Sunday, November 22, 2009
Derby Derby Derby
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
The evening begins with shots and shots. It's someone's birthday. The evening continues with tequila and G&Ts and military boys and cowboy boots and whiskey and dancing and memory loss...
When I am finally sitting on the curb with a bottle of water, surrounded by 500 cigarette butts, approximately 1 am, Birthday Boy and company want to go to the karaoke bar. Away we go.
I have lots of friends who enjoy this particular karaoke establishment, but I'm a little snobby. (Sorry, friends.) Sitting at the bar with my posse, I am approached. He wants to buy me a beer. Do they have Purple Haze? No. How about Blue Moon? What's that? Well, damn. Budweiser, it is.
I don't remember what we talked about for the first several minutes, but I remember his glimmering gold chain (yikes!) and the gap between his teeth (which I liked, I must admit). He said he is Cuban or Puerto Rican or some such. He just moved here from Texas, only been in town for two months or so. He works for the "government."
At some point, he asks me a question that prompts from me the inspired response: "Get married and have babies." I don't remember the question. What are your plans for November? How do you intend to pay your rent? What do you do in your spare time? What would you like to do later tonight? There's no telling.
He wants to sing with me. "Picture," he says. I am not a karaoke singer, mainly because I think I'm going to choose something that's out of my range and not perform as spectacularly as I know I can. (Haha.) I tell him that I don't sing karaoke because I'm a "trained singer." He tells me he was in a band. Psh. I don't think he's really understanding me, so I slide off my stool a little when I lean closer to his ear and shout, "I'm a TRAINED SINGER."
So he leans closer to my ear and shouts, "I was IN A BAND."
Bar-scream lean. "I'm a TRAINED SINGER."
Bar-scream lean. "I was IN A BAND."
This goes on for several minutes. I think he's ignorant and wearing a gold chain. He thinks I'm arrogant and irresistibly sweaty; he's not backing down. We're singing "Picture" if it kills him. I resist as much as a drunk Lucy can, but of course, I give in. My wing-lady a few stools down is shouting in protest, but it's too late. Our little paper ticket is turned in and we are officially in the line-up.
I will say these things:
- During my lady-lines, he leans back to the DJ to shout, "SHE'S A TRAINED SINGER," (obviously making fun of me) which provokes me to swat him repeatedly.
- If indeed he has been in a band, it was not a good band.
- Clearly, this is his not his first time singing "Picture" with a drunk stranger-girl. I feel pretty confident he is constantly scouting for his next 'Picture' partner. (As I type, the theme song to Picture Pages is officially stuck in my head.)
After our duet disaster, we dance. He's calling it The Two Step. It is not. It's The Seventeen Step that drunk people should not attempt when donning pointy-toed, leather-soled shoes. But he spins me around and dips me and dunks me and it's all good fun. And at this point, I'm kinda liking my Guatemalan.
We sit back down, he pulls out his wallet, and I see it. And holler. "IS THAT A BADGE?!" Indeed it is. "Shhh, shhh," he tells me. "I don't want everyone in here knowing..." So I begin to whisper in that patented Lucy-whisper-scream. "WHY DO YOU HAVE A BADGE?! WHAT DO YOU DO?! ARE YOU A NARC?!" Oh, this guy is smooth. He says, "I'd love to tell you all about what I do. But I don't want to tell you in a bar. I want to tell you at dinner." Well. You can tell me all about your crime-fighting adventures over some Seafood Au Gratin, yes sir. So we trade numbers and he promises to call me for a date. And he hands me a business card.
I butterfly off for a few minutes to consort with my friends. I don't know how much time passed here, but when I looked up, less than ten feet away, my new Hot Tamale boyfriend is standing behind another woman with his arms around her and giving her the ol' what-for. That is, he is feeling her up.
Oh, my heart shatters into a million pieces right there in that dirty barroom.
Then Sarah said,"Wanna go to Pitt Grill?" Hot Tamale who?
He sees us leaving and comes to tell me good bye. Yes, tries to kiss me. No, didn't let him. Sarah says sternly, "Do NOT invite him." So I don't. And we're outta there.
Once we're settled at our Greasy Spoon, ring ring. Calling already, Tamale? "Do you miss me," he asks.
"Hahaha. Hahaha. Hahaha. I just met you, stupid." I think that hurt his feelings, poor thing. And I don't think I called him stupid, but it's funnier to believe that I did. He is very sad that we can't talk for hours like a junior high bf/gf, but my undercooked scrambled eggs are on their way. I'm busy.
