July 22, 2014 § Leave a comment
Hips are useful, hips are great,
Hips can get you a second date.
Hips are useful for other things as well,
More than just making certain men swell.
Hips are for balancing babies while you keep a hand free.
Hips are for groceries, because you can’t hold that shit on one knee.
Hips are for dancing and maybe unwanted attention.
Hips are for hip checking your bestie, aka: a sign of affection.
Hips are armrests for hugs with handles of love.
Hands on both hips shows power if push comes to shove.
Hips can push a drawer in or close a car door,
When your hands are so full and so far is the floor.
Hips are for belts to keep slouchy slacks upright.
Swing them around if you hear a good beat, don’t be uptight!
Hips are for laundry baskets, and help hold up jeans.
Hips keep your skirt in the right place, don’t be obscene.
Hips have been popular through out the decades,
They’ve had on poodle skirts, bell bottoms, and fanny packs with rollerblades.
There are lots of definitions of a woman to be kept,
But nothing like hips on a curvy silhouette.
Be proud of your humps, wide, flat, narrow, or round!
Your hips can stop traffic without even a sound.
So no matter your shape, go ahead and swing them about!
Not a thing sexier than a gal’s hips with no lies and no doubts!
I have a bit of writer’s block so I went back in my childhood to Dr. Seuss days. I’ve written a terrible poem about hips. I’m sorry, I’m not sorry (#sorrynotsorry). Is there a topic you’d want me to write about? Or one that you think I need to revisit? Thanks so much for reading! Tell your friends!
July 15, 2014 § 2 Comments
My newest theory on relationships is about boobs. Your boobs, the ones you own and are attached to the front of you. Also consider the male psyche and his unquenchable desire for the female body. Specifically we’d like steer his desire to the female body of the girl he’s dating/married to (at least that’s what we’re aiming for).
Instinctively, heterosexual men feel the need to spread the seed, but psychologically they crave a loyal female counterpart. Ladies, if you’ve ever had a sustainable platonic friendship with a member of the opposite sex (brothers, cousins, roommate’s, roommate’s boyfriends, etc.), then you know how much a guy needs a gal’s ear to whine to. When with a woman, a man feels truly safe to show actual emotions.
As little boys men are taught to toughen up, walk it off. Go cryin’ to pop and he’ll tell you it will put hair on you chest. Tears are for sissys. But mom will listen, sympathize, kiss it and make it all better. Why do you think there are so many mama’s boys running around?
When mamma’s boys into men, and don’t have a significant female, they’ll trot off to cry into the nearest bosom, figuratively speaking. A lot of times it’s still his mommy, but it could also be the robust chick at the deli counter. If a man doesn’t have this emotional outlet he may act out in other ways, violently, lazily, vindictively, promiscuously, melancholy-ly. He has his time of the month too.
If men need a feminine safe haven, what’s with the wandering eye of attached dudes? You hear it time and time again, the little man downstairs wants just about every oven to bake its bun. The family lineage must be carried on in as many vessels as possible. I have a feeling, even the born-to-be-mothers of the world would say that two or three kids is ample. It’s the man who wants to have ten thousand babies. Thus the urge to rub their faces in every pair of passing tits. Zero self control. That hotdog needs to be slathered with condiments and wrapped in a warm bun with great regularity in order to create the allusion it’s trying its best to procreate. He’ll do it solo if he has to. You’ve caught him before.
So here’s what I think: To prevent future mamsypamsyness, each man should touch at least one boob every day. And if you’re the one he’s sleeping next to at night, make that boob YOUR boob.
You’re making dinner, he’s telling you about a horrible day at work, look him dead in the eye and ask, “Have you touched a boob today?” The belly aching stops right there. You see what’s happening here? Providing him a bosom to cry into, and then letting him fondle the nipple a little. It’s nurturing eroticism. Killing two birds with one… jug. You’re watching movie and he’s drooling over Jessica Alba’s perky trot, just ask, “Have you checked my headlight yet?” and it’s not about your car. He’s groaning about aches and pains, say, “I’ve got a muscle that could use a rub.” He wants to motorboat a rack every day anyway. Why not give him what he wants? Why not make that rack yours?
