I try not to let it distract me but I have one train of thought and evidently only one track for it to ride on. Maybe I will derail it when Kate and I go for our walk.
Every Saturday for every Girls Weekend to date, Kate and I have walked the beach, dodging the Beach Badgers to go to the next town over and do some shopping. Souvenirs for the kids and the men in our lives. A beer coozy to match the bathing suit du jour. A Snapple to wash down the ibuprofen. And maybe a little fun shopping. I have gotten some adorable things at end of summer sales. I have also gotten some things that look preposterous once I am no longer at the beach. Or tan. Or I remember that I'm not 25 anymore.
Kate asks more questions while we walk along the beach. I am happy to talk about John but share with her that I was a little concerned about his morning after 'tude in the hotel restaurant. "Please don't be a garden variety asshole," is the thought resonating through my little shrunken head.
Kate is the voice of reason. Go figure.
"Liza, it was just a kiss. A couple of kisses. It's not like you just went on a romantic European vacation and he's stopped calling."
"But I think I like him," I say.
"He's nice and he's cute. And he kissed you. No big deal. It's Saturday. A whole new night lies ahead. God only knows what will happen the rest of the day. Be cool. And if you never see him again I guarantee you he won't be the last cute, nice guy you kiss. Find someone else to kiss."
I wish I had her attitude. I am not accustomed to kissing just anybody. I should have been this discriminating when J. came along. My God the trouble I'd have saved myself.
"OK, " I said. "Scout for me. I promise I'll be just as delightful tonight."
"Liza, you have a great rack, the best legs in the world, a beautiful smile and you're loads of fun. What's not delightful? Especially to a guy?"
Oh, good. It must have been some other personal quality that sent him running screaming in the other direction.
Kate starts randomly pointing out cute guys we encounter on the beach and in the shops. "It could be him. Or him. This guy over here smells good. He has weird hair but he smells awesome. Maybe you could work on the hair." She is such a helpful, supportive friend.
We schlep back. Time for bathing suit ensemble number two. I am excited about this one. The whole thing rocks. I think for a moment that John will find it adorable. And then I push that thought out of my head and decide that someone else who isn't John needs to find it adorable, too. Better take a second look at the hair and the lip gloss situation.
Once our butts are on lounge chairs, I feel like taking a little nap, but I don't. It's lunch time and I have a feeling that the guys will be coming our way in their pursuit of lunch. Or beer. Men are predictable like that.
I do not want to fall asleep and miss it. I also don't want to fall asleep and then not miss it, Sleep Face and Morning Breath and all. Pretty.
I am facing the beach but am not the first to see them. Jill does. "There are the guys," she says. "Coming through the beach bar area. Liza, you going over?"
"No, she's going to play it cool. John needs to come to her," Kate says. "Keep your dark glasses on, Liza. He'll have no idea if you've seen him or not." I am too stupid to know to do this on my own.
I do keep them on. And I make sure I am sitting oh-so-pretty on my lounge. No double chin pose. Bathing suit covering what it is supposed to cover. Seated in a position where I can breathe but do not draw any unwanted attention to anything remotely flabby. Boobs hoicked up, not laying about randomly. Not exactly Marilyn Monroe, but not Roseann Barr either.
And suddenly the men are upon us. Mark, Chris, The Beave and John, walking between lounge chairs and approaching from all directions. There are lots of jovial hellos. A few jokes about the night before. A few questions about why Penny is on her laptop. They are on their way to get lunch but Joy invites them to sit a minute.
Oddly, Chris takes a seat on the end of my lounge chair by my feet, half turned to talk to me.
Odd thing to do. I would think that was John's spot. I am anxious to see where he sits. It will tell me a lot.
Mark remains standing. The Beave sits next to Joy. John sits on the end of Joy's chair. No one is about to encroach on Jill. She is a Goddess.
My heart sinks just a little. John should have sat on my chair. But Chris sat there first. Was that so John couldn't (in light of the conversation we'd had the night before) or so he didn't have to? A Guy Code favor. And if it were so he couldn't, why isn't John telling him to move his ass and sit somewhere else?
I tell myself not to overthink the situation. But apparently that's all I know how to do. It would be such a luxury to not notice every little nuance and every little subtlety all the time.
Chris has asked me a question. He wants to know who's the better band, The Beatles or the Rolling Stones."
"Stones," I say. Chris high fives me. As I look up to be high fived I see John get up.
And before I know it, he has pulled over a neighboring lounge chair, aligned it next to mine, and has sat down on it sideways, squarely facing me.
Quietly he says, in that voice, "I had fun last night. I'm glad it's only Saturday," and winks.
I take off my sunglasses. I want him to see me wink back when I tell him I had fun, too.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Saturday Morning Follies
The first morning is one of the best parts of Girls Weekend. (There are very few bad parts, actually. My favorite part seems to always be the current part.)
We wake up. Slowly. It usually starts with someone making a comment to the nothingness that is the dark, stillness of the room we are all packed into.
The snoring has stopped. Replaced by something that sounds like a yawn and the rubbing of one's eyes.
I am lying on my back and say, to no one in particular, "I think there may have been several minutes last night, in a row, where I was actually retarded."
Joy is apparently awake in the bed next to me (but not the snorer) and busts out laughing. "At least you didn't accidentally break dance!"
We both laugh and the snorer does too.