Over our breakfast for drunk-dinner, I remember the business card and whip it out. It's glossy and has a nice badge graphic on it. It also says "DEPTARTMETN OF blah blah blah..." !!! DEPTARTMETN?! On your "government" business card?! Oh dear. We really don't know what to make of this clown now.
For the next several days, innocent text flirting ensues. During this stretch, I ask who makes his business cards.
Him: Oh, you like them?
Me: There are typos.
Him: You got one of the bad ones.
Yeah, I got a bad one.
A few days later, we agree it's time for dinner. He asks me what I'll be preparing for our meal. Psh, again. I kindly inform him that I will not be preparing our meal on our first date. Maybe the second, but definitely not the first. After I explain this, he replies: "Hmmm. We'll have to see."
Haven't heard from him since. Really?
Sunday, September 20, 2009
- offshore worker
- socially inept
You've read how much I like roughnecks. I do. I love a hard working man. Bring on the work boots and calloused hands, please and thank you. However, I don't necessarily want to date someone who works offshore, mainly because of their schedules. I realize that works for some people, but I am not one of those people.
I will not defend ugliness or social retardation.
Occasionally, I stumble upon a profile that has only one picture to represent the candidate...one picture with several people in it. That's not fair. Which one are you???
So I'm flipping through profiles, flirting like crazy, trying to make something happen. Now comes the agonizing wait for response. Sometimes you get a "No Thanks" e-mail; sometimes you get nothing. I prefer nothing to a no thank you. I don't understand the people who don't respond in any way. I can see that you've been online and you know I'm interested. There's no way that you're out of my league, right? I've (facebook equivalent of) poked 33 people. I've gotten 6 "No Thank You" e-mails. What about the rest of you fellas? Am I gonna have to get ballsy and write e-mails? This blows.
The pressure of the pre-date e-mailing is disgusting. You ask logistical questions and get logistical answers. Snore. Once you get past all that boring stuff, you may begin to cultivate a fondness for one another based solely on a little shallow, electronic flirting. Seems harmless enough. When you write an e-mail, you can take your time. You can rearrange your sentences (over and over), double check your grammar (if you know how) and correct your spelling (if you're keen enough to realize you've spelled things incorrectly).
*Side note for all you novice-computer-users who want to date me: Spell check will work in your favor. keds ≠ kids. thim ≠ them. ezey ≠ easy. spind ≠ spend. Et cetera and so forth. You may be a very hard working, upstanding gentleman of a fella, but it's really difficult to get past these glaring mistakes. Please try to clean things up a bit.
E-mailing also affords the opportunity to spare yourself any embarrassment caused by over-exposure (that is, talking too much). You can't do that in regular conversation. Sometimes after I speak, the ridiculous nonsense that comes out of my mouth seems to float in front of my face for a few agonizing seconds and then crack like an egg over my head. It's nice to avoid that feeling.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
We settled on plans for dinner and a movie. (Cliché as it is, there was nothing else really going on in town that night. And I would soon be very glad about the decision to see a movie as it gave me an opportunity to not hear him talk.) I chose a place for dinner with low lighting and pseudo-romantic ambiance...with great veal.
I really like good food. More importantly, I like rotini.
As the waiter, turned to walk away, I say (well, scream, I guess), "THIS IS NOT ROTINI."
His eyes were big as saucers when he turned around. "Yes, it is," the young sassy thing replied.
"NO sir, it is NOT. Rotini is tightly twisted. It is plain to see that this is a LOOSE twist, is it not?"
"Well, ma'am, that's what we've been serving as rotini."
"Hmph. Well, you can tell your management that this is NOT rotini and I am disappointed. I expected rotini with my veal."
As the waiter cowered off into the kitchen (where I presume he didn't tell the management that I was disappointed because no free drinks were acquired), I looked at Jim.
I don't have words to describe his face. Astonishment? Embarrassment? Terror? Arousal? I can't say for sure.
Oh my stars, I've just screamed at the waiter about my noodles in the first 20 minutes of my date. I could have crawled under the table. Instead, I sucked down my vodka tonic so quickly I got the brain freeze and apologized for probably 3 minutes. Then I decided to stop talking about the infernal noodles and ask this kid some questions.