70% of men think about sex every day, 43% of men think about it several times a day. Conditioning him once every 24 hours to take a titty time-out with your pair, other than foreplay, forces him to associate sexual feelings more consistently with only you, especially if you’re not a seven-times-a-week type of gal. And if he’s not a boob guy, bend over to get a daily spanking. All it takes is a few seconds. He’ll never be too tired to grab an ass. You don’t have to be Betty Paige, you just got to think like her for ten seconds. You’re already satisfying him emotionally, go ahead, put the icing on the cake.
My hypothesis states that if men receive their daily dose of girlie parts, they will be less likely to stray. If you feed the dog at the same time in the same place every day, the dog will learn to always go to that place to receive its meal. It’s not going over to the neighbor’s house for dinner. Don’t let your man go to the neighbor’s house for anything! You can fix him a fine meal at home. It doesn’t take much effort to remember to do it. You could have Mountaintop Mondays, Tata Tuesdays, Wild Jug Wednesdays, Funbag Fridays… you get the idea. After a while, he’ll remember on his own (speaking from experience). One simple little grope a day, stick to that and he’ll always be eating in your kitchen.
This may be the key to a healthy relationship. Not only will you get a daily breast exam, who knows, you could be rewarded with more frequent oral pleasure, impeccable execution of household chores, a night out on game day, he might even be moved to purchase jewelry. I’m not saying boobs will fix something already broken, but it should strengthen something in need of improvement. No big whoop, let ‘em cop a feel.
Touching her boob every day will keep his eye from wandering away.
***This was originally posted in Jan. of 2011, and I believe it rings true to this day. If you want to make a man smile when he’s blue… Boobs are powerful weapons, use yours wisely.
July 8, 2014 § Leave a comment
“Go put your bathing suit on, we’re meeting everyone at the lake in twenty minutes,” My mother ordered. I cleared my plate and hustled to my room. Finally, we were on our vacation. The good part of vacation with swimming, boats, and staying up past my bedtime. We had rented a cottage on Sebago Lake in Maine for easy access to fun and family for two whole weeks. I was eight years old and summer never felt so good! This year I was allowed to purchase a two-piece bathing suit, and today it was making it’s formal début.
I had played dress up a couple of times at home, and had a fail in the backyard with a slip ‘n’ slide, but nothing public. I’m not sure if it was peer pressure that led me to bikini-dom or the media’s sexy portrayal of swim separates. Either way, I thought my neon green, pink, and purple suit was my right of passage into womanhood. Only the essentials were covered. Midriff exposure was so sophisticated.
After a struggle getting the top unrolled to it’s appropriate position, I took the bottom one leg at a time. As I pulled it up over my rear it seemed a little low. I tugged at the hips giving myself extreme camel toe. This was not right. Examining myself in the mirror, I imagined walking on the beach. I turned to the side to make sure I looked thin enough, my pale girlish belly round instead of flat. Whoa! This mirror was not helping me, my mirror at home made me look like a Barbie Doll. I did a twirl to make sure it wasn’t just my angle. “KT – Hurry up! People are waiting,” bellowed my ma from the stairs above. I completely lost track of time, I had been examining my body for twenty full minutes.
It was in this moment I felt my first wave of modesty. I second-guessed my choice in purchasing the suit to begin with. I thought about putting on the one-piece my ma insisted I bring as an understudy for when my bikini was wet. “What are you doing down there? Let’s go!” She called as an alarm, time was running out.
Reluctantly, I took one last look of disgust at my stomach and threw on my cover-up. That day my low body image kept me beached on the sand until my jealousy of the kids in the water and encouragement of family prompted me to cannon ball. The rest of the vacation the one-piece got bumped up to first string. With my confidence back and my belly button covered, I got up on water skis for the first time.
