Girl You Know It's True

I was sitting in what used to be my favorite bar (mainly due to the fact that I was unhealthily obsessed with the hot young man who tended said bar) with a couple of friends playing catch up. These friends are both in relationships-one of them has been married for quite some time-so, of course, I performed the "Cheese Dating Monologues" as I seem to be doing a lot of these days.

I had them in stitches over all the mayhem and mishaps of the last six months...and then I noticed that a guy at the next table seemed to be mesmerized by my every word.

I had noticed this guy when I was over at the bar getting drinks. Not because I was interested in him, but for some reason he and the woman he was with really stood out to me. Either way, I guess his date was in the bathroom and he was bored, so he held onto every word I said, which isn't hard to do, since I AM pretty fascinating.

Mid-sentence, I was suddenly aware that the guy was now at my side.

"You are the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen," he whispered in my ear. "Please take my phone #."

My first thought was to blurt out, "Aren't you on a date???"

Apparently, he was not on a date. Apparently, he was out with a "client", a stylist to the stars of some sort.

I was a little tipsy at this point, and didn't really know how to react to any of this, but somehow, the guy had me whipping my phone out of my bag and next thing I knew, he had entered his number into my phone, and then called his phone with my phone. Oy vey.

"My name is True, and I have been listening to your stories about dating. And you need to know that I would never treat you like any of those guys. I would treat you the way you deserve to be treated."

At this point, I can't decide which is more heinous, that he now has my phone #, or that his name is True. Either way, I think I might have been laughing in his face a little. I tried really hard not to, because any guy that can recognize my stunning good looks is a-ok in my book! But then the name dropping started. He brought over his "client" who proceeded to tell me how the first time she ever met True, he was in a limo with a very famous late night tv cohort...as if this was supposed to impress me.
They then added that they were on their way to A-Rod's party. To which I quipped, "Oh is Madonna going to be there?"

"No, I doubt it" True answered, very seriously.

He then leaned over and reminded me yet again of my stunning beauty, and that he was going to call me soon.

"Say hi to Madonna for me!" I shouted after him.

True and his "client" then headed off for their shindig, and we watched as they stood outside the bar and began to make out.

Gosh. I really hope he calls.

Tiny Little Shiny Ones

I was awakened this morning by the sound of my phone, alerting me to a new text message coming in.

I was feeling quite shellshocked, sadly, after a beer and two martinis. I had myself in bed at a decent hour, I drank bunches of water throughout the night, yet I still awoke in a state of total confusion, feeling as if I was wearing socks on my teeth.

Ow, my aching head.

I read the text message that was sent circa 63O am - "Tiny little shiny ones."

For some insane reason, I imagined that my boyfriend had just taken a poo, and he was announcing the state of his bowel movement that morning. I wasn't sure why he was announcing this to me at 63Oam, but hey, we've had stranger text conversations, for sure.

I took myself back to bed and tried to fall asleep. My mind wandered back to the night before. Drinks with my good friend S&M. S&M and I don't go out nearly as much as we used to, but when the two of us get together, it's always a good time. He is the instigator of thought provoking conversations, and we almost always end up talking about porn and sex. No matter how hard we try not to.

He had just finished describing the pin-up girl underwear that one of his ex's used to wear for him.

I recalled him going to the bathroom, and I pulled out my phone, to drunkenly punch out the message to my BF, "If you could dress me up in any kind of underwear you wanted, what would it be?"

It seems, the answer would be "Little tiny shiny ones."

D'oh!

The Weekend-part I

I'm always astounded at how quickly the memory of a perfectly good weekend can be swept away by the shock of the alarm come Monday morning.   This particular Monday morning, I was having restless dreams about pushing my clothing on a cart up Flatbush Avenue, homeless person style. Thankfully, I awoke to Beehive staring at me from overhead, his usual, overly energetic smiley morning self.

"Mflkgjkkrphh" , I mumbled. 

Such a difference from the happy little flower that was me circa Friday night around 5:15 or so.

   
We started out on our second annual jaunt to the Orchid Show in Rockefeller Center.  The first time I had ever been was last April, and from what I remember, it was a pretty remarkable show.  This year, however, they got chintzy with the space, and made it a lot smaller.   Which meant, more crowded.  Which meant, more people taking crazy pictures of flowers, which I would be able to ruin. Oops. pardon me, did my big ass just make its way into your photo? Silly, silly me.
 

