Confession Time

I was a little drunk when I last posted.


It was in the wee hours, after our third date, and I needed a few minutes to chug some water before retiring for the evening. If I'd been more sober, or less tired, I might have mentioned. . .


When planning the evening, we had to have a talk about who would be buying dinner. I started the discussion by telling S that I wanted to buy him dinner, and he admitted that one of his favorite things is picking up the check. It makes him feel good to be generous. I think that's awesome, and I really appreciate that quality, but as it turns out, I feel the same way. I like to be the one to treat, too. I managed to convince him to let me take him to NoRTH before the hockey game, where I enjoyed some tasty pork chops and he ordered his own pizza. That's right--I avoided a garlic-y dinner in hopes of smooching later.


After dinner, on the way to the car, I started quizzing S about the hockey game. He's from the midwest; I grew up in Austin. The closest I've been to a hockey game was in high school when we played Juniors vs. Seniors broom ball at Northcross Mall. I wondered if the hockey arena would be cold, and he told me not to worry about it because he brought gloves for me. I misunderstood at first, thinking he might be loaning me his own gloves. Nope, he'd brought me my own pair.


The game ended pretty early. What to do at 9:30 on a Saturday night? Neither of us had been to a particular bar near my house, so the choice was made. And that bar? Best! Decision! Ever! Saturday night is karaoke night. Saturday night is also a freak show, thanks to an interesting cast of characters:


The Pink Lady: wore pink "camoflage," head to toe. She seemed to know all the regulars, and greeted one fella by licking the side of his face, from his chin to his temple. She walked past our table in the back several times, and after one pass-by, S leaned over to me and whispered "She keeps winking at us." I was amused to inform him that she wasn't winking at US.


Leather Man: wore leather pants, and a long leather coat. Later in the evening, he sang "Freebird." His mullet was scragglin' down to the middle of his back.


The Missing Link: Two mustached men in their 50's arrived, and sat down at a big table near us. Soon after their arrival, a lady came over and gave them each a hug. She danced with one of them. (Yes, to the karaoke songs.) She came back to the table and kissed the other dude full on the mouth. Then she danced with the dude she kissed. She came back to the table and played a little grab-ass with the second dude. Then they all left together. Someone at our table may have made a "free moustache rides" joke. I'm too much of a lady to name names.


The Dancer: One gal seemed to want to pick up the dude at the table in front of us. She brought him a drink, and talked to him for a while. I realized she'd had more than just the one drink when she decided to start dancing by herself next to his table. Her big move involved bending over to give the floor up close jazz hands. Her big move revealed an expanse of her back. . .and a good few inches of granny panties sticking up above the waistline of her jeans.


The Parisian: An older fella wearing a denim jacket with "Hard Rock Cafe Paris" stamped on the back. His toupee was sightly askew, and he was the recipient of the full face lick from the Pink Lady.


Every time we thought we'd seen all of the strange folks wandering around, someone new arrived. Like people watching? The bar near my house is the place to be on a Saturday night. I'm a little surprised we haven't been back since then.

Seriously

He brought me a pair of gloves to wear during the hockey game.

Seriously?

Swoon worthy, my friends.

Turn You Inside Out

An excerpt from my email to a few friends on Monday:

"I don't know if it was S in his tuxedo telling me how fantastic I looked all evening, the big glass of gin & tonic I drank, or the little goodnight smooch I got, but this morning I woke up with my pajamas on inside out."

Really, what else is there to report?

I suppose there are a few additional details.

Let's start with this little beauty, the right hand ring. When I went shopping last week, I decided to search out a little bling to jazz up my black cocktail dress. The dress has a v-neck, and I didn't have a necklace that felt fancy enough.

At the store, I started trying on a few things on, but a saleslady saw me floundering and took pity on me. Turns out she is the accessories guru at the store, and I hit a home run with her on my team.

First, she found a black v-neck dress for me to change into. Then, she started getting out the sparklies. I may have tried on every necklace in the store. Nothing was right. Other gals who were out shopping were coming over and commenting. Sales ladies were placing their votes. Accessory Guru even took off her own necklace for me to try on. Still: meh. But then she found this ring in the back of the drawer. Love! I've been wearing my precious most evenings after work, around the house. I'm actively seeking other opportunities to showcase my new lovely.

Also, I purchased hair spray for the first time in my adult life. I don't know, I plead temporary insanity and an accessory high for leading me into the Aveda store. Surely, they'd have some options other than whatever shellac was used on my actual prom hairdo? I threw myself on the mercy of the clerk again, who recommended a spray that isn't sticky or stiff and should just lightly cradle my hair into place. It did, and my hair was appropriately tossled and only slightly voluminous.