Before this bikini, I had never felt self-conscious about my body. Feeling self-conscious is like a disease, and once you contract it you cannot get rid of it. Sure if you try hard enough you can diminish the symptoms, but you will never be fully rid of the toxic mind game you play with your disease. In a full-blown attack you can body shame yourself out of experiences and memories where physicality isn’t even a factor.
Sometimes I wish I had never put on that first bikini, as in many years to follow the bikini has been a trophy to attain. A competition against self, against food, against pleasure. But how much pleasure do we actually get out of beachwear? Isn’t it more important to be healthy and strong? Shouldn’t that be the driving factor and bikinis just side effects?
I try to only examine my body in a bathing suit for less than a minute, because I will always find something I’m unhappy with. When I get to that point, I say to myself, “Fuck it.” Every minute I stare at the unsightly jiggle is a minute I’m taking away from my own enjoyment. I refuse to self sabotage over a swim suit. I will not allow myself to leave dirty footprints in my mind. I make this decision and I feel brave.
July 1, 2014 § Leave a comment
People were taking selfies before smart phones. Before they were even called selfies. They were taking them before you could even tell what you were framing for. Most of the time you held out your arm as far as you could stretch and squeezed in real tight to the person next to you, just praying that you didn’t cut yourself off, or had your finger in front of the lens. Then you had to wind the damn clicky wheel for 10mins before taking a second shot for safety.
Pictures were for memories. Instant flashbacks to a happy day. This is why I enjoy the Throwback Thursday aka #tbt. It takes me back to a time when people didn’t waste good film on their food. I cringe every time I’m seated next to someone at a restaurant instagraming their meal. I’ll admit, I’ve taken part in this behavior, but it was before I realized how idiotic it was. There are only a few acceptable reasons to take pictures of your food.
1. You are a food photographer, it’s your job. You get paid for it.
2. For sentimental reasons others could not understand you need to share this picture with one or few individuals, in which case Snapchat is a useful tool.
3. You are ordered to by your nutritionist. No cheating.
Other than that, no one wants to see your food. Instead, savor the taste. Then work on your linguistics as you recall the meal. Try to use as many colorful adjectives as you can to more accurately describe the taste, smell, texture, and look of said memorable plate. I much rather hear a description of the best burger you ate than see a picture of it. Most food looks gross unless it’s dressed up for a photoshoot or super fancy already. And if you are at a super fancy restaurant, I’d say it would be a faux pas to take a quick snap shot of the amuse bouche.
As I was saying… Selfies, we’ve been doing it forever. Fascinated with our own features we’ve set forth on self-portraits of all kinds. Except now they’ve completely lost artistic integrity. There’s the selfie with the phone in the mirror, the serious selfie where the person is clearly not looking off contemplatively into the distance, and the belfie (butt selfie), which is apparently a picture you took of your own ass.
If the whole camera-lens-taking-a-bit-of-your-soul thing is true, we’ve screwed ourselves. I understand a healthy amount of narcissism is rather good. Helps your ego feel as though you have worth. If your self-esteem stocks are high you are a more productive and confident member of society. Instagram allows us to be photojournalists of our lives, creating a map of the places we’ve been and the people we know. Sure, selfies are going to be a part of that. But maybe we should limit it to only part.
I think it was only a year ago the first time I heard some one call this particular picture styling a “selfie.” I thought it was adorable. I don’t know if I thought it was adorable because I was under the impression that the quite hilarious person shooting the selfie made it up on her own, or if I genuinely thought it was a cute name for these half-assed pictures we were taking of ourselves. Unfortunately, as the media grew to exhaust it, the term lost all of it’s twinklely dust for me. When it was inducted into the dictionary, I rolled my eyes in disgust. It had become a novelty. Like those weird waving money cats in Chinatown.
Soon, I wanted to vomit every time I heard someone use it in a sentence. Fortunately for me, I surround myself with sarcastic people most of the time, so they would refer to it in jest and I could wash my puke down with laughter. Now I realize it’s just a really shitty picture you took of yourself. You look like crap because you can’t frame it up right. It’s way too close most of the time. And you have a hard time looking into the lens and smiling genuinely. Not only are you multitasking the holding the camera, pushing the button, and trying to be a model, but you are also looking at yourself in the little screen judging the picture before it’s even taken. Thus your selfie is the worst picture of you ever taken. Clearly, the shooter had some issues with the task.
