Charming, but single

Sunday afternoon I saw “The Holiday.” I happen to love seeing matinee movies alone with a big diet coke and candy, which I bring in my large purses, naturally. I get there early, pick out a good seat – high and in the middle.

As the previews began, it was obvious to me that there was a projection error. There was a two-foot black stripe at the bottom of the screen and the actors’ heads were cut off at the top. I am not one to settle for a subpar movie experience. Theatres cannot always control their patrons. People will talk. Cell phones will ring. But they can definitely fix projection issues.

So I abandoned my good seat, gathered my purse and diet coke and headed to the lobby to find a staff member. A theatre manager quickly agreed to have the project fixed. By the time I got back to the theatre, the film had been corrected so that it projected correctly. Fantastic.

Not wanting to disturb my fellow moviegoers, I hunted for a row with several empty seats on the end. And as I found one, I missed a step and fell face first into the row. My drink splashed on me. My purse flew open. I was in a denim skirt, so I bashed my knees against the hard floor and I felt a breeze on my bottom. The theatre was dark, but everyone around me saw and the women around me gasped and jumped up to offer assistance. I was mortified. It was all I could do to reach under seats to put my belongings back in my purse and slouch in a seat so that I could examine my knees and assure everyone I was okay.

Cheeks burning, I swigged from the diet coke that hadn’t spilled on me and slumped in my seat, hoping that the start of the movie would distract from my faceplant on the dirty movie theatre floor.

The Holiday was good. Not spectacular, but entertaining.. It had all of the elements of a good romantic comedy – beautiful women finding their way in a cruel world, montages of budding romances, idyllic settings, charming male leads, great clothes, predictable plot. Exactly what I wanted.

It won’t be a spoiler for me to say that one woman makes movie trailers. Needless to say, this is sort of a running theme, as she has a few flashes of what the movie trailer of her life would look like.

This, of course, started me thinking about what the booming voice in a movie trailer would say if narrating the trailer to my little life.

“[Charming] grew up with in a typical Southern family …”

[Cut to footage of 23-person family dinners.]

“… surrounded by opinionated women …”

[Cue shots of gossipy Southern ladies]

“… who married young and raised children …”

[Montage of cousins running through the house]

“But when [Charming] was 17, she laid out a life plan …”

[Cut to footage of our young heroine telling the other girls at the lunch table, “I’m not going to be one of those woman who gets married and has babies young just because! I’ll wait until I’m 25 before I settle down! And then I’ll have my kids in my late twenties.”]

“ … ten years later, [Charming]’s finding out that the best laid plans of Southern girls …”

[Cue montage of clicking down the street in heels with coffee in hand, chatting on a cell phone, “It’s a date!”]

“ … often go awry …”

[Montage of falling on her face; hissing into her cell phone, “my date is CRYING about his ex wife!” and announcing “I’m going to be the ONLY single bridesmaid in the wedding!”]

“ … This Spring, follow one woman as she tries to get herself back on track …”

[Cue clips [Charming] making to do lists, going to the gym, smiling at men, with voiceover, “This will be the year that I get it all together.”]

“… and finds that sometimes straying off course …”

[Cut to [Charming] covering face and moaning to friends, “I was supposed to be married by now!”]

“ … brings you where you need to be.”

[Cue powerful chick lit pop music and scenes of dancing, kissing hot men, fabulous shoes]

I swear. I am too cheesy for words.

A few nights ago I was sitting in the cigar bar with Prom Date, after having been out to two bars after work with co-workers. I spied The Blackberry across the bar. He was talking with a Tall Man and it took me a few minutes to realize that they were looking at me pointedly.

The Blackberry came over.

“What did you and your friend have to say about me?” I asked The Blackberry

“Oh, he wants to f—k you.”

I almost choked on a sip of Merlot. I dismissed him as being silly.

But then the Tall Man came up behind The Blackberry and mouthed, “I want you.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“I want you,” he mouthed again and motioned to the bathroom.

I grimaced and shook my head.

They walked off and I died laughing, “Do I look like the woman who has sex in the bathroom of a bar?”

A few minutes later, The Blackberry was back.

“You should thank me. I got that guy to go away.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yes, I told him you were my girl.”