It's hard to take a picture of yourself when you're racing around the house, trying to get pretty on time. Just imagine that I looked better than ever. Modesty prevents me from repeating the shower of compliments I received throughout the evening, but I certainly felt like a million bucks.

I got a call from S when I was in the final stages of fancifying. His sister-in-law and her friend decided to attend the party, and would be meeting us for a pre-party drink. I wish I had a picture of my face when he divulged this information. As it turns out, I was glad to know a couple of additional people at the party. They were both friendly and nice to me, and I only caught S giving her a "shut up" look once or twice. I liked how she wasn't afraid to bust his chops a little bit, and he seemed to enjoy and tolerate a little good-natured ribbing. He big brothers her--she's about 10 years younger than him--even though they aren't actually related, and I thought that was pretty cute.

We'd been at the party a while when he pulled me aside, out of a conversation where I'd been nodding and smiling along to a stranger's story I didn't 100% understand. He wanted me to know that he appreciated my being a good sport, and wanted to make sure I was having fun. He also wanted to tell me that he didn't want to make any assumptions, but that he'd already bought hockey tickets for us for next weekend.

I wonder if it would be weird to wear my new ring to a hockey game?

That Second Step Can Be a Doozy

I had an email from S on Tuesday morning, inviting me to prom.

That's right, the clever fella emailed me to let me know that he thought a six hour first date was a good thing, and that it might be a little premature, but he wanted to know if I'd go to prom with him. And by that, he meant a holiday cocktail party this weekend where he'll be wearing a tuxedo. A tuxedo that he owns.

It's like my letter to Santa was re-routed to him! Would I like to see him in a tuxedo and wear a fancy dress? Indeed I would. He joked about letting him know what color dress/outfit I'd be wearing so he could get an appropriate corsage, so I felt like I should let him know that if we were attending my actual prom, I would be wearing a hot pink dress that included both sequins and taffeta. And an enormous pile of hair. Seriously, that thing attached to the back of my head looks like a nest! If I recall correctly, the hairdresser pulled my hair into a ponytail and then curled/teased my hair out and bobby pinned it down to the back of my head. I had to wash my hair three times to be able to just get a comb through it afterwards. Good times.

He told me a little bit more about the party yesterday, and said he thinks it will probably be fun, but a little strange. Friends, "fun, but a little strange" is pretty much in the top five on a list of ways I'd describe myself. Also on that list: "slightly terrified about attending a party with 40+ strangers on a second date." At least I'll look cute. . .allegedly.

Last night, I delved into my closet to see if I had any options. I found three black cocktail dresses, one of which I'd totally forgotten about. The first one is a cute shift dress I bought years ago. I know it's from a while back because the size of the dress is two entire sizes smaller than the size of the pants I'm wearing today. A try-on attempt revealed that I am currently too bootylicious to wear it in public. Good to know. The second option is an adorable dress that I have never even worn. It's the same dress my bridesmaids wore in my wedding, from White House Black Market. It's strapless, with a scalloped hem. Very Audrey Hepburn in my mind. The bodice was tight enough that I felt indecent. I don't need to spend the evening worrying that anything is about to bust out, if you know what I mean. Option three might be a winner: I bought it to wear to a black tie wedding, and it fits like a dream. I do wish the skirt part were a little shorter--it hits along the bottom of my knee. Lucky for me, the internet has been very helpful in recommending accessories, so I think I can jazz up what would otherwise be a little bit boring.

Of course, if my letter to Santa was actually involved in the planning of this evening, I'd be wearing a smokin' hot red dress bought on super sale and have the body to match. A gal can dream, right?

Yeah, That Happened

Yesterday was my first date in a loooong time.


S and I decided to meet (for the first time in person) at the Draught House, and I rolled through the parking lot right at 4 o'clock on the dot. The tiny parking lot was full, and I noticed a guy from work standing outside and drinking a beer with a few other people. The guy, who I'll call Chuck, didn't see me roll throught the lot, and I didn't see S, so I went ahead and found a parking space on the street. I texted S to let him know I'd arrived and was on my way in, as I was then three minutes late.


I rounded the corner into the parking lot, and saw S standing in the doorway. Chuck's group was between us, and Chuck hollered "Hi Guava!" as I approached. I waved at S, and yelled hello to Chuck. Chuck followed up with a rowdy"What are you up to?" I yelled back "I'm on a date!" and pointed at S, who was now walking towards me.


And then it happened.


Chuck yelled "Where's your hubby??"


That's right. I'm meeting a dude for the first time, on my first date in over ten years, and some jackass is hollering at me across a freakin' parking lot about the whereabouts of a husband belonging to me.


I'm surprised I survived the wave of shock and embarrassment that consumed me.


I tried to play it cool, as I gave S an awkward hug and made some sort of not-very-snappy comeback for Chuck. Inside, I tried to overcome the horror by making fun of the situation, and I think I handled it okay. At least S didn't suck down his beer, make an excuse, and leave me sitting in the Draught House.