Bottom line, you’ll get better results handing the camera off to someone else.
I like how, thanks to modern technology, we’ve managed to come up with a dual digital lens to help us frame our narcissism, but still cannot properly get rid of redeye. I always end up looking like the demon friend because of my blue peepers.
I would like to leave you with this thought, if you think it might be an inappropriate place to take a selfie. You should probably just leave the memory in your mind. Let’s be honest, it’s not called a “selfie” because of the wonderful scenery behind you.
Also, do not Google image search “selfie” just don’t.
In appropriate places to take a selfie: A funeral. Jail. In front of an arson. A hospital. Nasty public restrooms, or on the toilet, or in the shower. Actually just stay away from bathrooms in general. With the cop who just pulled you over. Auschwitz. The delivery room. A homeless shelter. Anytime you have been clearly crying your eyes out. At the dentist. Driving. After sex.
Anymore you can think of?
June 24, 2014 § 2 Comments
I’m 30 and a half this month, and although I was alright with it at first, it’s just now settling into some kind of fear. Here is a post about turning 30 I wrote right before I turned 28 (yea, I was worrying about it 2 years before it actually happened, possible head case over here). For some reason, recounting my adult tendencies (or lack of) is comforting. I think my thirties are going to be quite dirty after all.
30 isn’t all that bad, it’s just marks the end of the 20s. 30 means you’re farther away from collage and closer to grandchildren, farther away from high school varsity sports and closer to water aerobics, further away from leveling your parent’s liquor bottles with water and closer to discovering your kids put water in the vodka.
They say time speeds up and your metabolism slows down. They say in a blink of an eye you go from 30 to 40. It’s some sort of middle age time machine. Fortunately for my generation, 30 is the new 20 and with the current economic climate there isn’t much of a stigma anymore for living in your parent’s basement. However, no matter how young we feel or how powerful our denial is, you can’t fight the aging process. 30 will always represent a milestone for the perkiness of your ass and titties. And even though we like to cover it with the veil of the “new 20” by 30 you should really have your shit together.
I’m talking adult tendencies. Cooking a balanced meal for your party of one instead of just eating an entire box of cheese its for dinner. Not sleeping past 10am on a Saturday. Gardening. Home décor and having “colors.” Flossing. Knowing what gives you gas and avoiding those foods. Finally learning the importance of breakfast and that laundry will never ever be done. Packing your bags the night before. In fact, doing anything the night before. Saying ‘no’ to the third glass of wine on a Wednesday. Making your bed, everyday. Asking guests take off their shoes when they enter your house. Calling them ‘guests.’ Asking yourself, “is this outfit too slutty for me?” These things creep up on you. You’re doing it, being an adult.
You might eat the occasional Cosco-sized tub of hummus in a week or have a Tuesday morning hangover. Sometimes we have popcorn for dinner or forget to water the flowers. But we feel guilty about it. It’s not that we know better, because we’ve always known that flossing is a good thing and baked goods are a friendly gesture. It’s that we’ve put these adult tendencies into practice and now understand the benefits.
You actually feel good after eating vegetables and making a To-Do list. Everything’s more calculated. You do things just because you have to get up early the next day and you’re less likely to suggest shots at happy hour. You’re a planning machine. You have a planner that’s synced with your phone, your computer, there’s one on the wall, on your desk, in your pocket. You plan for the near future, you plan for the far future, you plan for your future bathroom breaks by purchasing toilet paper in bulk.
