A Declaration
Today at work, I got my yearly review, a rather glowing review. I got a raise and I was told that the new role that I've been filling really gave me the opportunity to show my strengths. This put me in a fantastic mood, an untouchable mood really.
And so, tonight, as I line my eyes and spritz perfume and let the black dress slide over my hips, I am going to remind myself that having expectations tends to lead to disappointment, and in this mood, I am not in a place to be disappointed. I am going to sip my drinks like a lady, I am going to chat with people whose company I enjoy, and I am going to remember that I don't
need anyone.
I am also not going to let myself think about the fact that if I let myself, I just might like him.
Labels: boys, piano bar, work
And I Liked It
When I woke this morning - afternoon - I was a mess of bruised lips, beer-scented skin, smudged eyeliner, and flushed cheeks. Allow me to explain.
Last night I went to Piano Bar with Gallagher and some others, including her roommate, Kitty, and her best male friend, Hershey. We didn't remain as a group for long, meeting up with others and going our separate directions. At one point, I was standing near the bar in a rather congested area, chatting with some girlfriends and sipping my beer. I lifted my bottle to take a drink, and suddenly, it was in my face. Someone had gesticulated a bit over zealously, threw his elbow into my bottle, and slammed it into my lips, bruising me and spilling beer all down my chest and into the top of my dress. He apologized profusely and, even being drunk, got me a handful of napkins to clean up with. I assured him I was fine, though the fact that I can feel my heartbeat in my lips this morning makes me wonder if I lied.
The rest of the evening in the bar was filled with flirting with bartenders, listening to girls whine, running up my tab, and listening to the regulars sing "Friends in Low Places" and "Godzilla." There was the setting up of two people who are just too cute together, hiding from annoying drunk girls, and eavesdropping on shouted conversations going on between stalls in the ladies' room.
After last call, the party moved to Hershey's house, where the conversation took an interesting turn: the length of guys' hair. I shared my honest opinion on the matter, which is that as long as the hair is long enough for me to run my fingers through and give it a good tug - oh yes, I'm a hair-puller - then it is long enough. Any shorter and I feel that I am being somehow ripped off. I demonstrated on the males present, learning that Hershey himself had the hair of the perfect length.
I also learned that he likes to have his hair tugged as much as I like doing it.
I'll spare you the sordid details. I will tell you that there was no removal of clothes, no "heavy petting*," and no weird emotional exchanges. I will tell you that Hershey is a fabulous kisser and I would be totally okay with a repeat performance. We were alone out on the deck, and when I realized just how long we'd been away from the others, I stood and told him that we should go inside. I paused re-fix my ponytail - the tugging really screws with it - and he stepped up behind me to that thing. The thing where he stands behind you, runs his hands up your sides and kisses your neck. He hands you the cell phone you left on the table, and when you thank him, he kisses your neck again, right next to your ear, and breathes, "you're welcome."
Somewhere between the hours of nine and eleven this morning, I had a rather racy dream about a man who didn't have a face. At least, I never saw a face. I'm okay with that, though the excitement my subconscious constructed had my chest all flushed and left me short of breath.
And the smudged eyeliner? That's what happens when you go to sleep without washing your face.
*What the hell does that even mean?Labels: alcohol, boys, flirting, piano bar
Seen and Heard: Piano Bar
There is, I think, something to be said for getting into the swing of things with blogging. Back when I was doing it every day, I constantly found things that were interesting enough to write at least a couple of paragraphs about. Lately, however, I’m finding nothing interesting enough to even tell another person when I'm struggling for conversation, let alone interesting enough to type out and expect you kind people to read.