We are all awake. They are curious about John. Asking all kinds of questions. I am glad we are all lying there in the dark. They can not see that I'm beaming as I gush. I am trying to be cool but it is just not working. He's adorable. And he digs me.
I try not to dominate the conversation. Try not to be that girl that can not shut up about her shiny new crush. I refrain from working a cute little John story into every conversation.
But I want to.
But instead, we carry on as usual. We slowly get up. Slowly wash the black mascara smudges from under our eyes. Shake the sand from our shoes, (if we can find them) and brush our teeth. We need to look moderately presentable for breakfast. No one needs to do the walk of shame down the corridor and across the dining room. We place towels and magazines on lounge chairs in a strategic location on the pool deck. The sun is already glaring. We squint as we select the group of chairs and move them into a circle to optimize sunning and gossiping. We need to be near the pool but sufficiently far away from the baby pool and all of its noise and splashing. And no one wants to get the hairy eyeball from the young parents who don't appreciate a spicy story laced with a couple of F-bombs.
We also need to be reasonably close to the bar. Juuulia will need to be able to see us and get to us, and we need to be able to hear the musicians that start playing right around lunch time.
And a short walk to the room to use the loo. Peeing and fresh lip gloss are part of the routine.
We go into the dining room and are seated. Near the bar. No one is offended.
As we are about to sit, I glance across to the other side of the bar and think I see John and The Beave. I ask Joy if she thinks it's them. She does. We walk over. They have come to our hotel to get coffee before going to the beach (They are in a hotel across the street). We all say hello, and I am hoping I've given my appearance sufficient attention. We have a few laughs about the night before. Everyone is very cordial. I razz The Beave about drinking girly flavored coffee. Joy says we are holding Chris's shoes hostage. He left them at the pool near our chairs.
But there is nothing about the way John acts toward me that says he's really happy to have bumped into me (and frankly he could have planned to see me if he'd wanted to, not just hoped he'd bump into me. It wouldn't have been hard. He'd said goodnight just down the hall just a few hours before.) There is no kiss on the cheek, or private look. He doesn't squeeze my hand and say he'll see me later or even that he hopes to see me later. He doesn't ask what beach we'll be on. Joy volunteers that we'll be at the pool. I am a little miffed at the distance John is keeping but I keep up the good natured adorable act and razz The Beave a little more when he dribbles his coffee down his shirt.
"That'll teach ya to drink girly coffee, Buster Brown." He laughs. John laughs. They both turn without another word and walk away with the 4 coffees.
I'd better stop gushing about John. I think I'm about to make an ass of myself.
We wake up. Slowly. It usually starts with someone making a comment to the nothingness that is the dark, stillness of the room we are all packed into.
The snoring has stopped. Replaced by something that sounds like a yawn and the rubbing of one's eyes.
I am lying on my back and say, to no one in particular, "I think there may have been several minutes last night, in a row, where I was actually retarded."
Joy is apparently awake in the bed next to me (but not the snorer) and busts out laughing. "At least you didn't accidentally break dance!"
We both laugh and the snorer does too.
We are all awake. They are curious about John. Asking all kinds of questions. I am glad we are all lying there in the dark. They can not see that I'm beaming as I gush. I am trying to be cool but it is just not working. He's adorable. And he digs me.
I try not to dominate the conversation. Try not to be that girl that can not shut up about her shiny new crush. I refrain from working a cute little John story into every conversation.
But I want to.
But instead, we carry on as usual. We slowly get up. Slowly wash the black mascara smudges from under our eyes. Shake the sand from our shoes, (if we can find them) and brush our teeth. We need to look moderately presentable for breakfast. No one needs to do the walk of shame down the corridor and across the dining room. We place towels and magazines on lounge chairs in a strategic location on the pool deck. The sun is already glaring. We squint as we select the group of chairs and move them into a circle to optimize sunning and gossiping. We need to be near the pool but sufficiently far away from the baby pool and all of its noise and splashing. And no one wants to get the hairy eyeball from the young parents who don't appreciate a spicy story laced with a couple of F-bombs.
We also need to be reasonably close to the bar. Juuulia will need to be able to see us and get to us, and we need to be able to hear the musicians that start playing right around lunch time.
And a short walk to the room to use the loo. Peeing and fresh lip gloss are part of the routine.
We go into the dining room and are seated. Near the bar. No one is offended.
As we are about to sit, I glance across to the other side of the bar and think I see John and The Beave. I ask Joy if she thinks it's them. She does. We walk over. They have come to our hotel to get coffee before going to the beach (They are in a hotel across the street). We all say hello, and I am hoping I've given my appearance sufficient attention. We have a few laughs about the night before. Everyone is very cordial. I razz The Beave about drinking girly flavored coffee. Joy says we are holding Chris's shoes hostage. He left them at the pool near our chairs.
But there is nothing about the way John acts toward me that says he's really happy to have bumped into me (and frankly he could have planned to see me if he'd wanted to, not just hoped he'd bump into me. It wouldn't have been hard. He'd said goodnight just down the hall just a few hours before.) There is no kiss on the cheek, or private look. He doesn't squeeze my hand and say he'll see me later or even that he hopes to see me later. He doesn't ask what beach we'll be on. Joy volunteers that we'll be at the pool. I am a little miffed at the distance John is keeping but I keep up the good natured adorable act and razz The Beave a little more when he dribbles his coffee down his shirt.
"That'll teach ya to drink girly coffee, Buster Brown." He laughs. John laughs. They both turn without another word and walk away with the 4 coffees.