I hear it now, it’s ticking all right. People I know are getting married. People are on their second or third kids. Some people are even on their second husbands! You got to keep up with that clock. If you’re single you start getting serious about finding Mr. Right. Or you try to turn Mr. Right Now in to Mr. Right, which might not be too difficult if he has a 401K. You aren’t just circle-hearting your crush in your yearbook, you got to get on the internet and find a husband. Done are the years of sleeping past noon and eating ramen noodles. Done are the years of singing into your hairbrush and making eyes to your life-sized cardboard cut out of Jonathan Taylor Thomas. Done are the years of putting soda in the Brita filter just to see what happens. You know what happens. It’s just brown water that tastes a little sweet. Face it, you’re a grown up. Well, maybe not a complete grown up, there is that beach party next week with a couple kegs. But it’s okay, you have adult tendencies: you don’t have to get up early and you’ll say no to the nut mix because it’ll give you gas.
June 17, 2014 § Leave a comment
Some days I’m just astonished at life and living for so long. Seeing the changes in the world and becoming more worldly myself. Kids these days… they don’t even know. Youth really is wasted on the young. Here is a list of several things about modern teenagers that are currently blowing my mind. I seriously cannot get over it. Please feel free to comment with your own mind blowing, gone-are-the-days nostalgia.
1. Passing notes. Do kids not pass notes between classes anymore? Because of texting? I can’t tell you how many times I’d go to lunch and ask someone, “did you read my note?” And how horrified I’d be if it got into the wrong hands. Or the worst threat in the world, if a teacher caught you passing a note in class and read it aloud. My high school best friend and I had a notebook we would pass between each other on a daily basis. We were so very connected at the hip that we could not go a full hour without at least writing down our thoughts to each other. It was therapeutic and co-dependant. We’d reach between a sea of people in the crowded main hallway to hand off our scroll, “Sorry, I couldn’t write that much, we had a quiz,” arms stretching past jocks and goths in a dramatic gesture, pain stricken by the fact that we couldn’t really talk until lunch time. High Schoolers today don’t know the horror.
2. Phone cords. Before I got my license I was attached to the phone in the kitchen. The one that had the longest cord. I would take most of my calls in the pantry secretly snacking on Oreos until we got a cordless phone. Even when we had the cordless, it would die after an hour of talking and I’d be back tangled up in the pantry. Teenagers today don’t know the paranoia of a watching for a hungry family member spying on your conversation. But then again, they probably aren’t allowed to eat Oreos either.
3. Stamps! I have not encountered this type of mail ignorance, but apparently kids these days don’t know what a postage stamp is for, how to acquire one, or where to put it on the letter. I was shocked too. Next time you see a 13-year-old inquire about stamps. Curious to heard their answers regarding these mysterious letter stickers.
4. Landlines. That moment when you call your crush and their MOM answers the phone. You have to put on your most polite voice and ask very nicely to speak to a boy you know very little about. And then the dreaded question comes from her, “who’s this?” Which was an honest question because caller ID was the fancy new thing and the population had yet to embrace it. People were still trying to get a handle on the answering machine. A household land line was a great tool for parents to monitor their child’s social activity. My dad be like, “Who’s that Eric that keeps calling the house?” Also, that moment when you are speaking profanities about some bitch you hate only to realize your mom picked up trying to make a call and heard that whole thing. Grounded from the phone for a week for inappropriate language. This type of telephone interaction is completely obsolete now that every 4th grader has an iPhone.
5. Albums and the Walkman. Kids these days are just collecting songs onto playlists. They don’t appreciate the flow of an album. Listening to it all the way through, looking at the album art as you listen to each song learning the words. And that one song you want to like for the sake of the whole, but you always skip it and think, “ugh, why did they put this song on there?” The 90s was the rise of portability. I do not think I would have survived riding the school bus for 10 years without my trusty walkman and the alternative rock station. I did eventually graduate to a discman, which grew my appreciation for albums, but carrying around that many cds to satisfy any mood was taxing on my shoulders. Lamenting about this and some youngster asks, “What’s a CD?” Holy shit, they don’t know what a CD is! Things just hit a whole new level.
6. Disposable Camera Selfies. You had no clue if you were aiming right. Also, that moment when you get your photos back, revealing moments you didn’t even know you captured all at once. Sitting in your car because you literally cannot wait to sift through the whole stack to devour the memories, even if there are a couple shots of the inside of your purse. This instant gratification stuff is really ruining the element of surprise.
