to the listen to the band. Prom Date and I had barely had a chance to gossip about him when he returned, more persistent this time. He convinced Prom Date to watch my drink and me to join him for a dance. And even though I was clearly not in the mood, his earnestness was endearing and I took him up on the offer, wobbly sexy boots and all.

I don’t remember the first song we danced to, but the second was “What’s going on” by Marvin Gaye. He was completely uninhibited on the dance floor and I still can’t decide if he was being silly or if he is equally earnest with his dancing style. He twirled me around and rested a hand on my hip. He was into me. Bad.

A woman he introduced as his ex-girlfriend told me that he was a keeper. I smiled and tried not to break my ankle in my heels. After our second dance he leaned in and gave me a peck on the lips. And I led us back to the other room, unsure of how I felt.

He introduced another female patron as an ex-girlfriend and I began to wonder if he’d dating every woman in the place and if he’d ever bothered to go to another bar in town. There are many.

As the evening wore on, his flirtations continued. As I excused myself for yawning because I was tired and we paid our tab, he said, “So, your place?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re place. Is right across the street, right?”

“Yes.”

“So, let’s go.”

“I’m going to go. But alone. I need to get to bed because I have to work tomorrow.”

“So?”

“So, I’m going to sleep. Alone.”

“I’ll wake you up nice and early.”

“I’m sorry. I’m leaving alone.”

He seemed playfully hurt.

“You’re really rejecting me?” he asked.

“I’m just saying that I’m going home alone,” I said, trying to be diplomatic.

He gently argued a bit and I was firm in return.

“I’m not going to randomly do that.”

“You call this random?”

He was referring to the months of missed connections. The Match.com. Seeing me out with Prom Date. Making an ass out of himself drunk. Being a gentleman the next time we hung out.

“I’m going home alone. Because there is a process.”

“A process.”

“Yeah, like dinner,” Prom Date chimed in. He was ready to go home.

I stood up and The Blackberry gave me a hug and tried to kiss me for real this time. I gave him a peck on the lips again.

“You’re really leaving alone?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I reached into my purse and fished out my business card. As I pressed it into his hand, I said, “Because there is a process.”

And I turned on my heel and walked out.

Actual e-mails:

From: Charming, but singe
To: College Roommate

Re: Grumpy mood

I should have worn more color today. I’m in all black!

—

From College Roommate
To: Charming, but single

Re Grumpy mood

I didn’t realize color made your mood better. Are our ensembles like one giant mood ring?

—

From: Charming, but singe
To: College Roommate

Re: Grumpy mood

It is a theory I’m trying out. I’m in all black today. Except for my leopard ballet flats.

—

From College Roommate
To: Charming, but single

Re: Grumpy mood

I think my leopard flats are more casual than yours. I can only wear them with jeans. Not to work. What are you wearing yours with?

—

From: Charming, but singe
To: College Roommate

Re: Grumpy mood
All black. Black pants and a black shirt with 70s or 80s style batwing sleeves.

—

From College Roommate
To: Charming, but single

Re: Grumpy mood

I’m confused. Are you a leopard or a bat?

—

From: Charming, but singe
To: College Roommate

Re: Grumpy mood

I’m a leopard who might need to make a quick escape … hence the wings.

I can never sleep on Sunday nights. It doesn’t matter how much I do, how early I got up, what I have to do on Monday morning. I could run a freaking marathon and follow it up with a million push-ups on Sunday, and I still would be up until freaking 4 a.m. that night.

It’s the anticipation. Of the week. What will happen? Will I work 80 hours this week? Will I have fun on my Margarita Date? Are my black pants ironed? Am I ready for my Tuesday meeting? Maybe I should get out of bed and iron those black pants.

And if the black pants are ironed, what am I going to wear with them? Should I wear the round toe leopard print ballet flats or the pointy toe black flats? Is the fact that I purchased two pairs of flats to replace my big heels a sign that I’m losing my mojo? Is that soft cranberry sweater I bought this weekend dressy enough for Monday? No. It’s more of a Friday outfit. It has a hood. It is a soft sweater cranberry-colored hoodie. What was I thinking? I don’t wear hoodies.

I stole my sister’s hoodie once. It was comfy, but I felt frumpy. I gave it back.

Yes, the sweater hoodie and the flats. Signs of the loss of my mojo and impending doom. The kind of doom that will come because I’m on track to get maybe two hours sleep tonight. If that.

And I have to bring doughnuts to work tomorrow. And yes, that date. Margaritas. Tuesday night maybe? That polka dot wrap dress would be cute for the Margarita Date. With a camisole underneath it because too much cleavage is inadvisable for a first date. Especially since I’m kind of sure that I really am not going to really mesh with him and I’m only really going out with him because I said I would and I’m a nice girl.

Crap. It is 3 a.m. My alarm goes off at 5 a.m.

Double crap.