Sunday, bloody Sunday.

My friend P. and I used to have a weekly brunch before he moved to Austin, TX. We did this for about a year, and I started to call our get-togethers “bloody Sundays” because of the mass quantities of bloody Marys we would consume and the mayhem that would invariably ensue.

P. was fantastically flamboyant, and would oftentimes show up to the various establishments we had agreed to meet in shocking neon boas and white gloves. I have a feeling part of the reason I would consume so much alcohol was to get over how self-conscious I felt when he would undoubtedly arrive at the table I had snagged (he was always late) and announce in a deeply baritone voice that carried at uncomfortable levels, “Oh darling, sexual white chocolate has arrived!” (He was irish but wouldn’t touch Guinness with a five-foot pole. Why? Because, as he insists to this day, he’s a lady.)

P. would then commence scanning the room for men for both him and me. The cute ones? His. The ones who looked like they made a lot of money? His. The ones who looked like they were in a band or who might know someone in a band? His. The ones who looked like they may be really into you for about, say, a month, and then suddenly decide that you weren’t as beautiful/smart/fantastic as they thought you were originally. Mine. Why? Because, as P. put it, I was the “strong one.”

Now, you may ask, how is it that one (me) discerns if one they are observing is such an individual. Well, I still really haven’t mastered that, but I do know that they usually wear leather jackets.

On one such “bloody Sunday,” P. and I agreed to meet at Coobah on the North Side. I sat outside and sipped a Mimosa while P. dilly-dallied and eventually showed up 20 mins later, his hand wrapped around the arm of a leather jacket wearing hipster donning aviator glasses.

“KT!” P. exclaimed upon reaching his seat, “This is Aaron. Aaron and I got to talking at the bar…”

“The bar,” I said, “How long have you been here?”

“Oh for about 30 mins…I saw you come in 20 mins ago, but I knew you wouldn’t be expecting me for a while…so I just kept chatting,” he said. Then, turning to Aaron, whispered, “I’m always late. She doesn’t even expect me until an hour after she shows up anymore.”

“Yes…” I mumbled. “Is your new…friend staying with us?”

“Yes,” P. said firmly, “And I won’t have you turning him away. He’s just broken up with his girlfriend. And he needs to…vent.”

“Um. OK.” I said. “Uh, Aaron, was this a, uh, long relationship?”

Aaron shrugged and smoothed his hair back. He rubbed his day-old scruff and squinted his eyes in a deeply serious, expertly cultivated glare. For a second, I believed he was suffering SO much that he had only a half-lucid, wholly injured version of himself to offer the both of us.

“No,” Aaron said. “We only dated for a month. I just…lost interest.”

I turned to P., who at this point, is silently rubbing my left shoulder in an effort to appear nurturing and affectionate and said, “I hate you and don’t touch me.”

Can I be the possessive one?

So yesterday I reveal to Julie that some people I know think that the two of us are an “item.”

Me: Yeah, apparently they think we’re gay because I brought you to that party that one time…

Hmm. It is an honor to be considered, your girlfriend though.

Julie: I am equally honored. We can be each others beards.

Me: Yep. The next time we get hit on by some undesirable men at a bar, we can just say, “I’m with her.”

Julie: Can I be the possessive one? I can be very aggressive.

Me: Sure. (Pause) Just don’t hurt me.

Julie: I’d never hurt you, baby. I’d just drape my arms protectively around your shoulders. (Pause) And…I might start fights for fun.

Me: Eh, I can deal with that. Though if a cute guy comes along…I totally swing both ways.

Julie: But of course.

I’m not the kinda girl you take home to Mom

Yesterday while cleaning out my room, I found an old email from guy that I had dated when I was 19. I had, for some unknown reason, printed it out. It read:

Yeah, well. I don’t think you can meet my mom yet. She overheard me yesterday talking about how we do whiskey bombs together. Didn’t go over well. You don’t, like, do charity on the side, do you? Charity might help.

Sigh. If only he’d known about the tube of half-used toothpaste I once tried to give to the Salvation Army. That might have saved me.

It’s a date.

 

My lady friend, who prefers to be called by her Christian name, Sex-C, and I are planning a get-together for drinks.

Sex-C: Hott damn it’s a date! And I don’t plan on being sick tomorrow night either.

Me: Better not. You stand me up one more time and I might lose “interest.”

Sex-C: NOOOO!

Me: Yep. Better look purdy too.

Sex-C: But Katie, I’m so in like with you…it hurts.

“Yuck” and other realizations.

Last week my friend O. and I were at a bar discussing ‘relationships.’

 

O: You don’t want one of those, right?

 

Me: Um, I don’t know.

 

O: Do you know what one of those means?

 

Me: Uh, kisses and hugs?

 

At this point O. carefully outlined all that a “relationship” entails, including, but not limited too, meeting parents, good night phone calls, and discussions about moving in together.

 

Horrified, I stared at him.