7. The Video Store. The agony and the triumph of renting a movie. Rows and rows of movies. Shiny new releases are almost always all out. You feel so lucky when there is one left. Looking at the alphabetized layers searching for that title. Is it a drama or a comedy? It’s funny but it’s kind of dark. There is no Dramedy section and you end up finding it in Horror for what ever reason/the clerk is stoned. What if you can’t remember the title? How the hell do you figure it out without Google or IMDB? “You know that one with the guy, long hair and the big quiet one? I can’t remember the title, but it’s hilarious.” The scenario feels like an end of days role playing game, but it wasn’t that long ago. I went through 4 years of film school before instant streaming, Hollywood Video was a trusted ally. It was clear Blockbuster was under a corporate conglomerate because their selection paled in comparison. These places always had that same distinct smell too. The dusty plastic of the video store and the forbidden “Must Be 18″ section. Modern dinosaurs.
8. Dial Tone. So you really know, with absolute certainty, that person really did hang up on you. Now if we get disconnected, I’m still talking to myself for the next three minutes because I think you’re still on the line.
9. MTV. I grew up without cable. Most of the time my parents told me to go play outside. MTV was all about music and not about teen moms. So when everyone at school was referring to a must see music video, I had to recruit a friend to let me sit for several hours watching MTV waiting to see said music video that was going to blow my mind. Video really did kill the radio star (but then podcasts revived it).
10. The News. We didn’t have instant access to constant news feeds in our pockets so we had to beg the teacher to turn on the classroom television so we could watch the verdict of the OJ trial. Getting a piece written about you in the local paper was a big deal because EVERYONE was reading the same paper. Today you gotta post articles to everyone’s wall, tag others, and link bait shit to get people to read something about you. Information was communal because we watched, read, listened, and learned together. I remember learning Chris Farley died from listening to the radio while my friend’s brother drove the carpool. We reacted together, had a moment of shock, a moment of silence, and then had many laughs about living in a van down by the river. SNL was also something you had to stay up late on Saturday night for. There was no Hulu or DVR. You either saw it or had to suffer through everyone else’s Adam Sandler impressions until you saw the rerun in the summer. However, this might actually hurt the story teller and impressions of the next generation. Maybe that’s why SNL’s heyday was in the 90s? Chew on that.
11. Library Science. The worst thing about writing a report was having to find your topic in the encyclopedias. Heaven forbid if you were doing a report on penguins but the person who was researching pennies got the book first. Traditional libraries were great, but they were also finite. Kids these days can’t use the excuse, “I need an extension because the book I needed wasn’t in the library.” Also, dewey decimal system anyone?
12. Nextel. Blee-bleep. Might have been just me and my middle of nowhere booney town, but Nextel’s had the best service and everyone had one. No one actually called one another, we walkie/talkied all the time. It was hilarious good fun, especially in department stores. If you Blee-bleeped someone and they didn’t answer, you alerted them like a pager. Then you just had to wait to see if they got the alert. There was no voice mail. It was really easy to stay off the grid and much more fun to play hide and seek. Kids these days don’t even know.
13. Playing Grab Ass. Not the fun adult kind. You couldn’t just send a mass text or make a Facebook invite, it was all word of mouth. You were constantly chasing one another most weekends cursing for the best place to be. This is what we’d call playing grab ass. Most of the time if you didn’t have anything to do, you’d end up at the Taco Bell parking lot. Or if you did have something to do, you’d meet in the Taco Bell parking lot. Or if you needed directions you would follow someone from the Taco Bell parking lot. Or you’d just drive around until you got hungry and then head back to Taco Bell for a chalupa supreme without tomatoes.
What am I missing? Leave a comment with something you can’t believe kids these days don’t have/don’t have to deal with.