Within a few minutes of allowing Jim to talk about himself, he'd forgotten all about the noodle incident and seemed to become entranced with the sound of his own voice. He told me everything. Every bit of employment he'd had since he was 18, his salary at each job (including his current salary - in detail), all his ex-girlfriends' logistics and ethnicities.
"Another Vodka Tonic, please?" Number 3.
(By the by, I was able to smooth things over with the waiter with a little innocent flirting. I'm irresistible, even when the noodles aren't quite right.)
My eyes were beginning to cross as he prattled on and on about watching Harry Potter in Spanish, about pranks he and his co-workers play on each other, about the driving he does all over the country for his work. Number 4, please.
I should also mention that by this point I was sweating profusely. So sexy.
We met for dinner at 6:30 and the movie we planned to see didn't show until 10. What was I thinking? Oh, I was thinking we'd have plenty of time to discuss baby names and china patterns.
As the evening crept on, I thought a good way to kill some time would be to go to the bathroom for a while and text all my friends about my current circumstances. But the bathroom in this place was absolutely sweltering, and I couldn't stand to stay in there longer than I needed for business purposes. When I walk out of the bathroom, there sat Jim. He'd moved from our table to sit at the table directly in front of the bathroom door. Startled, I almost groaned an 'oohgeez' accompanied by an eye-roll when I saw him sitting there.
"I think they're ready for us to leave," he says. What? No, they aren't. We're giving them our money. There are still other people here. I didn't have it in me to argue. To the theater.
We were early, of course, and sat awkwardly next to each other as we watched those stupid pre-movie commercials. And Jim talked. I couldn't tell you what he talked about during this time; I was doing my very best to keep my mind a complete blank so I didn't scream something about noodles or Harry Potter or vodka.
The lights dimmed and the previews began. You know how the volume comes up when the previews are starting to let you know things are about to get serious? Know what that inspires? Jim to lean closer to my ear so I can hear him talking about the Mayan calender over the booming sound effects. When the movie started, I looked at him with big, obvious eyes and gave him a big, obvious "shhh." He didn't stop until he finished his thought. How terribly open-ended the evening would have been, had he not been able to finish telling me all the end-of-the-world theories of which he is aware.
I cannot say that he wasn't quiet during the show, but I will not lead you to believe that he said nothing. I ignored him. I divided all my energy between enjoying the movie (which I really wanted to see) and avoiding any physical contact with Jim (so as to not lead him on). He was all over my arm rest and I could see that he was trying to lean in for a hand-on-the-knee or some other variation of a movie-theater-move. But I was pulled in like a frightened turtle.
We both enjoyed the movie and were able to talk about it all the way to our cars. I gave him the usually-meaningless sideways hug and shouted, "Talk to you on the internet," as I ducked into my car.
There has been no further contact between Jim and Lucy.
Friday, September 4, 2009
To my friends:
I will tell a few stories that are not my own. I'll let you know which ones didn't happen to me, but if you recognize the story, please don't identify the guilty party.
I may exaggerate to juice up the story. Or just to be funny. And by exaggerate, I mean lie.
To my dates:
I have made the moral decision (surprise!) not to write about any of these experiences while dating is in progress. That is, I will wait until things are done with the fella before I write about him. Should something magically materialize with my current man-friend, I would hate for him to read about himself here. If you are reading about yourself as the subject of my mockery, I'm sorry this is the way you're finding out, but I don’t think you’re the one for me. It won't be necessary for you to buy me dinner again. But thank you.
To my mom:
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Step One: Create a kickass profile that will make me appear confident, entertained with my current life, far from desperate & not a heavy drinker. (By the way, it's apparently fine for men to drink "regularly" where women should only be "social drinkers." Strike one, Lucygirl.)
Building your personality resume is stressful and a little degrading. It's very easy to make your profile misleading, even if you don't intend to mislead. There's no charming way of saying, "I'm loud and obnoxious and my inside voice has bullhorn volumes. I get drunk in public and announce inappropriate details about my bathroom visits." So you figure a way to beat around the bush. (That's what she said.)
My profile includes the following information:
- I am "curvy." (I initially chose "a few extra pounds," but who's counting? You'd be surprised at the change in interested I received when this change was made. I've been getting a lot more attention since I converted! But I still don't really know the difference. I'm both curvy AND packing a few extra pounds.)
- I like to have fun. (I don't know how else to say "excessive drinking.")