I'd better stop gushing about John. I think I'm about to make an ass of myself.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
The Morning After The Night Before
I can hardly wait for the girls to wake up. And not just because the bed is sandy. Obviously Joy had gone for a walk on the beach at some point. And brought home half a dune to sleep on. Someone is on the other side of the room snoring. I can't tell who in the pitch blackness. But I am certain that I will never be able to get back to sleep now that I've gotten up to pee and there is a a slumbering rhinoceros in the the room.
I am dying to tell them about John.
I am dying to hear what I missed when John and I left the group in search of Snapple.
I am dying to know what they think of John. What Mark, Chris and The Beave have to say about their friend. Or am I really? I like him.
What if the girls think he is not worth my time? What if they think I can do better? What if they say that they looked him up on Facebook and it looks like he has a girlfriend? What if they say they think he's just a flirt on a guys weekend? What if they say that a friend of a friend of a friend works with him and he's a total asshole? Will that make me think differently? I never listened before and wound up married to Lars and then spent three years with J. when they knew in three weeks that he was not going to be good for me.
And what about the guys? What if the guys say he's a loser? Or a womanizer? Or has uncommonly bad hygiene on most days? Or has a girlfriend? Or is still in love with his ex-wife? Or cheated on his ex-wife? What will that tell me? And how much weight will I give it?
What if the guys diss me??? What if they think I'm too old? Or a clinger? Or not pretty enough? Or dance funny or talk funny or do anything funny except be funny?
Every opinion comes from somewhere. And that "somewhere" usually has a foundation on at least some kernel of truth. And I have not exactly been a shining star in when it has come to forming my own opinions. I have made some collossally bad choices. What if his friends think he has, too?
But I think everyone will be in favor. Something tells me I would have known if they weren't long before this morning.
Oh, wait. I did.
When the bell had rung for last call, and we'd all gottn our last drinks (for the moment), and the harsh department store lighting had come on (Who's adorable now...?), we'd all been in a group at the middle bar (as opposed to the far bar, the near bar, the back bar, the upstairs bar or the outside bar - to be specific). I had danced my tailfeathers off both with the girls and with the guys and specifically with John. I had hopped up on a bar stool at last call to enjoy my drink without the risk of falling down. (Joy had not been so lucky and took and Olympic ice skating caliber fall on the tiles. Bruised her ass, bruised her ego, but was not really hurt and did not destroy her outfit).
When the lights had come on, John had asked me to hold his drink for a moment, he was using the men's room. I'd turned to put it on the bar and Chris had materialized at my side.
"Hello," I'd said.
"Hello," he'd said with the same intonation.
"So you went with Plan B, huh?" I'd snarked. He'd laughed.
"You guys were not really Plan B," he'd admitted. "We were just teasing."
"Did you have fun?"
"Yes and no."
I'd looked at him like he was nuts.
He'd shaken his head like I'd missed something. "I had a great time. Band was great. The dancing. But my buddy got the girl."
I'd looked at him confused. He'd danced with lots of girls. Had gotten lots of attention. "But you are married. You can't really get the girl" I'd said, sounding like Sandra Dee, and still not getting it.
"You and John," he'd explained.
"Oh, THAT girl," I'd replied like a complete moron, getting it.
"Yes, my buddy got THAT girl."
I wasn't sure if that was a confession or an endorsement but whatever it was, it was clear that I was in favor. But was not at all clear if it was a good thing.
I am dying to tell them about John.
I am dying to hear what I missed when John and I left the group in search of Snapple.
I am dying to know what they think of John. What Mark, Chris and The Beave have to say about their friend. Or am I really? I like him.
What if the girls think he is not worth my time? What if they think I can do better? What if they say that they looked him up on Facebook and it looks like he has a girlfriend? What if they say they think he's just a flirt on a guys weekend? What if they say that a friend of a friend of a friend works with him and he's a total asshole? Will that make me think differently? I never listened before and wound up married to Lars and then spent three years with J. when they knew in three weeks that he was not going to be good for me.
And what about the guys? What if the guys say he's a loser? Or a womanizer? Or has uncommonly bad hygiene on most days? Or has a girlfriend? Or is still in love with his ex-wife? Or cheated on his ex-wife? What will that tell me? And how much weight will I give it?
What if the guys diss me??? What if they think I'm too old? Or a clinger? Or not pretty enough? Or dance funny or talk funny or do anything funny except be funny?
Every opinion comes from somewhere. And that "somewhere" usually has a foundation on at least some kernel of truth. And I have not exactly been a shining star in when it has come to forming my own opinions. I have made some collossally bad choices. What if his friends think he has, too?
But I think everyone will be in favor. Something tells me I would have known if they weren't long before this morning.
Oh, wait. I did.
When the bell had rung for last call, and we'd all gottn our last drinks (for the moment), and the harsh department store lighting had come on (Who's adorable now...?), we'd all been in a group at the middle bar (as opposed to the far bar, the near bar, the back bar, the upstairs bar or the outside bar - to be specific). I had danced my tailfeathers off both with the girls and with the guys and specifically with John. I had hopped up on a bar stool at last call to enjoy my drink without the risk of falling down. (Joy had not been so lucky and took and Olympic ice skating caliber fall on the tiles. Bruised her ass, bruised her ego, but was not really hurt and did not destroy her outfit).
When the lights had come on, John had asked me to hold his drink for a moment, he was using the men's room. I'd turned to put it on the bar and Chris had materialized at my side.