June 10, 2014 § 2 Comments
In honor of my FOUR YEAR (gasp! that’s a lot in kid years!) Anniversary-ish/thing with Mister Red, I wanted to reprise a post from 2010 about the day we met. The day we now call Double Wink Day (aka Game 6 of the NBA Playoffs). What a fantastic muse he has been. I look forward to a lifetime of adorable antidotes about this goofy human. Okay, they aren’t all adorable, but they are all at least funny.
Sometimes you meet a man, and within the first 30 seconds your posture sinks, your head tilts, and you need a handkerchief to wipe up the drool. Most of the time it starts with his sly, corner-of-the-eye smile. It’s subtle, but you know it’s just for you.
Hold on, while I peel my chin off the floor, try to form actual sentences, and attempt to remember my name, and my age. Ahem, definitely my age. It was just a little ol’ smile. Total swoon. It’s the trifecta of the charming man, and no woman is safe from his spell.
These men glow with God-given charisma, a twinkle in the eye, a gentle nod, saying the punch line at the exact right moment even if it is about farts. Suddenly, all the women in the room are running into walls, tripping over their own shoelaces, and kissing babies who aren’t their own, spontaneously blinded by the stars in their eyes. All the single gals engage their claws.
He becomes a trophy synonymous with a bride’s bouquet. Never underestimate the ultimate power-move: the bouquet toss. We have all seen enough America’s Funniest Home Videos to be aware of the danger in this sport.
The trifecta is a perfectly balanced cocktail of boyish charm, old-fashioned sensibility, and sharp whit with hints of kindness and worldliness. He’s the man who will buy you a drink, subtly reveal a past heartbreak, crack jokes about current events, and at the same time weave in his admiration for his mother, love for animals, and desire to be a daddy one day. All while telling you that you are the most gorgeous woman he’s ever laid eyes on. You believe every word. Lap it up, kitty. Think 007, Jack Dawson (never let go), Danny Ocean, Batman, Will Hunting, or anything Jon Hamm has played recently. Okay, maybe just Jon Hamm, the person.
I experienced such an encounter with a striking ginger-haired bartender. You know I love a red beard. If I had a type it would be: Irish. With an Irishman I know what I’m getting: maybe a temper, most likely a drinking problem, but for certain, a fun loving guy with a sensitive side. Not to mention, Irishmen are the most loyal of them all.
I was meeting some Celtics fans to watch the battle in Game 6 of the NBA playoffs against the hometown heroes, the LA Lakers. Having lived in Boston only a short while before moving to Los Angeles, my allegiance didn’t lie what-so-ever with the shamrocks and as a Michigan girl, the Pistons weren’t doing much for me either. But a former flame was rumored to be in attendance, so… Go Celts!
Regardless, I love a game of ball with a beer and old friends. Boston fans are fiercely devoted (most of them Irish, case in point) therefore innately the Beantown Bar we were attempting to cram into was at max capacity. Plan B: throw a stone, hit an Irish Pub, order a pint, and you’ll be in the good company of loud Mass-holes.
I searched for my friends at the second pub. My scan of the playoff crowd was pleasantly interrupted by a tall Irish bartender. Pleasant is an understatement. It was magical; slow motion, soft focus with a wind machine. He was a blonde prince charming. Not a hair out of place. Perfectly coiffed, as though it had been taken out of one of Mattel’s fine Ken molds that morning. His shoulders broad and strong, piped with budding biceps. This boy ate his spinach. He was sure a tall drink of water too, really long legs. Hello, blue eyes! Oh that group of loud bumbling Boston fans harassing you? Yeah… unfortunately, I’m with them. I’ll just take my Guinness and be over here, mortified, if you need me.
One could assume I no longer was there to watch the game. The the former flame, the Tall Musician? Oh, at that time, I couldn’t have told you what instrument he played. Maybe the obo? Of course I tried to play it cool as I watched the ginger’s every move, gracefully dancing from one end of the bar to the other, sharing his winning smile with lucky patrons. Certainly, I wasn’t the only one who noticed his charm. Even the burly couch jockeys I came in with were making side comments and developing man-crushes. Good, so it’s not just me, he actually is making it hot in here. This man possessed the power to turn straight eyes gay.