So, say you were shopping for your younger (24) brother’s girlfriend and (probable) future fiancée. And you need a present that says, "I’m sorry my brother is a dirty hippie who would rather wear Birkenstocks and an old Phish T-shirt than get dressed up and shave and take you out to dinner, but I really do like you and hope that you marry him some day because even though you are very different people, you complement each other very well and he is always so happy to be with you and we all know that he is a very sweet man and will be a good father one day and I swear I am going to be very happy on the INSIDE when you tie the knot, even though on the OUTSIDE I’ll be sitting in the corner of the reception mumbling into a champagne glass about being an Old Maid without a date to my own little brother’s wedding. Oh, also, Merry Christmas."

Note: I have previously given her a gift basket of relaxation and beauty products and a scent diffuser ( like this one, but more expensive) and various members of my family throughout the years have gifted many picture frames and journals and candle sets.

Also, I’ve got a long shopping list. Less than $50. (And $50 could be pushing it.)

Welcome Glamour.com readers and much thanks to Alyssa Shelasky for the shout out on her blog See Alyssa Date on Glamour’s Web site. I was shocked – shocked – to see 400 to 500 extra readers today.

Go visit Alyssa’s blog, where you can vote on her every dating move, and tell her that being evil makes for better blogging.

After I left the show at the dive bar, I headed over to my regular cigar bar for a glass of red with Prom Date. I’d planned to do this all along – my other friends aren’t night owls as I am. While they turned into pumpkins at midnight, I was still looking for some fun.

As previously discussed, I looked cute – sheerish wrap top over a camisole, jeans, pointy heels and smooth hair, thanks to the bitter cold that scared away the humidity. I didn’t check my cell for texts before heading into the cigar bar, so I had no idea that The Blackberry had been asking for me. (Until I later checked my phone and saw a cautionary text from Prom Date. Too late. I was already in the bar.)

“Well there she is,” The Blackberry commented as I walked in. I was mildly horrified that the only barstool left was next to him.

“And she sits next to me.”

I rolled my eyes and ordered a Merlot. The Blackberry immediately started his pursuit in full force – complimenting me, doling out mild insults immediately followed by “I’m kidding! Just kidding, baby!”

I was having none of it and tried to maintain the cold exterior I keep up so well when he is around. The best offense is a good defense, especially when you’re dealing with a terribly offensive guy who will stop at nothing to bed you and any other woman in a skirt who walks into the bar.

The Blackberry made a point to speak of text messages from another woman who needed a ride home – joking that she needed more than just “a ride in my car, if you know what I mean.” He was clearly trying to bait me into showing some jealousy, though it clearly wasn’t working. As I clicked through some late-night e-mails on my blackberry, The Blackberry complained that I never texted him.

“I don’t have your number.”

“I’m only going to tell it to you one time,” he said, and then told me his number. I responded by sliding my blackberry and cell phone back into my purse.

“What was that?” I teased.

He repeated himself. Realizing that I wasn’t taking the number down, he showed me that he had me in his blackberry – but only the address I use for junk mail and online personals.

“See, I have your information.”

“You also have my blackberry number and e-mail address,” I informed him. “So, no, I don’t feel bad about not texting you. You’ve had my number for months. Because there is a process.”

He paid his tab and leaned over so that only I could hear him. In the lowest of voices, he made his final serious plea.

“You know you want to come home with me.”

“No.”

“You do, I know you do. You want me.”

“No.”

“You just live across the street.”

“No.”

Defeated, he stood up and announced that he was going to pick up the woman who’d been begging for a ride home. He made reference to a local figure, a notorious playboy, and said, “You know why he got a lot of women? Because he didn’t let rejection get him down. Nine out of 10 women may say no. But one will say yes.”

He paused as he stood up and walked over to shake hands with Prom Date.

“The law of averages,” he said, looking at me.

And then he walked back over to me.

“You were giving me this look like you were upset that I didn’t kiss you goodbye,” he said.

I rolled my eyes and turned my cheek, denying him a kiss on the lips. He wrapped an arm around me for a hug, but I looked forward and did not acknowledge it.

As he left, his friend said, “You do realize that he just called you a statistic, right?”

“I know.”

“And that was a pretty good line about needing to give you a goodbye kiss,” his friend said. “It caught you off guard and you didn’t have time to protest.”

At this point, the female bartender had to step in.

“Oh please, that is a terrible line,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Notice that she didn’t jump up and go home with him.”

“Amen, sister,” I said as I leaned over the bar to give her a high five.