July 14, 2015 § Leave a comment
Rerun from 11/14. Mister Red and I have recently been dabbling with switching our sides. I admit, I sleep better on my side. None-the-less, mattress to relationships, a great metaphor.
I used to not have a side of the bed. For a good portion of my life I just slept like an X in the middle, arms and legs akimbo, like I the finalist for a contest of how much space I could take up per body dimensions. I would have won, btw. When Mister Red and I began having adult sleepovers on a regular rotation neither of us stated claim to pillow top surface area. There were no real estate negotiations, we eased in to our respective sides naturally. Occasionally, we switch. Mostly to correct shoulder issues from poor sleeping patterns, but we always go back. It never feels right on the other side, and all my stuff lives on the nightstand to the right anyway. It’s too much work to commit to a change.
Growing up mostly an only child, not really touchy feely, or having sorority sisters, I hated sleeping next to people. Frankly, I needed my space. I remember my first visit to a college party. My dear friend let me pass out on the bed, while he slept on the floor. Sure he probably wanted to get in my pants that night, but took into account that I’d possibly punch him in my sleep. That and he knew how to play his gentleman card.
The only time I felt the sting of the cold side of the bed was when I parted ways with a long time boyfriend who wasn’t great at sharing anything. For the first week or so I couldn’t even sleep in the bed. I favored the couch and slept at a friend’s house. Eventually I went back to sleeping in the middle and loving it. Until, of course, Red came along.
We’ve been spooning for four years now, sometimes on the couch. It always seems like we’ve been together longer compared to my other relationships. It actually feels like forever. He knows too much about me and has become very adept at outsmarting me for my own good. The last four years have been so long. Father time must be slacking.
You know why it feels like we’ve been sharing a bed for forever? I actually like him. Those other fools I had slept next to with for two or three years at a time, I’ve blocked out whole months with them. Those relationships seem short because I don’t care to remember a lot about those relationships. Essentially, I’m burning those beds. If I can’t get anyone to buy the mattress on craigslist, I’m still moving on.
There is only so much room in my head. It’s like when your bedmate hogs the covers. My memory is like the covers, I’m choosing to cover only what is important, there isn’t enough blanket for the rest. I used to think it was a bad thing that my relationship with Red seemed unusually longer than it was. Now I realize it’s because I want a future with him. I’m snuggling up every detail of our time together in my blanket because it’s paramount in holding stock in our relationship. Not to mention, heat.
I’m not worried about our nuptials sentencing us as bedfellows for life. Of course he snores on his back, who doesn’t? Sure, he elbows me sometimes in his sleep but it’s never left a mark. I think we’ve been sharing a queen (a bed, not a dude from West Hollywood in stilettos), side by side for so long that the shock of marriage might be lost on me. I’ve already bought the mattress. I know I’m probably going to have to flip it every now and again, but it has a pretty solid warrantee.
I see a lot of women holding their wedding day up like it’s their last day to experience joy. Sure there is the whole child baring thing that factors into it, but if you play your cards right the wedding won’t be the last of your shenanigans before you’re preggo. There is no impending doom that comes after ‘I Do’ unless you haven’t been brutally honest with each other.
Whatever side you sleep on, know who you’re sleeping next too and love them even if they snore. Use your blanket to hold in the heat of your passion. Don’t try to cover lovers of the past, they can’t possibly fit in the blanket burrito of love.
Furthermore, relationships are full of cooperation, and yes even compromise. Do your share of bed making, and talk openly about bedtime habits. Apparently, 1 in 10 couples argue about about what side of the bed they sleep on. Really? This would be the worst excuse for a break up ever. Adapt.
June 30, 2015 § 1 Comment
I didn’t expect it, but I feel more married after the marriage equality announcement than I did after my wedding. I was sober for both, for the record.
There is nothing like waking up to good news. When my alarm sounded last Friday morning, I hit snooze. After the second snooze, my husband, Mister Red Jump Out of Bed, began his morning rituals. Half asleep I made my case for him to take the car to work instead of bike. He had been in a bike accident last summer, the bike needed repair, his back was recovering from injury, and after a full day of work his feet, an hour is a long bike home.