Every once in a while we would make eye contact as he slung beers at my end of the bar. When I got up from my stool to graduate to the bathroom, he winked at me. Yup, he winked right at me.
Normally, winks from strangers are a kind of creepery I avoid, but the guy had the trifecta. I had a grandfather who would pass me pieces of candy before dinner with a wink. There’s a special place in my heart for a good winking, and I felt satisfied I had received special attention.
“I think I just got winked at,” I exclaimed with a pre-pubescent delight.
“You got what?” my friend, Ms. Pepper, was confused.
“I think the hot Irish bartender just winked at me. Do you think he winks at everyone?”
“He must be into you, because that outfit does not make you look like you have deep pockets,” she counseled and insulted. Sound advice, I had to wait for a second sign of reciprocated attraction before I made any aggressive plans to marry, and I put my jacket back on to aid my suffering ensemble.
At the end of the game we closed our tabs and collected outside the bar. The place was still packed inside. I resolved: one wink was all the attention Mister Handsome could give me.
As we waited for stragglers, my group started talking about him again. That’s the thing with a charming man, they leave a lasting impression. Just as my friends denigrated me for not striking up a conversation with Blue Eyes, speak of the devil, he walks outside to assess the area, and manages to look busy with the outdoor chalkboard displaying the specials. Our eyes locked. Another wink. Okay, now my knees were weak. I almost melted like the wicked witch. Oh what a world, what a world.
“He came out here just to wink at you,” Pepper encouraged.
“He didn’t do anything but move that sandwich board two inches. Literally picked it up and set it back down. Literally. He was looking for you. Go give him your number.”
Once under the spell of the Charming Trifecta a lady must make a bold move to prove she’s worthy. Fortunately for me, I was surrounded by enough clear thinking people, and had the consumed the right amount of liquid courage to make that bold move.
I, like any good soldier, am prepared for anything as long as I have my big purse. I tore a piece of paper from my notebook and with careful tact, legibly scrawled my number (the real one). Without allowing too much time for second thoughts, I marched into the bar and right up to Mister Handsome.
“I know you probably get this a lot, but… here’s my number,” I blurted out trying to disguise my fear, certain I was venturing out of my league. I’m only a seven at the beginning of the night, sober. I was probably down to a five at that point after a full day of work, a few brews and a cheap outfit. I held out the wishful piece of paper. The handsome ginger smiled and took my number.
The bar erupted into a celebration as the game ended. I forget who won, I was memorized by blue eyes.
“ACTUALLY I DON’T GET THIS A LOT,” he shouted above the loud bar, “I’M GLAD YOU CAME UP TO ME, I THOUGHT I MISSED YOU.”
Never has not hearing a man made me so tongue-tied. My nerves were eased as the trifecta took hold of me. The intoxication of his small talk sent me over the edge and into a poppy field. Although, not much was actually communicated because we couldn’t hear each other.
“WHAT NIGHTS DO YOU WORK SO I CAN STALK YOU IF YOU DON’T CALL?” I must have been mad to admit I would be all private investigator if he came to his senses.
“OH I’M GOING TO CALL YOU… BUT IF YOU WANT TO STALK ME ANYWAY, TUESDAY, WEDNESDAY, THURSDAY, AND SUNDAY.”
I just smiled, engraving his schedule in my brain; positive he wasn’t going to call.
“BUT I AM GOING TO CALL. I’LL CALL YOU FRIDAY.” With that he winked at me, a now signature move. I smiled broadly, turned on my heel and tried to play it cool.
It took all my power not to shout with delight as I skipped out the door in celebration, which was a total fail at coolness. I actually skipped, like a 3rd grader at recess after trading a chunky peach yogurt for a chocolate snack pack. I may have even thrown my hands up in triumph.
I didn’t care if he saw me frolicking. I just thought, “if nothing else, it was truly explosive to make the acquaintance of the striking ginger-haired Irishmen with the trifecta of a charming man.” Maybe unnecessary celebration. Whatever. It was a bold move for me.
And he’s still winking at me, four years later.