 

“NOOOOOO,” I said fervently. “I do not want one of those.”

 

“Well,” O., said, “then what you want is the idea of a relationship, not the actual deal.”

 

Coming from a man who offers me beer when I have the flu, this was a phenomenal insight.

 

“You’re right,” I said. “I just want kisses and hugs.”

My date…went, um, well.

Since so many people have been inquiring into my date (meaning three, but the quantity isn’t so important as the quality of the requests), I present you with the low down.

 

After systematically going through our joint lexicon of comic book characters and assigning them various tarot card personas (i.e. Wolverine would be the King of Swords, Batman’s Joker would be the Fool), we began to discuss deeper matters.

 

These involved pizza with odd cheeses (that, um, still taste delicious), the rules of soccer and David Sedaris. Then we began discussing my blog. Why I thought it kosher to mention this on a first date is still beyond me. But sometimes I’m just a big ol’ all-you- can-eat word salad.

 

Me: Yeah, I’ve got a blog about breaking up.

 

Him: (shifting in his chair) You’ve had that much experience with it?

 

Me: Um, sure?

 

Him: Is that an answer or are you just trying to skirt the issue?

 

Me: Um, sure?

 

Him: (laughing) Big heartache in your past, then?

 

Me: No, just enough to write 300 word write ups. I’m really more of a reviewer rather than someone who provides in-depth analysis.

 

Him: (sarcastically) Well, this should probably be the time to tell you…if we go out on a second and third and eventually an eighth date, well at that point it’s all going to be about me. I’ll talk to you when I want to, you can be there for me, but I’m not really going to have time for you. Just so you know.

 

Me: (crushed) Oh, I see.

 

Him: I wasn’t serious! Did you seriously think I was serious? Dear god, who have you been dating that you thought I was serious?

 

Me: Um, people.

What if I was a ladies’ man?

The following is a fictional account of a ladies’ man…

I watched Cheers a lot in the eighties, when I was between the ages of say thirteen and seventeen. I loved Sam Malone. He really knew how to work it behind that bar. Even though I never actually saw him make a drink. But you don’t need to know how to make drinks to be a bartender. All you need to know is how to strut. I know, because I do a lot of strutting behind the bar. It’s part of my charm.

I work on the weekends. You get the best chicks that way. Weekend chicks are so much better than weekday chicks. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday chicks are lame. Thursday chicks are little better. They’re a little closer to weekend quality. That day’s closer to Friday, you know, so those chicks are kind of illuminated by the Friday glow.

Maybe it’s just my anticipation speaking. Maybe Thursday chicks aren’t that hot. But, you know, I work Thursdays anyway. Because Thursdays are close to the weekend. See, weekday chicks lack that “hungry” quality because they’re not at the bar to have a good time. They’re usually there to wind down from work, or meet up with some friend that haven’t seen in a long time, or because they’re an alcoholic. Don’t get me wrong, the latter can be hot. But after a short stint with this particular breed I got tired of the vomit. Yeah, they throw up during sex sometimes. It’s not pretty. But it happens. And after too much of that, you just can’t handle the mixing of enjoyable bodily fluids with non enjoyable bodily fluids anymore. It messes with your head. And even I have my standards.

The most difficult aspect of being me, though, is that there isn’t enough of me to go around. Like yesterday, for instance, as I was unbuttoning the top four buttons of my striped dress shirt while making some hot chick a gin and tonic and this other hot chick was way down at the other end of the bar. And I couldn’t, you know, get to them both at the same time. And I just felt so overwhelmed by my circumstances. Kind of like the main character in Crime and Punishment. You know, such situations become one of those nature versus nurture, avoiding the inevitable inertia of your misery kind of dealies. I’m intrinsically pulled in both directions. But, alas, I had to choose one. So I went for the chick I was pouring the drink for. She was in the closest proximity. So she automatically became the more appealing one. Because I’m lazy. So anyway, I said to her, “Would you like to meet me at work tomorrow? I get in at four o’clock and I’m leaving at two.”

And she giggled.

She giggled this really cute, stupid giggle. Like she felt really complimented that I was asking her to go home with me the next night. I love making people feel special. And she was. She had cute hair. It was blond. And big silly green eyes that had probably never shed a tear. And she was only the third blond I’d hit on that night. So, like I said, she was really, really special. Girl number three. Excuse me, I mean blond girl number three. She will always hold a singular distinction in my heart. Yes, blond girl number three with the gin and tonic, who won my heart over far-side-of-the-bar red head. And the next night I met that blond. And we went back to my place and did “it,” as they say. And as she lay sleeping next to me, I got up and moved to the couch. Because I can’t sleep with people. No one’s really comfortable sleeping next to anyone. And if they are, then they probably have dependency problems.

Hopefully the red head will come back again some time. She was really, really special too.