This must be the type of worry of a spouse. Well-being worry. How would I ever handle the worry of children, when I worry this much about a grown adult? To my relief he agreed, the pain risk of riding the bike was too great.
Still in bed, I read the news on my phone as Mister Red made us breakfast. Supreme Court Ruling the Constitution guarantees the right to same-sex marriage. I felt an uncontrollable smile swell up in my cheeks. Huzzah! Boo-yah! Woop-woop! Finally! At least we got one thing right! I ran downstairs to tell Mister Red the good news.
And the VMA for best on-screen kiss goes to…
Justice Kennedy said gay and lesbian couples had a fundamental right to marry. “No union is more profound than marriage, for it embodies the highest ideals of love, fidelity, devotion, sacrifice, and family,” he wrote. “In forming a marital union, two people become something greater than once they were.”
I feel this gives my own heterosexual marriage more validity. For me, marriage inequality hadn’t “preserved the sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman,” but rather took away from it. If all loving partnerships weren’t recognized, and half of them didn’t work out, what was so great about marriage anyway? I never want to be part of a club that has such prejudice as sexual orientation. It doesn’t make any sense to limit fundamental rights based on those preferences. Wasn’t this whole country founded on the ideal that every person should have the right to their own preferences? We have so many freedoms, seems like who you choose to love should be a no-brainer.
What astonished me was how many corporate entities used the news to inflate their marketing campaigns. They had these specialized logos at the ready, but where was this support 8 years ago? I’m curious to find out how many of these companies actually donated to LGBT organizations fighting for civil rights, how much, and how long they’ve been supporting. In recent years, many companies donated whether they were vocal about it or not was not to make waves among consumers who’s ideals were in opposition. It makes me wonder what would have happened if these companies spoke louder. Business sure draws a fine line.
As I preach to the choir, I can only say that now I get it. Marriage that is. If those words are true, “two people become something greater than they once were,” then damn… I’m glad I’m on that list. I’m glad everyone, regardless of who and how they love, now has the right to be on that list. The extreme intimacy of this union can be enjoyed by all, making the power of finding the right person to join in this partnership infinitely greater. Who you argue with for the rest of your life should not be limited to heterosexuals.
With that being said, marriage becomes more about the person you choose to be with rather than the sexual orientation you identify with. This begs the question, will the divorce rate go up or down?
Doesn’t matter what the cake topper looks like #lovewins
February 11, 2015 § Leave a comment
Just in time for Valentine’s Day, or more importantly, Galentine’s Day (thanks Leslie Knope). Here are some random reasons to dump a dude who’s not worth it.
#1: He has an unconfirmed tick. You’ve seen it on the first couple dates, and are now on the look out. You end up paying more attention to a twitch sighting than what he’s saying. Translation: You aren’t that into him. If he was perfect for you, the supposed tick wouldn’t be an issue!
#2 He’s got a trick and he likes to show it off. So he can do a cartwheel. Bravo. The second time he does it in an unprompted,”look at me” fashion, eh dude, this is old news. The third time. He’s not well rounded enough for you. Sit, Stay.
#3 Sex is subpar. Subpar all the time from the beginning of time. It’s not going to get better. You can settle, or you can be honest. If he doesn’t take your notes, maybe it’s time to be friends.
#4 He’s lazy. Don’t date a couch potato unless you are a potato. Have some ambition.
#5 He doesn’t make you laugh. Amendment: He doesn’t make you laugh when you do something laughable (like trip or spill food). Amendment: If he doesn’t get slap stick comedy, it’s just not worth it.
Here are a few more my little Galentines.
December 2, 2014 § Leave a comment
Here we are: December. I know. I can hardly believe it either. Tis engagement season. Along with the onslot of ugly sweater pics and #TBTs to xmas morning in the 80s, you will also get lots of couples making it Facebook official in your news feed. For dudes, this is prime proposal time. The ring doubles as the best Christmas present ever, and if she’s been eyeing June nuptials, he’s got at least a year and a half before bye-bye Bachelortown. Plus, there no better time to show off new bling. Get that finger out in front of everyone from great-aunts to forgotten high school queen bees. It really is the loudest symbol we have for coupledom.