"Hello," I'd said.
"Hello," he'd said with the same intonation.
"So you went with Plan B, huh?" I'd snarked. He'd laughed.
"You guys were not really Plan B," he'd admitted. "We were just teasing."
"Did you have fun?"
"Yes and no."
I'd looked at him like he was nuts.
He'd shaken his head like I'd missed something. "I had a great time. Band was great. The dancing. But my buddy got the girl."
I'd looked at him confused. He'd danced with lots of girls. Had gotten lots of attention. "But you are married. You can't really get the girl" I'd said, sounding like Sandra Dee, and still not getting it.
"You and John," he'd explained.
"Oh, THAT girl," I'd replied like a complete moron, getting it.
"Yes, my buddy got THAT girl."
I wasn't sure if that was a confession or an endorsement but whatever it was, it was clear that I was in favor. But was not at all clear if it was a good thing.
Monday, January 6, 2014
*Sigh*
And he did. Well, not there in the bar or anything. Later. Once we'd all closed the bar, gone back to the pool deck, ordered pizza, gotten more beer and laughed our heads off.
And all that time, he is as attentive and adorable as I'd hoped. Holds my hand. Demonstrates exceptional manners, with me and my girlfriends. Tells a few good stories. Contributes to the group dynamic. Leans in an whispers in my ear when he has something to say just to me.
He and I peel off and take a walk. First to find a Wawa with a Snapple Iced Tea that we are both craving after 47 drinks. We talk a lot. He is 2 years younger than me. He is divorced and has 2 kids. They are a few years younger than mine, a boy and a girl. He asks as many questions as I do. Gathering up the intel. Meaningful stuff. Stupid stuff. Are your parents still alive? Still married? How many sibs do you have? Where are you in the pecking order? What's your middle name? Where did you go to school? Baseball or football? Candy or flowers? Little stuff that tells you what makes the person who they are.
eHarmony should be smart enough to know that this is the stuff compatibility is made of. Not entirely. There are the big rocks in the bucket that are absolute deal breakers, but these are the pebbles and sand that make the bucket full.
Snapples in hand, we sip and walk to the beach.
It would be wildly romantic with the nearly full moon but there is a breeze coming off of the ocean and I am freezing to the point of chattering. Which obviously interferes with my ability to speak. Like the ever-so-slight slur didn't already...And surely anything that impedes one's speech is going to interfere with kissing. I have the worst luck.
John offers me his coat. No, he doesn't offer it. He takes it off and helps me put it on.
It is one of those gestures that a man makes that I find absolutely irresistible. I have no idea why.
Warmer now, we walk along holding hands. I am chattering less so we continue to talk. We avoid the "why did you get divorced" taboo subject but dive into the custody arrangement and questions about how amicable we all are. I try to sound positive instead of bitter and toxic toward Lars. Although John can probably hear my lip curling up in disgust in the dark.
John is becoming more and more attractive as we walk and talk. He's smart. He's interesting. He's amusing. He contributes to the discussion without me making all the leading statements. He's dressed nicely...somehow pulling off the casual look without looking like a dork or a prep or a member of a bowling team. I like his shoes (which he's carrying in his other hand, the one not holding mine) And is in great shape. He's not really tall, but tall enough. And he has beautiful eyes and a pretty smile. His hands are nice. And he has a great voice. Reminds me of George Clooney, which always gets my vote. It is such a nice voice, I am torn between wanting him to keep talking to me and wanting him to stop talking and kiss me already.
And soon enough he does.
As we approach the block where my hotel is there is a huge blustery gust of wind. It kicks up sand and beach debris and stings our legs sends us running. We duck behind the lifeguard stand. And there, in the shadow of the wooden structure that he's pulled me behind to put protective arms around me, he lifts my chin and kisses me.
And there is that struck by lightening thing I love so much.
So much so that we decide to walk a few more blocks on the beach before he walks me to my hotel room door and gives me one last kiss.
I go inside and try not to disturb my roommates as I get ready for bed.
My phone dings as I close the bathroom door so I don't have to get dressed in the dark.
A text from John.
You really are adorable. Goodnight."
And all that time, he is as attentive and adorable as I'd hoped. Holds my hand. Demonstrates exceptional manners, with me and my girlfriends. Tells a few good stories. Contributes to the group dynamic. Leans in an whispers in my ear when he has something to say just to me.
He and I peel off and take a walk. First to find a Wawa with a Snapple Iced Tea that we are both craving after 47 drinks. We talk a lot. He is 2 years younger than me. He is divorced and has 2 kids. They are a few years younger than mine, a boy and a girl. He asks as many questions as I do. Gathering up the intel. Meaningful stuff. Stupid stuff. Are your parents still alive? Still married? How many sibs do you have? Where are you in the pecking order? What's your middle name? Where did you go to school? Baseball or football? Candy or flowers? Little stuff that tells you what makes the person who they are.
eHarmony should be smart enough to know that this is the stuff compatibility is made of. Not entirely. There are the big rocks in the bucket that are absolute deal breakers, but these are the pebbles and sand that make the bucket full.
Snapples in hand, we sip and walk to the beach.
It would be wildly romantic with the nearly full moon but there is a breeze coming off of the ocean and I am freezing to the point of chattering. Which obviously interferes with my ability to speak. Like the ever-so-slight slur didn't already...And surely anything that impedes one's speech is going to interfere with kissing. I have the worst luck.