Instead, we spent the next six (!!) hours together. The first 3 and a half hours were spent drinking, and talking, and laughing. I wasn't drunk, and I don't think S was, either, but after we each finished our third pint, I felt like a fourth may have put me past my first date comfort zone of sobriety. We decided to adjourn to a sushi place in the Triangle, and met up there. I managed not to drop any soy sauce or sushi down the front of my sweater, which I consider a personal triumph.

At the end of the evening, he walked me to my car, and asked me to text him when I arrived home so he knew I made it safely. He gave me a hug, and I hit the road. My follow-up text thanked him again for a fun evening, and told him I enjoyed spending six hours with him. He responded that a long date equaled a good date in this case. Awww!

Yet, I have no idea if I'll hear from him again. Don't guys usually say something like "Let's do this again!" or "I'll call/email/text you next week"? He's a little hard for me to read. Several times throughout the evening, he made comments about how I seemed to have all the right answers or it was like I was reading his mind. Yet, there were also a few mildly uncomfortable pauses where I wondered if he wished he could figure out a way to wrap up the date.

On the other hand, I didn't say anything about getting together a second time, either. I felt like I had already been a little more forward than normal to get to the date; after he and I emailed several times, and I didn't hear from him for a week, I called him. At the end of that call, he said he'd email me to find a time to get together, and I didn't really think I'd hear from him again. But, sure enough, he emailed me the next morning, and out we went. The waiting game is back on!

Fun Five for Friday

I woke up this morning in a toasty cocoon of electric blanket goodness. I slept better last night than I have all week!

Morning traffic was light, I think due to "Blizzard" 2009 warnings. It's a good thing, too, because I didn't exactly get out of bed in a timely manner today. (See above.)

The cute kid at work brought me a delicious chai latte from Starbucks. He was wearing a scarf. I swooned a little.

I am making a list (of Christmas gifts to buy) and checking it twice. Shopping starts this weekend, and I'm excited about it.

I may have a date this weekend.

The Lucky Ones

Many years ago, I won a happy hour and show tickets for myself and 9 of my friends at a comedy club downtown that had just opened and was trying to generate business. I can't even remember the name of the place--only that it ended up closing pretty quickly--but I found a show I wanted to see and invited my friends.

Sadly, the act we saw that evening has long since disbanded. Our entertainment for the evening was The Impromptones, a group of three or four fellas who did improv comedy in song. Prior to the comedy portion of the evening, we indulged ourselves in the happy hour portion of the evening; the club had given me 20 drink tickets--two each for the group. Except that a couple of my friends ended up not being able to make it at the last minute, so we redistributed their tickets. As I recall, I was all too willing to take one (or three) for the team, and by the time the show started, I was quite happy indeed.

Often, improv comedy takes suggestions from the audience, or asks the audience to participate in some way. So when The Impromptones asked where the beautiful people were sitting that night, the vodka in my veins directed me to point at our group with both hands in the air. One of the guys came over with a microphone and asked me if I had any good luck charms. I must have looked confused (actually, I was just drunk) because he rephrased the question: if I had a job interview, what would I be sure to take with me for good luck?

My good luck underwear, of course.

Of course! Of course I would choose that moment to reveal the secret of my good luck underwear to seven of my friends and the entire comedy club. Thank you, vodka.

Sensing a comedy goldmine--or possibly just realizing that I had imbibed in some truth serum--the comedy dude pursued his line of questioning to it's natural conclusions. If I had good luck underwear, did I also have bad luck underwear?

Yes, yes I did.

I thought one of my friends was going to puke from laughing so hard. I tried to just stop talking, but as it turns out, drunken Guava sitting in a spotlight faced with a man with a microphone is a recipe for no-holds-barred personal revalations. He asked another question: if some of my underwear was bad luck, why did I keep it?

Well, because I want to give it another chance. Another chance to become good luck underwear.

That's right, friends. Not only am I a weirdo who has good and bad luck underwear, I like to give my bad luck underwear another chance. And I was helpless to stop myself from telling what seemed like the entire world right then.

The Impromptones went on to sing a hilarious song about good luck underwear and bad luck underwear, and I admit I laughed until I cried. Sure, my face was beet red throughout the song, but at least we all had fun, right? If the number of people who yelled "good luck underwear" at me on my way out of the club that evening is any indication, then we certainly did all have fun.

So why would I choose to bring up this secret shame today? As it turns out, I should've done laundry last night. Instead, I was out on the town. . .well, out in another town. . .meeting some awesome fun ladies and having a few drinks. I didn't get drunk, and I don't think I spilled any shameful secrets, but I definitely did not attend to my chore list for the evening.

Let's just say I've got my fingers crossed today. Just in case.