"I'm a chopstick person myself, but I bet you only use two fingers when you eat it."
He was right, and he was cute, but I was in the process of wrestling with myself before making an...interesting...phone call, and was a little drunk and scattered. We flirted a bit while Jamie and Adam receded and did the engaged-people equivalent of giggling and goading on match-making. But I was distracted, and cut off the sweet-talking pretty shortly, leaving him awkwardly standing next to me with nothing to do, so he looked around, locked in on the establishment owner's children playing at a nearby table, and went over to kibitz with them.
Sometimes men are so transparent you can literally see the cartoon character speech bubble floating over their head: "Now she'll see how great I am with kids, because don't all girls dig dudes who like babies?"
Well. I never want to birth my own, but yeah, I can appreciate a guy who doesn't make children run screaming, and I can also appreciate a guy who puts a lot of effort into winning me over more. Unfortunately, his order (and time) was up, and as I pointed it out to him, he commented off-hand, "Oh, it's not for me. I'm just the delivery guy." Short of calling all the independent delivery services in Burlington and saying, "Excuse me, do you have a driver who looks like Paul Walker's younger brother, with blonde hair, bright blue eyes, lots of leg hair, blue sneakers, and a small earring? And how might I find him?", I gave up on him as soon as he walked out the door wishing me a good night and I got my hands on (and in,) my lo mien.
Back at the apartment, eating on the back porch, Adam asked why I'd put my wall up about Delivery Dude. "I'm not looking for anything right now," I told him while twirling my noodles.
"Maybe he's not looking for anything either," he responded, and I swear to god I felt my lip curl in a silent "Eww."
"Not my style," I told him.
Adam's more or less appalled by my dry spell streak, but I have this theory about how when you're not feeling wanted, or after the end of something emotionally taxing, your libido goes on strike. And then I tend to just forget about it. For the most part. And I'm picky about ending it.
Case In Point: Last Friday night, Emily and I went out for a Girl's Night. In the middle of Ake's
Place, I laid the gauntlet down-- "Our goal for the night is a phone number or a free drink. May the best woman win." We shook on it and drank to it, and apparently stumbled upon the magical sports bar secret, because not 20 minutes after finding a table at 3 Needs (yes, it's my favorite bar), Emily came back from the bar giggling. "There's two guys up there, and I just got a phone number." They came to sit with us, and soon numbers were exchanged all around, (along with me telling the drunker one that Emily was from "Amish country, but she believes in electricity!") and they were eying our drinks. "I'd offer to get you another beer, but you already have one."
"Is that a promise?" I asked. He agreed, we shook on it, I pounded the half of my bottle left, and true to his word, he got me another one, insisting I belly up to the bar with him and snaking a polite arm around my waist. Italy taught me a lot of good life skills, one of which being the foresight to see in which direction men are thinking, and halt it in action. Unfortunately, while in Italy, telling someone you're engaged (because having a boyfriend doesn't mean bullshit to them,) only elicits the mildly more respectful response of (and I quote from numerous Italian men,) "Where is your man? America is very far away," but here in the good ol' U.S of A, it's easier to stop a speeding train. I asked our beer-buying gentleman where he lived, and promptly responded with, "Oh! That's near where the guy I'm seeing lives! He lives on _______ Street!"
Lesson #1 in bar and club safety for women: If someone's coming on to you who you're not interested in, yet you don't want to totally discount them because they're a nice and gracious person, make up a boyfriend, and sprinkle tid-bits about him liberally through the conversation. "He lives (here)." "He took me (there)." "Last night, we went and saw (this)." "He's out with his guys tonight, so we're having Girl's Night." And the killer: "I think you two would really get along."
"You're cute, but you're difficult," he told me later as we walked to Mr. Mike's. I snorted, and told him, "You don't know the half of it. I'm sure my exes would agree with you. I'm making that my new tag-line."
He bought us pizza, and insisted on walking us home even though it was on the complete opposite side of town from where he lived. On the front porch, I gave him a quick and perfunctory hug, thanked him, wished him a good night, and then shut the door on him and tripped lightly up the stairs and passed out in bed. Alone.
Well, not quite. Nicco has cemented his nighttime abode as my pillow, and wakes me up in the morning by stoking my head with his little paw and preening my hair, which is really alarming sometimes when you're dreaming about Bourdain or Shemar Moore and wake up to someone fondling your head. But at least he never leaves the toilet seat up.
P.S-- I recounted that bar story to a guy that one of my friends is dating, and the look of sheer terror that came across his face as I described how women will make up boyfriends so we don't have to flat-out turn you down was telling, yet hilarious. I guess the lid has now been throughly blown off of that one.