John offers me his coat. No, he doesn't offer it. He takes it off and helps me put it on.
It is one of those gestures that a man makes that I find absolutely irresistible. I have no idea why.
Warmer now, we walk along holding hands. I am chattering less so we continue to talk. We avoid the "why did you get divorced" taboo subject but dive into the custody arrangement and questions about how amicable we all are. I try to sound positive instead of bitter and toxic toward Lars. Although John can probably hear my lip curling up in disgust in the dark.
John is becoming more and more attractive as we walk and talk. He's smart. He's interesting. He's amusing. He contributes to the discussion without me making all the leading statements. He's dressed nicely...somehow pulling off the casual look without looking like a dork or a prep or a member of a bowling team. I like his shoes (which he's carrying in his other hand, the one not holding mine) And is in great shape. He's not really tall, but tall enough. And he has beautiful eyes and a pretty smile. His hands are nice. And he has a great voice. Reminds me of George Clooney, which always gets my vote. It is such a nice voice, I am torn between wanting him to keep talking to me and wanting him to stop talking and kiss me already.
And soon enough he does.
As we approach the block where my hotel is there is a huge blustery gust of wind. It kicks up sand and beach debris and stings our legs sends us running. We duck behind the lifeguard stand. And there, in the shadow of the wooden structure that he's pulled me behind to put protective arms around me, he lifts my chin and kisses me.
And there is that struck by lightening thing I love so much.
So much so that we decide to walk a few more blocks on the beach before he walks me to my hotel room door and gives me one last kiss.
I go inside and try not to disturb my roommates as I get ready for bed.
My phone dings as I close the bathroom door so I don't have to get dressed in the dark.
A text from John.
You really are adorable. Goodnight."
Friday, January 3, 2014
Jackpot
It is like a scene from a movie. Perhaps a Jim Carrey movie. It borders on the ridiculous. Mark, Chris, John and The Beave walk by and wave, laughing. We turn and wave back, smiling in victory and "air toasting" them with our free drinks with young men all around us.
I am not sure if we waited an hour or not. We talked to dozens of people; learned dozens of new names and new back stories. Got breathed on by guys who hadn't seen a toothbrush in at least a week. Got leered at by ageing pro football has-beens with necks like utility poles. Had our personal space encroached upon by cute 30-somethings who would have been far cuter had they not out-kicked their coverage in the alcohol department. Did lots of impromptu dancing with men who are bold enough to make an approach but too shy for the dance floor. (I'll never completely understand what is so darn scary about a dance floor. It's not like anyone makes them take the stage with the Rockettes.)
We've lost sight of The Boys. The Saints. I keep wanting to call them Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. I am hoping they were not completely discouraged at having been upstaged by a bunch of bachelor party dudes. (And if you ask me, that wedding will never happen. The Groom evidently has misbehaved already and a bridesmaid who happens to be in the same bar is threatening to dish.) So far, they are the most appealing people we've met, even if nothing ever materializes with John. But in that magic hour they could have easily been preyed upon by much younger, much prettier women. They may have even gone to another bar.
So I buck up and decide to have fun and see what happens. The bar is filling up with interesting people and the band is roaring to life. Kate is in top air guitaring form and in the mood to dance. Eventually, we all find ourselves on the dance floor.
And just as the band rips into a great old 70s rollerskating tune and we start singing and dancing like a bunch of sorority girls on the crowded dance floor, we find that we are surrounded by The Boys. They've appeared out of nowhere, probably having struck out in every other section of the bar. And they've come to find us.
They are all decent dancers. Not a shy one among them. Together we are quite a spectacle. The lead singer is giving us shout outs. Joy is on stage at one point for reasons that have never been adequately explained. And each of us has a chance to dance with each of the guys.
And I get my chance to dance with John. He's a great dancer; I am not used to that. The world is not exactly brimming with guys who love to dance. And when the song is over, he stays close for the next song while the girls switch off again with The Beave and Chris and Mark (who is shockingly light on his feet for having legs that start above my navel.)
John stays close for the next two songs. And when the rest of the group peels off to the bar, he holds my hand. We are staying for one more dance.
This is when he starts the habit of telling me that I am delightful. It was delightful to hear.
After an Evelyn Champagne King tune we eventually decide to go to the bar. But not where everyone else is. We stay near the dance floor. We have a couple more dances in us. But for now, he is having trouble getting the bartender's attention. I take matters into my own hands and wave the bartender in. For some reason, John finds this enormously appealing. Looks at me like I've just landed a DC-10 on the roof.
"You're something special, did you know that?"
Special? Delightful AND special? I am just a font of appeal tonight, aren't I?
He tells me he wants to get my number and hands me his phone so I can put it in his contacts. (My God the world has changed...) I do, and hand him back his phone as he hands me my drink. He tells me he'll text me and then I'll have his number (thereby making matchbooks completely obsolete...).
He does. I look at my phone.
"Hi, Mary. It's John."
"Got it," I say. I'll add the details to the contact later, when I have better control of my faculties and therefore better dexterity.
My phone buzzes again.
John again.
"I am going to kiss you."
Jackpot.