I used to think people were crazy to ask if my sterling silver swirl ring was a wedding band on my 24 year old hand. It’s possible I presented myself just bizarre enough. I could have been that strange of a person, a person who would prefer non-traditional hippy jewelry as a symbol of marriage. In truth, I was wearing it on my left hand to remind myself that I was not ready to be married. Not at 24. I kept this ring on my finger particularly around Christmas to also remind my boyfriend at the time that I was not ready for a flashy upgrade. I liked the one I had. It represented my freedom of expression unbound by the gifts of a generous, yet loving gentleman caller.
Months before we broke up, we had an argument about this ring. The argument, although petty and meaningless to a guy who was about to dump me, struck me hard. I took the ring off that day to show that I would be accepting of any jewelry he wanted to give me. Dodging the bullet of a pricey Christmas gift, he let me go before the holidays.
Newly single, I let the feeling sink in. Do I put the silver swirl ring back on? Sure. Just a few times in the name of rebellion and newfound freedom, but I got even more questions about my marital status then ever before. Probably because I was looking super hot after the breakup diet and frequently on the prowl. Dudes be like, “Are you married to someone? You have a ring on an important finger.” I had underestimated the sigma in western culture of bedazzling this specific finger.
Atlas, I didn’t want to blur the line. It was true, I had begun accepting applicants for the position of boyfriend with the opportunity of promotion. I couldn’t be out there advertising that I wouldn’t consider moving the right person up the ladder.
Eventually I bagged myself a good one, Mister Red. Around year three of being together my “important finger” began to stand out again. This time in the opposite way. It’s nakedness was inviting, calling, “come hither.” I fought off the suitors, for I had already found the suitable one. My lack of bling also called out to people in the know. I’d constantly get my hand examined at catch-up brunches. I battled the nay-sayers. We were taking our time. No need to rush. It’s not like my finger was cold.
We went to take some rings for a test drive, but he didn’t make the real commitment until a year later when he could gift the proper wear for the all-occasion-every-day-of-your-life accessory.
When I first debuted my ring, there was more attention on my finger than ever before. Then conversation would stir to different aspects of the proposed nuptials, as they do. Some even reaching beyond the aisle to the cradle. It was all rather overwhelming. Except for one person, who was a simple acquaintance, and she parlayed the most excellent pointer. And this is very good advice I was happy to receive and delighted to pass along.
We were at a shower of some sort. Bridal or baby, I don’t remember, but the punch was flowing so I knew this was an honest moment. She said, “I’m not going to ask when your wedding is because you should enjoy your ring.” She looked at my finger and smiled a knowing smile, “I wish someone had told me to just enjoy my ring. Pretty soon the wedding will come and people will ask when you are having kids. And then you have a kid and people will ask you about your second one. So take some time right now and just enjoy the ring.” Once she said it, it made so much sense. The whole process is rushed.
From that moment on, I took time to admire it. This artifact carefully selected and painstakingly saved for, by hell or high water, the exact ring he wanted me to have as a symbol of his undying love– fuck yeah I was going to take my sweet time enjoying it. Now I only wish he had one too. Just so he knows how special I feel every time I look at my finger. I suppose he will soon.
November 25, 2014 § Leave a comment
Below is the post I wrote five years ago after I decided to skip the voyage home for turkey day and crashed with some friends in Las Vegas. Oh my young ways. Coincidentally, I ended up meeting my future mother in law, hung over, the day after Thanksgiving. It is with the true gratitude of the season that I report not needing my escape plan that day. Also I took that glass of white wine offered to me like a champ.
