Almost A Twitter, If I Had That

The ski season may not be a lost cause after all!

Which is good. Because skiing is an excellent workout. And I have some fancy new designer jeans to fit into, y'all.

And also, I really need to go off some jumps.

A Short Valentine's Day Story

I was in my usual Starbucks on Valentines's Day, not too early, getting a prepatory Espresso Truffle Mocha before my trip to the zoo with my parents. (Hey, I can't spend ALL my time exploring the dark underbelly of humanity.) Titan was tied up outside, as usual, watching me through the window, and as I looked at him, I happened to catch a young couple out of the corner of my eye.

They were young, maybe late high school or early college, and obviously very much in love. They sat on stools shoved as close together as possible, and had their legs intertwined on the rungs, the way you do when you're so in love you want to actually climb into the other person's skin. He had his knee between hers, she rested a hand on his thigh. They were sharing an iPod, and as I happened to look over, he leaned into her space--not that he had far to lean--and kissed her delicately on the cheek as she looked down shyly.

She had her hair wrapped--they were both Ethiopian, so, freaking gorgeous--but besides that, they were in jeans and hoodies, very modern. I thought about how young they were, and how far they had to go in life. I thought how much they were changing the world, just being a young first-generation couple in America with a hair wrap and an iPod, about how in love they were and how excellent that was. They weren't thinking about their age or their parents' country or all the challenges they would face, both together and separately. They were just bathing in each other.

I'm not sure if I can ever fall in love like that again--not sure I want to, really--but it's sure pretty to watch. A thousand blessings on that couple for making my Valentine's Day.

Nihilism

The economy is broken, and I don't for a moment believe we've seen the worst. I have spent two weeks exploring the dark underbelly of humanity and it's fascinating. That is all.

I Couldn't Make This Up

Several weeks ago, my friends and I had a spur of the moment idea for a clothing swap, and it turned out shockingly AWESOME, especially for me. Shocking because we range in size from 4 to 10, and yet all of us can fit--roughly--into each others' clothes. (Dear Clothing Designers: I HATE YOU. THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH.) I brought home two pairs of slacks, one pair of corduroys, two work tops, and some earrings, and I haven't taken off the earrings or the slacks pretty much since I got them. Everything else—all the leftover clothes no one wanted or needed—went to Goodwill in big bags--five big black garbage bags--thanks to my Jeep Cherokee, who is still nameless. My closet can breathe, and I dress cuter for work. Hooray!

Which is good, because now that I’ve changed jobs, I sit in a different building—the building with all of our customer offices. And our customers are from all over the world. Every day I go to work, I am face to face with dozens of beautiful French, Spanish, and German girls that are size zero and have no fear about wearing fashionable boots and scoop-neck tops. They could eat me for breakfast, or would, if they ate at all. This building is so famous guy friends of mine who work in other buildings sometimes make the trek to this building to have lunch in our cafeteria. Just for the eye candy. I need to look as cute as possible, y’all.

But that’s not the point. The point is, a guy friend called me during the clothing swap. “Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he said. “What are you doing?”

I looked around. “I’m…watching six of my friends get undressed,” I said helplessly.

Silence.

“Uh-huh,” he said. “And I assume my invitation got lost in the mail?”

Dating Episode #147

I have gone tailgating, spent four hours at a dance club with Jennie, and then played pong with Molly at my ex's house until a rather advanced hour of the morning and I am really not up for anything, but I promised a boy I would meet him for breakfast, and so there we are, standing in the sunshine outside Beth's, when over his shoulder I see a familiar backside.

In fact, I was playing pong against this backside just 7 hours ago.

The LT has his arm around a girl, a very tall girl, and they have also decided to come to Beth's today for breakfast. Immediately I turn my breakfast date around so that he--6'2" and 250 pounds, at least--blocks out all of my immediate vision. I tell him the story and he laughs, the rat.

The LT and his date decided not to wait, apparently, and set off down the street, stopping briefly to peer in the window of the Suzuki Dealership, which is closed.

A few hours later the breakfast date and I meander the same direction so I can peer in the same windows, only, as I am A Girl, the Suzuki guys rush to the door and unlock it for me. I throw my leg over some bikes and walk out with my date and a huge crush on a red, fully faired SV650.