- I am a social drinker. (What? I am. I'm just very social.)
- I go to church and I want to date someone who would like to go to church with me. (And drive me around after the excessive drinking. Er, I mean, "fun.")
- I like board games.
- I'm reading a book about serial killers.
- I smoked a lot of pot in college. (Why not include this?)
- I'm loud.
- I've never been married.
- I want to have children.
I digress (Lucy's had cocktails...and loves parenthesis).
So I put my profile out there once I've polished it up the best I know how. I'm ready for the world of internet lovers to seek me out, to swoon, to profess their need to be in my life.
For the first several weeks, it was gut-wrenching just to sign in. I was not yet brave enough to go showing my own interest in others, so I didn't really "browse" very much. Without me making the initial contact, no one can tell me straight out that they don't like what they see. However, silence is sometimes more insulting than dismissal. And that's what I got for the first three weeks: silence.
Oh, the pain, the agony of waiting. My pictures were good(ish). I was totally witty in composing my description. Maybe it was the church thing? Well, screw 'em. I go to church. And I'll want them to go too. They should know that. Surely that's not keeping them at bay...
Apparently, it just takes a little patience (what's that?). The e-mails soon began arriving. Is it against some kind of rule to publish them here? Defamation of character? Copyright infringement? Also, I'm a little drunk.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
I expect a bright-eyed, broad-shouldered stud to stroll into my church on Sunday morning and become enraptured with my singing voice and chubby stage presence. He will insist on taking me to lunch where we will discuss our love of classic rock and meat-filled pastries. He will want me to go to his house (that sits proudly on an acre of land with a pool in the back) and watch the Sunday Law & Order marathon and drink gin & tonics for the rest of the afternoon.
This fella has not showed up yet.
I would like to be standing behind a roughneck wearing dirty work boots in the grocery store checkout line. He’ll notice me when he’s reaching for the peanut butter cups. He’ll see that my buggy is filled with all the components of chicken & dumplings and ask, “What time is dinner?” I’ll be able to see his dimples as he grins to wink at me. When I extend my hand to shake his and tell him the name that will make his heart swoon for years to come, I will see the wedding band shining so brightly, I have to avert my eyes and attempt to contain an audible sigh of disappointment.
I would even settle for, “I could hear you laughing two blocks away but I really dig your black t-shirt and cowboy boots. Is that a Purple Haze you’re drinking? Would you like a shot of Tequila?”
These things have not happened.
My singleness doesn't openly plague me. I'm not desperate to be with someone to avoid being alone. But I think I've met every single man in this town and not too many new ones are moving in. Turns out, there aren't so many fish in my pond after age 26. Slim pickins. (Hello, Deville!)
I have always been opposed to online dating; I want this to happen the old fashioned way (see examples above). The old fashioned way is just not panning out, so after much "encouragement" from friends and co-workers, I gave in. I now have an active 6 month membership to an online date service...and this is a whole different ball game. A spit-ball game. I don't like it at all, but I'm in. I've paid the money and am having a frightful time so I thought I'd write about it. If you're currently involved with such an online service, you will certainly laugh and cry and hurl with me. If you are not, consider this your warning.
When the online dating rage began years ago, I saw a talk show episode featuring couples who’d found love through cyberspace. My only memory from the program is of a very attractive couple: slim, well-groomed, successful, all smiles. And twitches. That’s right, folks. Twitches. The pretty lady sat patting the knee of her handsome beau as his eyes twitched uncontrollably the entire show. I remember thinking, “Well, I bet she didn’t see that online.”
You can say that you aren’t shallow or superficial, but when you meet someone in person – in real life – you see stuff like that immediately. You see broken teeth, lazy eyes, enormous face moles, dandruff. You hear lisps, stutters, excessive burping. You smell body odor, overwhelming cologne, bad breath. At which point – in real life – you can assess your degree of immediate shallowness based on other varying factors (their personality, your present loneliness, length of time since your last affectionate interaction, etc.). At the start of an online relationship, obviously, all of those things are invisible. The normal order of relationship development is reversed. This can get messy quickly and lead to unintentional head-games and crushed egos.I've only been on a few dates so far, but the actual dates are only a portion of this process. However, the dates are what make the best stories. So as I make a mess of my mental health, I will attempt to rebuild my ego by telling funny stories about my unfortunate dating run.
Enjoy. Click "Follow." Comment. Stay tuned.