Being single at an Orphan Thanksgiving or a Friendsgiving, as they say, is perfectly acceptable. Your peers just want to eat, drink and be merry. It’s quite a different story if you’re dining with family. It’s like a murder interrogation. You can redirect the questions for the first couple hours, but by dinner you’re running out of diversions, they’ve got a few drinks in you, they’re onto your tricks, and you left your backup weapon in the freezer.
“Meet anyone nice lately?”
“Whatever happened to that nice fellow that you brought to so-and-so’s wedding?”
“I hear little Tommy Walters is engaged. He’s the one that got away,” and so on, and so forth.
All you can do is ask, “Anyone need more wine?”
Getting older only makes it harder deflect the seasonal cross-examination. Best case scenario, entering the minefield with someone who could be sort-of serious. It plays right into these little family gatherings perfectly while simultaneously uncovering certain truths about your newish lover that would have otherwise taken months to expose if he was on the spring boyfriend track. All the holiday skeletons come out of the closet. Family brings the manners out in everyone. As does an extended weekend trip. And even if he does offend your mother with the smell of his feet or yells at your father about his lack of enthusiasm regarding Call Of Duty, at least you a have a partner in crime when you sneak out in the middle of the night to smoke a joint and ravage leftovers.
In truth, no one likes being alone for the holidays, it’s cold and there is a lot of unnecessary pity going around. There are precisely three and a half weeks between Halloween and Thanksgiving to nail down a winter man. A lot of men won’t truly commit until after October 31st in order to honor the sluttiest day of the year, no matter how much they seem to enjoy taking your tits out for dinner. If you reach the second week in December and are still coming up empty handed, you might as well forget it. A two week investment will not yield any sort of jolly holiday despite above average blow jobs. At that point, keep your options open for running into old flames and randoms on New Years.
If you’ve figured it right you’ll hit the holidays around the 3-6 month period. And there is something about meeting the parents that sinks that hook in deeper, making diamond earrings on Christmas Day 50% more likely. Do your duty, soldier, put on your pearls and curb that sailor mouth, you’re meeting the family.
The Holidays is a shifty time to start dating anyone, and it will accelerate even the most casual relationships. It’s like going from a Sunday afternoon cruse to a high-speed chase; always have a backup weapon and an escape plan. Meeting the family, particularly the extended family is unpredictable, no matter how much sun shines out your man’s ass. If you are ill prepared, you’ll be sitting at the kids table with dish duty finding your only relief in getting great-aunt Kacky liquored up by request of her husband. So study up, ask the proper questions beforehand to rule out any accidental buffoonery. For example: Who was the last girl they met? This way you can outshine accordingly. Inquire about traditions. You don’t want to be benched in heels when you could be scoring touchdowns on the fields. When in doubt, bring play clothes. Also, be aware of touchy subjects, this not only brings the skeletons out of your lover’s closet but helps you curb the conversation in your favor. You don’t want to be boasting about your liberal pro-choice views only to discover that the kid sister was knocked up last year. “Thanks for spilling the beans, Grandma won’t come back inside. Please tell me you know how to thaw out an old lady,” and this is also good example of when you use your escape plan. Best to have previous knowledge controversial issues and prepare unbiased answers appropriately. You should actually have an arsenal of these answers ready to fire at all times. However, I do realize that not all of you are serial monogamists like me, so I will give you a bit of leeway here.
If you are the one bringing someone special home for the holidays, do him a solid and educate him on your parent’s pet peeves. He’s a keeper if he chooses to listen to you. If he doesn’t well… you’re stuck with him for the long weekend. Even in this situation, it remains the same: always have a backup weapon and an escape plan. It’s a merging of worlds, collision bound trains set to expose everything you were hoping to keep under wraps for a few more months of bliss. You sat for hours stuffed into germ infested public travel just so you can see these two animals sniff each other’s assholes. And just like dogs at a dog park, there is a fine line between playing and fighting. No sudden movements, and make sure he know who’s the alpha, even if it is your mom.
Relatives and boyfriends are hit or miss, but when you come out of it all you’ll either have learned a lot about the other person or you’ll vow to remain single for the rest of your life. Because I need a mother-in-law like I need a hole in the head.
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.
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.