I am not sure if we waited an hour or not. We talked to dozens of people; learned dozens of new names and new back stories. Got breathed on by guys who hadn't seen a toothbrush in at least a week. Got leered at by ageing pro football has-beens with necks like utility poles. Had our personal space encroached upon by cute 30-somethings who would have been far cuter had they not out-kicked their coverage in the alcohol department. Did lots of impromptu dancing with men who are bold enough to make an approach but too shy for the dance floor. (I'll never completely understand what is so darn scary about a dance floor. It's not like anyone makes them take the stage with the Rockettes.)
We've lost sight of The Boys. The Saints. I keep wanting to call them Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. I am hoping they were not completely discouraged at having been upstaged by a bunch of bachelor party dudes. (And if you ask me, that wedding will never happen. The Groom evidently has misbehaved already and a bridesmaid who happens to be in the same bar is threatening to dish.) So far, they are the most appealing people we've met, even if nothing ever materializes with John. But in that magic hour they could have easily been preyed upon by much younger, much prettier women. They may have even gone to another bar.
So I buck up and decide to have fun and see what happens. The bar is filling up with interesting people and the band is roaring to life. Kate is in top air guitaring form and in the mood to dance. Eventually, we all find ourselves on the dance floor.
And just as the band rips into a great old 70s rollerskating tune and we start singing and dancing like a bunch of sorority girls on the crowded dance floor, we find that we are surrounded by The Boys. They've appeared out of nowhere, probably having struck out in every other section of the bar. And they've come to find us.
They are all decent dancers. Not a shy one among them. Together we are quite a spectacle. The lead singer is giving us shout outs. Joy is on stage at one point for reasons that have never been adequately explained. And each of us has a chance to dance with each of the guys.
And I get my chance to dance with John. He's a great dancer; I am not used to that. The world is not exactly brimming with guys who love to dance. And when the song is over, he stays close for the next song while the girls switch off again with The Beave and Chris and Mark (who is shockingly light on his feet for having legs that start above my navel.)
John stays close for the next two songs. And when the rest of the group peels off to the bar, he holds my hand. We are staying for one more dance.
This is when he starts the habit of telling me that I am delightful. It was delightful to hear.
After an Evelyn Champagne King tune we eventually decide to go to the bar. But not where everyone else is. We stay near the dance floor. We have a couple more dances in us. But for now, he is having trouble getting the bartender's attention. I take matters into my own hands and wave the bartender in. For some reason, John finds this enormously appealing. Looks at me like I've just landed a DC-10 on the roof.
"You're something special, did you know that?"
Special? Delightful AND special? I am just a font of appeal tonight, aren't I?
He tells me he wants to get my number and hands me his phone so I can put it in his contacts. (My God the world has changed...) I do, and hand him back his phone as he hands me my drink. He tells me he'll text me and then I'll have his number (thereby making matchbooks completely obsolete...).
He does. I look at my phone.
"Hi, Mary. It's John."
"Got it," I say. I'll add the details to the contact later, when I have better control of my faculties and therefore better dexterity.
My phone buzzes again.
John again.
"I am going to kiss you."
Jackpot.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
The Starting Gate
With a fresh round of traveling drinks in hand, the girls and I head back to our room. We have a well orchestrated routine of showering, primping and outfit selection ironed out over all these years. Penny takes the longest. She showers first. The rest of us begin to make outfit choices and shoe decisions and trade articles of clothing and jewelry and such.
It is a shrill romp of girly frivolity. I am sure we're disturbing neighboring guests for miles. The hotel should know not to put us within earshot of any babies intending to sleep or couples looking for a quiet get away. Never. Gonna. Happen.
I have assembled a perfect outfit that masters the combined looks "Casually Sexy" and "Made No Effort At All" which in my opinion leads people to believe that I would probably look deliciously fabulous if my house caught fire and I had to run out in whatever I was wearing while unclogging the toilet.
But I can't find the belt. And the belt not only positions the shorts in exactly the right spot low on my hips but is the pop of pattern and color that brings the whole outfit together. (Even Hil said so. And she is a harsh critic.) So I mention that I can't find it, half expecting everyone to form a search party and Sherlock and Watson through every square inch of the premises. (They don't.) I mention it again. Probably 9 or 10 times more. I have become Rain Man. And then I decide to open and rifle through every drawer and closet that the belt may have wandered into, having grown legs while we were flirting at the pool.
I have become a nuisance, I am sure. There is a heavy collective sigh of relief when I find it. No one actually had to go through with knocking me out with the table lamp. I am sure the find was anti-climactic. The belt makes the outfit but it is not like it's the Hope Diamond. I am sure the girls are wondering what the big hairy deal is.
But the deal is this. I kind of like John. Sitting next to him at the table was fun. I liked the way he looked at me when I spoke. I like the way he seemed to thoroughly enjoy it when I gave one of his friends a ration of good natured crap. He'd told me I looked "adorable" in my hat. So when we run into them later (and ignore them for an hour) I want to look amazing. Since I won't be able to talk to him or dance with him (we are totally calling their bluff and doing this) I want him to see me across the bar and think I look smashing. And be tempted to break the one hour rule because I look smashing enough that surely some other male bar patron will think the same thing, and he won't have a one hour rule.
So my hair and makeup and outfit must be casually flawless. And that means I needed the damn belt.
When it is my turn to shower I turn every stone in the grooming department. It is nice to be excited to see someone. Nice to want to look nice for someone. I shave exactingly. I buff and slough off every cell that is more than a half a day old. I scrub meticulously. I use the best smelling hair products and repeat as directed. I use an unscented body oil so that my perfume stands out. I brush and floss and rinse with mouthwash (which won't matter for one minute once beer is involved).