The walk-through didn't take very long, so we found ourselves in the vendor area, where we were accosted by a man in a park ranger uniform.   This man felt the need to educate us about the Asian Longhorned Beetle, something that I never really needed to know about, and now I know just a little too much…Beehive looked enthralled, which I thought came from the fact that he was big into gardening and wanted to be prepared for the next Asian Longhorned Beetle infestation to hit Bay Ridge…turns out he's damn good at faking it. Damn good.

 
"I thought that guy would never stop talking!" he muttered as we walked away.

 
Well, at least he got a refrigerator magnet out of it.

 
As we left the Orchid Show, a very rare opportunity presented itself to me. 

 
"Feed me", said my very hungry boyfriend.

 
As most of you don't know, this is always a touchy subject between us.  I like ethnic food. I like semi- crowded restaurants.   I don't mind waiting at the bar for a table. Beehive likes sushi, Mexican, and pizza, and is claustrophobic.  I'll never forget the time I brought him to Franks in the E. Village and he turned green.  

 
"What the hell is the matter with you?" I spat. 

 
"Did…you…not…know…I'm claustrophobic?"

Um. No. Would I have brought you to a joint the size of a postage stamp and make you squeeze into a table built for an infant if I did?   Duh.

So, the rare opportunity that I speak of is that, Beehive entrusted me to take him somewhere to eat.   "You pick a place."

 

Wow. I did not prepare for this moment.  I knew it might come, but since I gave up trying to diverge from the usual sushi, Mexican, and pizza establishments that we are known for frequenting, I haven't really been keeping up with my restaurant knowledge. Dammit! Where was Zagat when I needed him??

 

I decided, since we were on the F train, to get off on Smith Street, since I'm pretty familiar with what's there, and figured we couldn't go wrong…if worse came to worse, there was pizza…I was sure about that.

 

Thankfully, Beehive decided somewhere along the way that he really wanted Italian food, and a good chicken parm would be right up his alley.   So we ended up at Caserta Vecchio, and it did not disappoint.

 

But forget about the food. I was excited to realize that we were a couple blocks away from one of my favorite bars, Zombie Hut, which is all things tiki.   Not only do they serve blue drinks, but they are all $5, AND they have a fireplace. Quel romantic. 

 

We got ourselves situated right next to the fireplace, and I ordered my usual blue Hawaiian, while Beehive had a Gilligan.   The Gilligan has about 3 times the amount of alcohol as the other drinks, so I looked even more lushy than usual, drinking my 3 drinks to Beehive's one.

 
At some point, I decided that I needed a change.  I've been drinking Blue Hawaiians for way too long, and man I need a breather.   "Gimme a Bahama Mama" I slur to the waiter.  He brings me my drink, and I take a big swig.  "Aaah…I needed a change of scenery," I announced.

 
"Um. You know it's the same thing as a Blue Hawaiian, except it's red, right?" he tried not to laugh in my face.

 
So much for a change of scenery.  Hey, I never said I was a smart drunk!

 
Then things got cozy by the fireplace.  It was everything I could have ever wanted and more.   A warm fire, plush leather seats, my Beehive, and JESUS CHRIST WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SMELL?  Yup. Beehive and his famous gas.   There's nothing like some Public Displays of Affection followed by a rank fart.  Good times.

  (I neglected to discuss the foul odors that were coming from our corner of the table during our lovely dinner at Caserta Vecchio, and the looks being exchanged from said odors by the women at the next table over…but I digress).

 
Since we had fouled up the entire bar at this point, and Beehive's Gilligan was empty, and I was on my third Blue Hawaiian/Bahama Mama, it was time to disappear.   But not before I convinced Beehive that he needed me to "assist" him with his gardening duties over the weekend.  Ah. The power of Cheese mixed with a good strong Gilligan.   I need to get him to Zombie Hut more often!

 
A strange cab ride back to my place ensued, with a faux Cheech Marin driving the car.  Beehive seemed to fear  for his life a little, being creeped out that the dude locked all the doors when we piled into the car. I took no notice, choosing only to engage in drunken conversation with Cheech, that consisted of me confessing how many drinks I had, and what I was planning on doing to Beehive upon arrival to my lair...Cheech got all philosophical on our asses and, as we passed Underhill Ave he asked "Isn't that an oxymoron? Under and hill? Get it? get it?" To which we started coming up with our own oxymorons, until WE all sounded like a bunch of morons.

Thankfully, we arrived Chez Cheese unscathed. And survived yet another Friday night, Brooklyn style.