Would you like to know just how lazy I am? Well, let me start from the beginning. Wait, have you already heard about how lazy I am? I only ask because I have quite a reputation in this town. I’m going to assume you haven’t heard about it though. So let’s chat.

Let’s pretend that you and I are sharing a nice warm camel light over two nice beers during one of my shifts (I like to drink on the job, I‘m fine with it so you should be too). You turn to me and you ask, “So, Rich, what’s your deal? What’s your story?” And I sigh. One of my big, long over exaggerated sighs, that stretches out my lower jaw with the inhale and comes shooting back out with definite force from the exhale. It makes me look troubled, deeply stirred by the misery of the world. Chicks dig troubled men. And then I begin.

I am so lazy that I have a law degree. That’s right I have a bachelor’s degree in political science from UCLA and a law degree from NYU. I should be practicing law, but I’m not. I’m working in a bar. And I’m fine with that, so you should be too. I didn’t get the law degree because I wanted to. I got it because I was supposed to, and because I am sort of a genius in spite of my inability to subscribe to mainstream notions of success. Such as the notion that men who come from a certain pedigree are supposed to end up in certain careers. Like law, for instance, or medicine or loan officering. But I like bartending. I really really do.

As I slip out of my seat next to you and begin pouring drinks while chatting with men and women enjoying an evening cocktail, don’t think that I’ve forgotten about you. No, I know exactly where you are and I shall slither back and talk to you, for a while, again. Shall we discuss in saccharine tones the current state of domestic politics or shall we debate the surprising patriarchal undertones in Virginia Woolf’s To the Light House? She was a lesbian, you know. Sometimes I wish I was a lesbian, friend. A lesbian or a really really sensitive transsexual. It might have gotten me some attention in the early nineties when things like that were nouveau and “cool.”

Alas, though, I am no Prince nor the Artist Formally Known, nor was I meant to be. No, I am content to play the charmer, the rogue in a prince’s clothing. Just ask any one of my girlfriends. They’ll tell you. They understand. And they have to. For I pride myself not only on my serpentine demeanor, but my honesty. I’ve never lied to anyone. Yes, sometimes, friend, I bend the truth, twist it, if you will, into a more palatable medium. But most governments are guilty of that, so do not hold it against me. And when I say to you, I was not always like this, no, not always like I am now, you may choose to believe me, or you may choose to see me as I currently am. Either way, I am what my present is and there is no need to revisit what has come and gone. In fact, friend, you and I both know, don’t we, that the past is a town you grew up in, that you never really visit now, and even though the name is familiar, you don’t really need to know the geography anymore, where the general store is and such. After all, you haven’t lived there for a very very long time.

Death, Taxes and Breakups

 

I have a friend whose accountant is going through nasty divorce.  Let’s just say her accountant may not be in the most “serene” place right now.  

 

She found out she owes the IRS $35,000; she only makes 20G’s a year.

 

Irony?  No, only if it’s spelled M-I-S-E-R-Y.

Could I bother you for some dignity?

I was once hit on by a man who had just urinated on himself.

 

I was sitting at the bar, sipping a martini. It was a Wednesday, 5 p.m.

 

I had had plans to meet someone, and they ended up not showing.

 

While there, a man walked in and inquired from the bartender where the restroom was. The bartender pointed to the back. The man “didn’t make it.”

 

He then walked passed me, soaked in his own urine, and smiled.

 

Then he stopped and handed me a napkin.

 

And said, “Would you mind putting your number on there?’

 

There are things such as unfathomable tenacity and gull.

Some men are born with these characteristics hardwired into their brains; some of these men turn into Napolean or Einstein or Columbus; some of these men reach unbelievable human heights.

Or, some of these men just hit on you right after they’ve wet themselves.

I know what I know. I know what I’ll turn into.

My marriage will end on a Tuesday. It will be raining. I will be running some inconsequential errand, like picking up lemons, getting gas or going to the bank.

My mobile will ring. I’ll hear the most familiar voice I know on the other end but he will sound unfamiliar.

 

“Katie,” he’ll say timidly, “I’ve got to tell you something.”

 

I’ll think he’s going to yammer on about our pipes, or our tulips or some other facet of our middle class existence. I’ll be half listening. I’ll be smelling lemons for their freshness or playing with some credit card machine.

 

Then he’ll say, “I’ve met someone else. She’s your Pilates instructor.”

 

I’ll say, “Janice? That skinny white bitch? She doesn’t look like she’s very good in bed!”

 

He’ll say, “Well she’s not, because that’s not what this is about, Katie.”

 

I’ll say, “Is this about the fact that I’m a stripper? That I accidentally killed our dog? That I’ve twice been convicted of stalking other men?”

 

He’ll say, “No, Katie, none of those things had any impact on our marriage. But it’s been two weeks, and our agreement was that I’d only have to be married to you for two weeks. To get the feds off your back, don’t you remember?”

 

And I’ll say, “Oh, yeah. Maybe you and me and Janice should go out for drinks or sumthin’.”