It's officially warmer now than it was this afternoon, and warmer than it's been in about a week . . . except for that day when it was 70. Is this February? Just checking.
I went out with Kate last night for a little hair of the dog but we ended up just going to Perkins to have breakfast-for-dinner after two drinks. In fact, I didn't even finish my second beer. I'd gotten so shit-faced Friday night that the idea of having any alcohol made my stomach turn.
We'd gone to the Cat, as we always do, and wound up staying until about 15 minutes before they closed. It's been a long time since I've done that. I had a really good time, despite my reservations. The last few times I'd gone out on a Friday the crowd was generally belligerent, regular, about 15 years my senior, and a little on the skanky side.
We ran into quite a few people one or both of us knew, and several people I hadn't seen in quite some time. One was Stuart, our local comic book guru, a published artist who did the work for another friend's DVD. I noticed it the last time I went to the bookstore because the film guy still works there, and I immediately recognized Stuart's work on the cover. He was distant, though. He seemed really talkative at first, but at one point told me he's never dated a woman under 5'7″ and a half. Being somewhere around 5'6″, himself, and saying this to me seemed odd. Why? Was I coming off as interested?
I also got so drunk that I gave someone Kate's phone number. I wasn't trashed enough to give out my own, and I didn't want to give him a fake number. We'd been joking around about something for a while when he asked if I wanted to get something eat. I said I wasn't hungry. He said no, like, get something to eat later on during the week. I said I wasn't sure, he asked for my number, I said “Why don't you just give me yours?”
He said “Because you'll never call.”
He claimed he couldn't remember his number anyway, and kept saying “All I'm talking about is something to eat,” which, in my drunken stupor, eventually made perfect sense. Oh, well, dinner? Okay, then.
Kate told me he just called her number a bit ago and left a message. He's the kind of guy who calls girls “man” and “dude,” so he would strictly be Friend Material. How in the world am I going to work around that one? Considering how little free time I have, and the fact that I'd probably never recognize this person in the daylight . . . well, I don't know that I'll be returning his call.
I told Charlie about that and he thought it was funny. I get myself in to situations like that a lot and I don't know how to ask the person if they'll Just Be Friends.
I swear, in the past four years I've probably broken down and given a dozen guys or girls my number or email address strictly out of pity (okay, the girls weren't out of pity, but none of them ever called or wrote). I just don't have the balls to be upfront with them. I go out intending to have a good time, saying I don't need to drink to do so. I never intend to “meet someone” or hook up. That would be ridiculous. But it seems I have the best time when I'm having a lot of attention paid to me. Anyone who says otherwise in a crowded bar is fibbing. Isn't that why we doll ourselves up? And, I must say, I was looking might sassy Friday evening.
Besides, telling people I'm involved makes them immediately stop speaking to me. Unless you're a certain blonde, way-too-tan someone who just can't seem to get it in to his thick head that I'm not interested.
We went through a little phase about 3 years ago where I had to beg Kate to stop volunteering my relationship status to every guy who passed by — it's sort of difficult to have a good time when you're being shunned/ignored/brushed off by everyone in a bar.
Maybe I'm not explaining all that in a way that doesn't make me sound like a complete flooze. I'm not doing anything untoward or acting in a nasty way that I would be ashamed to tell someone else about; I just don't see the point in going out with your single friend and sitting quietly at the end of the bar, picking the label off a beer and gazing at the basketball game on TV. I'm going out to dance, have a couple of drinks, and see if someone will buy any for me. That's about it. Sometimes you meet interesting people who make the time go faster, and stopping a fun conversation to announce that there is no chance in hell you'll ever date them . . . well, that tends to kill the conversation. One – because they may wonder why the flip you're saying it since we're all just having a chat; Two – because perhaps they are interested and, whether you're interested or not, at least everyone's having a fun chat.
Does that make any sense?
I do, however, need to learn my limits. I didn't pay for a single drink Friday night and I hate to say no, so by the end of the evening the earth was spinning. I thought Kate was intoxicated so we headed over to the Vogue to see if Charlie or Cavan might give us a ride home. I got some water and every time I closed my eyes, everything began spinning faster. It was really unpleasant.
I was fine when we got home but woke up Saturday morning with a literally splitting headache and uncontrollable nausea. I finally forced myself to throw up. At one point I thought this was really unflattering for a woman my age, but what the hell. I'd had a good time and now I was paying for it a bit. By late afternoon I felt fine.
And don't worry: Charlie knows how I get when I drink and trusts me. I can't even imagine how many women throw themselves at him at the club.
And now it's a degree warmer than it was when I began this entry.