And we all do similarly. Now that the Belt Crisis has ended.
I love the part when we all decide that we are the picture of perfection and ready to walk out the door. We are all complimenting each other and boosting one another's confidence. It is completely genuine. These are girls who won't let you walk out the door looking less than fabulous, and are thrilled for you when you've pulled it off. A girl on her game is another girls best friend.
We've decided to go to the old standby bar across the side street. The music is always great and we are likely to meet people we've met before. We have a way of collecting friends in far away places. Tonight is no different. The band is killing it and we make quite an appearance as we stride in single file.
We walk to the far bar and within a minute we are surrounded by men who are way too young but way too cute to ignore. It's someone's bachelor party and they are buying drinks. They outnumber us two-fold. We like the ratio. Why not enjoy their company and their generosity. New friends are fun.
And as the first couple of guys turn from the bar to hand us our first round of drinks, who do you think walks by?
Chris, John, Mark and The Beave.
They'll have to punt.
But I am hoping John doesn't.
It is a shrill romp of girly frivolity. I am sure we're disturbing neighboring guests for miles. The hotel should know not to put us within earshot of any babies intending to sleep or couples looking for a quiet get away. Never. Gonna. Happen.
I have assembled a perfect outfit that masters the combined looks "Casually Sexy" and "Made No Effort At All" which in my opinion leads people to believe that I would probably look deliciously fabulous if my house caught fire and I had to run out in whatever I was wearing while unclogging the toilet.
But I can't find the belt. And the belt not only positions the shorts in exactly the right spot low on my hips but is the pop of pattern and color that brings the whole outfit together. (Even Hil said so. And she is a harsh critic.) So I mention that I can't find it, half expecting everyone to form a search party and Sherlock and Watson through every square inch of the premises. (They don't.) I mention it again. Probably 9 or 10 times more. I have become Rain Man. And then I decide to open and rifle through every drawer and closet that the belt may have wandered into, having grown legs while we were flirting at the pool.
I have become a nuisance, I am sure. There is a heavy collective sigh of relief when I find it. No one actually had to go through with knocking me out with the table lamp. I am sure the find was anti-climactic. The belt makes the outfit but it is not like it's the Hope Diamond. I am sure the girls are wondering what the big hairy deal is.
But the deal is this. I kind of like John. Sitting next to him at the table was fun. I liked the way he looked at me when I spoke. I like the way he seemed to thoroughly enjoy it when I gave one of his friends a ration of good natured crap. He'd told me I looked "adorable" in my hat. So when we run into them later (and ignore them for an hour) I want to look amazing. Since I won't be able to talk to him or dance with him (we are totally calling their bluff and doing this) I want him to see me across the bar and think I look smashing. And be tempted to break the one hour rule because I look smashing enough that surely some other male bar patron will think the same thing, and he won't have a one hour rule.
So my hair and makeup and outfit must be casually flawless. And that means I needed the damn belt.
When it is my turn to shower I turn every stone in the grooming department. It is nice to be excited to see someone. Nice to want to look nice for someone. I shave exactingly. I buff and slough off every cell that is more than a half a day old. I scrub meticulously. I use the best smelling hair products and repeat as directed. I use an unscented body oil so that my perfume stands out. I brush and floss and rinse with mouthwash (which won't matter for one minute once beer is involved).
And we all do similarly. Now that the Belt Crisis has ended.
I love the part when we all decide that we are the picture of perfection and ready to walk out the door. We are all complimenting each other and boosting one another's confidence. It is completely genuine. These are girls who won't let you walk out the door looking less than fabulous, and are thrilled for you when you've pulled it off. A girl on her game is another girls best friend.
We've decided to go to the old standby bar across the side street. The music is always great and we are likely to meet people we've met before. We have a way of collecting friends in far away places. Tonight is no different. The band is killing it and we make quite an appearance as we stride in single file.
We walk to the far bar and within a minute we are surrounded by men who are way too young but way too cute to ignore. It's someone's bachelor party and they are buying drinks. They outnumber us two-fold. We like the ratio. Why not enjoy their company and their generosity. New friends are fun.
And as the first couple of guys turn from the bar to hand us our first round of drinks, who do you think walks by?
Chris, John, Mark and The Beave.
They'll have to punt.
But I am hoping John doesn't.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Table Talk
Every one of the guys is appealing in some way.
Chris is the bad ass who drew the short straw and came to the table. He's very clever and most hilarious. He's also wearing a wedding ring. Too bad.
Mark is 6'6" and absolutely gorgeous. Beautiful, even, pearly white teeth, good hair and enviable cheekbones. He also has lots and lots of family money. And a great sense of humor. And a wedding ring. Married a pageant queen years ago. I bet they are a striking couple.
John is a cable company exec and has the prettiest blue eyes I've ever seen. He's also very chatty, very funny, and has an unusually good sense of fashion. No wedding ring. Good sign. Joy is going to do some digging to find out what his situation is.
And The Beave. Probably the nicest guy among them, and the smartest, but whose name I could not remember. To me he looked like the Cleaver kid, and I just called him The Beave. I never even looked for a ring.
Perhaps the best part about meeting these guys was how much they were like us. They were lifelong friends and the ease among them was apparent. They razzed each other. They made each other laugh. They ganged up on each other. They knew each other's stories and secrets and wives and children and all about each other's careers. And every one of them could hold up their end of a conversation. My group of gals enters a room and takes over. Meets everybody there. Makes friends. These guys were cut from the same bolt of cloth. There is something so appealing about a man who socializes well.