That being said, Tuesday nights at Piano Bar are becoming my favorite time to people watch. When you go out to a bar, there’s the first hour or so when you haven’t had so much to drink that you’re completely self-absorbed, but you also don’t feel that everyone else should be paying attention to you either. I have come to realize that this is the best time of the night to observe all of those crazy people around me. I am eavesdropping* on conversations and watching the way that those people around me interact, and I believe that Wednesday posts should now be devoted to my people-watching adventures.**
Last week, Gallagher’s roommate, Harrison*** and I, stood at the side bar, sipping beers and watching a girl fight with her boyfriend. Apparently the boyfriend had stood up the girlfriend for going out that night. Frustrated, she told him that she was going to stay in, then changed her mind and headed to P Bar with her friends. Assuming that the girlfriend wasn’t going to change her mind, the boyfriend – clearly a winner, let me tell you – decided to go ahead and take his date to P Bar. When he walked in and saw the girlfriend, he didn’t even pretend that it was a mix up or a mistake; he owned the fact that he was with another girl, was already drunk, and didn’t understand why the girlfriend was so upset. The two spent thirty minutes having a very drunken fight where he told her that he wanted to hit her – Harrison was waiting for it happen so he could then hit the boyfriend. Any time the two of them weren’t fighting, he kept looking me up and down.**** I was grossed out, but the exchange was amusing.
Sitting at the tables with our group later, I glanced over at the front bar and saw a couple standing there with their tongues down one another’s throats. Seriously. Harrison saw, started giggling like a thirteen-year-old girl, and proceeded to give me the play-by-play so I wouldn’t have to turn to look. Eventually the guy decided that standing at the crowded bar was not the best place for making out and declined to partake any further. The girl he was with didn’t feel the same way. The evening ended with her in tears, following him down the street outside the bar.
Here’s my question though: If you’re going to fight with your significant other, aren’t there better places to do it than a loud, crowded bar? At some point, don’t you decide that it’s time to go home to fight? Or do these people just lack that filter that tells them that the things they are doing aren’t socially appropriate?
I’m going to take the time someday to write the stories of all these people, the way that I imagine them playing out. I think it could make for an interesting collection of stories. I am now officially taking title suggestions for the collection.
* This is not unusual for me. I'm nosy and listen to lots of conversations. I figure that if people didn't want to be heard, they would find more private places to have these conversations.
** At the P Bar. Except for when I don't go to P Bar. Then I will find something else to eavesdrop on and share with you.
*** Harrison amuses me endlessly. He is a sports-obsessed, ice cream-loving guy who would probably walk through fire to save someone who was in trouble.
**** I wore the gray dress again. Apparently it's also a magnet for icky boys.Labels: eavesdropping, piano bar
Mission: Completed
Tuesday nights at the Piano Bar become a tradition for most people* here in college town immediately following their twenty-first birthday for one significant reason: There is no cover charge on Tuesday nights. Gallagher and I - with some friends - decided that Tuesday night was the perfect sort of evening for P Bar.
Before leaving, my friend Bizz in Arizona** told me that my goal for the evening was to take a photo of the least attractive person in the bar. I believe I succeeded, though the quality of the photo is questionable.
Before he moved back to his hometown, GFW has been going out with Gallagher and I on an extremely regular basis. As in, at least three times a week the three of us were drinking together. (This is making Nic sound like an alcoholic.) As a result, any time I'm out drinking with Gallagher, I think about him. And, since I am a bit fond of him,*** I miss him. I texted him to tell him so.
The next three hours I turned into the texting whore of the group. It was the sort of texts that
lead to something...when the person you're texting isn't two hours away. All reception in the bar went to hell when the tornado sirens started going off outside. While I was being a text-whore, Gallagher flirted with the bartender to get us all free drinks. In turn, I became very intoxicated.
Oh yes. Tornado sirens. Do you think anyone in the bar was aware of these? Of course they were. The real question: Did they care? Nope. Not even a little bit. Why worry about a tornado when there is piano music and lots of free alcohol?
*The ones who want to have fun. Why, yes, I am judgmental!
**Also known as "some girl in Arizona."
***I'm more than a bit fond of him....
Labels: alcohol, flirting, piano bar