And after another round of drinks (or was it two?) it is time for true confessions.
Chris tells us that the question about scoring pot was just an excuse to approach the table and talk to us. Their huddle, the one Jill had noticed as we'd sat down, was simply that. What play were they calling and who was going to be the quarterback? The question had to be designed to elicit a reaction that would tell them if we would be good company. Evidently we reacted as they'd hoped. I would love to have heard some of the other potential questions.
Yvette is the last of our girls to arrive for the weekend. She parks her car and comes straight to the bar. It is not hard to find us.
And within minutes, Yvette is having a cocktail, making good natured jokes with the guys and laughing along with us. It is an easy rhythm to get into.
But as it begins to get darker, our thoughts turn to the nighttime plans. Happy Hour is great, but the band is playing its last set, the crowd is thinning, and families are traipsing through on their way to dinner with toddlers and grandparents and babies who should have napped instead of made that last sand castle.
Chris leans in again. Like he's going to whisper. This time we are a little more attentive.
"OK, here's the deal. You ladies are our Plan B. When we all go out tonight and bump into each other again, we need to agree that we all ignore each other for an hour. And if nothing...if no...if a Plan A doesn't happen, then we can hang out. But only after we give it an hour. Deal?" He's laughing even as he says it. And so are we.
Jill and Joy and I look at each other as if to determine which of us is going to pounce. I am the de facto pouncer.
I stand. I lean across the table, take Chris's cigarette from his hand and take a drag (but don't inhale, because I'd be coughing for hours afterwards and not be able to deliver the crushing blow I need to deliver). I blow the smoke at him and get right in his face. Or my boobs do.
"We're YOUR Plan B? Are you high? We won't need an hour. We won't need ten minutes. If you think that we --- WE --- are going to be the ones that have to drop back and punt, you are woefully mistaken. Game on!"
Chris is laughing. He starts to speak and I interrupt. "Woefully!"
He laughs and starts again. I interrupt again. "Mistaken!"
They are all laughing now, and we get up from the table. The gauntlet having been thrown, we have primping to do.
Chris is the bad ass who drew the short straw and came to the table. He's very clever and most hilarious. He's also wearing a wedding ring. Too bad.
Mark is 6'6" and absolutely gorgeous. Beautiful, even, pearly white teeth, good hair and enviable cheekbones. He also has lots and lots of family money. And a great sense of humor. And a wedding ring. Married a pageant queen years ago. I bet they are a striking couple.
John is a cable company exec and has the prettiest blue eyes I've ever seen. He's also very chatty, very funny, and has an unusually good sense of fashion. No wedding ring. Good sign. Joy is going to do some digging to find out what his situation is.
And The Beave. Probably the nicest guy among them, and the smartest, but whose name I could not remember. To me he looked like the Cleaver kid, and I just called him The Beave. I never even looked for a ring.
Perhaps the best part about meeting these guys was how much they were like us. They were lifelong friends and the ease among them was apparent. They razzed each other. They made each other laugh. They ganged up on each other. They knew each other's stories and secrets and wives and children and all about each other's careers. And every one of them could hold up their end of a conversation. My group of gals enters a room and takes over. Meets everybody there. Makes friends. These guys were cut from the same bolt of cloth. There is something so appealing about a man who socializes well.
And after another round of drinks (or was it two?) it is time for true confessions.
Chris tells us that the question about scoring pot was just an excuse to approach the table and talk to us. Their huddle, the one Jill had noticed as we'd sat down, was simply that. What play were they calling and who was going to be the quarterback? The question had to be designed to elicit a reaction that would tell them if we would be good company. Evidently we reacted as they'd hoped. I would love to have heard some of the other potential questions.
Yvette is the last of our girls to arrive for the weekend. She parks her car and comes straight to the bar. It is not hard to find us.
And within minutes, Yvette is having a cocktail, making good natured jokes with the guys and laughing along with us. It is an easy rhythm to get into.
But as it begins to get darker, our thoughts turn to the nighttime plans. Happy Hour is great, but the band is playing its last set, the crowd is thinning, and families are traipsing through on their way to dinner with toddlers and grandparents and babies who should have napped instead of made that last sand castle.
Chris leans in again. Like he's going to whisper. This time we are a little more attentive.
"OK, here's the deal. You ladies are our Plan B. When we all go out tonight and bump into each other again, we need to agree that we all ignore each other for an hour. And if nothing...if no...if a Plan A doesn't happen, then we can hang out. But only after we give it an hour. Deal?" He's laughing even as he says it. And so are we.
Jill and Joy and I look at each other as if to determine which of us is going to pounce. I am the de facto pouncer.
I stand. I lean across the table, take Chris's cigarette from his hand and take a drag (but don't inhale, because I'd be coughing for hours afterwards and not be able to deliver the crushing blow I need to deliver). I blow the smoke at him and get right in his face. Or my boobs do.
"We're YOUR Plan B? Are you high? We won't need an hour. We won't need ten minutes. If you think that we --- WE --- are going to be the ones that have to drop back and punt, you are woefully mistaken. Game on!"
Chris is laughing. He starts to speak and I interrupt. "Woefully!"
He laughs and starts again. I interrupt again. "Mistaken!"
They are all laughing now, and we get up from the table. The gauntlet having been thrown, we have primping to do.
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