A crush that still exists. Which is more than you can say for the either the LT's breakfast date or my own.

STOP THE PRESSES

There is a new dating story, I swear, but until then is this awesome update:

Dan Savage came into my restaurant last night!

It was a super busy night; I was covering one half of the restaurant PLUS a twenty-person party, and I was so busy I didn't have time to blink, so I almost didn't notice when the successful author, newspaper editor, and VH1 personality walked in with his boyfriend and their son.

It's a good thing I WAS so busy or else I would have stared at Mr. Savage all night. I'm not used to dealing with celebrities. I mentioned his presence to a few tables, and they all agreed that they had noticed him, but none of them seemed that overwhelmed. Those super-chill sophisticates probably see him all the time. Whatevs. I worked hard to keep my mind on my work and I did shockingly well--and I made a great deal of money as a consequence, hooray!--but I could still do a lot better. I noticed, for example, that both Mr. Savage and his boyfriend are very good looking and appeared to be--thus far--successfully navigating the pre-teen years with their son, although of course they're far from the finish line. I also noticed that Dan Savage noticed me noticing him, so I failed at treating them like any other family. I'm sure they're used to a few gawks, but I can rise above it. I think.

And it occurs to me that if I keep working at good Seattle restaurants this may happen again, so I may need more practice. Dear Tatum Channing: When Battle for Seattle opens here, please feel free to come into Vios. Shirtless. Thank you. (Hey, I just need the celebrity practice! My motives are pure as the driven snow! I swear.)

Dating Episode #353

Between one thing and another, my date and I arrived at our dinner reservations both having to pee immediately, which meant we stood in line together for the two unisex bathrooms. We were joking each other about this semi-awkward situation, until a brunette in front of me turned around and said, "Hi, Aarwenn!"

"Uh, hello," I said, trying to place her. Then it hit me. "Ah! Aren't you a friend of Nice Couple Who Just Got Married?"

"Yes, that's where I saw you last. That's when you were still dating LT, I hear. I just hung out with him for hours on the Nice Couple's boat."

My blood froze in my veins. "Is that so?"

"Oh, yes," she went on happily, and I realized, too late, drunkenly. "We talked for a long time. I told him all about my failure of a marriage. I really like him--what a great guy! Blah blah blah blah blah..."

Five minutes pass in which I try to avoid looking at my date while she goes on and on. And oh, it gets worse.

"...blah blah blah so I hear you broke up with him the day after the wedding?"

"Yes," I said, I hope as calmly as possible. "By the way, Brunette, let me introduce to my dinner date. Dinner date, Brunette. Brunette, Dinner date."

She shakes his hand without any sign of remorse or realization. I upwardly revise my mental estimate of how much wine she's consumed.

"Great talking to you," she says, "see you later!"

Back at the table, my date lets me stew for several minutes before he says, "SO..."

With apologies to Dinner Date, who knows who he is, and the LT. If you don't like seeing yourself in print, I will consider removing this post. Briefly.

Dating Episode # 255, or, Introducing Molly

It's a bright Saturday morning after my neighbor's house party, and the nice thing about having a house party at your neighbor's apartment--which is across the hall--is that you can just run next door for anything that a guest might need, like Scotch, or matches, or perhaps a flatbread pizza. (Yes, I have flatbread pizza just waiting at my house for guests. I am personally keeping my local Trader Joe's in business.)

Anyway, the bad thing about all that trekking back and forth is that you might forget something. Like...your coat. Which has your wallet in it. And the next morning you might have a date with your posse for breakfast. Breakfast, which costs money. Which is in your wallet, which is in your coat, which is in your neighbor's apartment, which is locked, and you are already late for breakfast and your ride is honking at you from the parking lot.

Molly, my ride, finally called me. "Where ARE you?" she said, irritated, and I explained the situation. She laughed at me. "It doesn't matter, just get in the car," she said. "We HAVE to get to breakfast, because I have a voicemail I have to share with everyone."

By the time we get the restaurant, the rest of the posse is sitting down, and Molly whips out her phone. "YOU HAVE TO LISTEN TO THIS," she says, and presses play. The restaurant is so loud that we can't all hear it at once, so Calsee gets to listen first. It doesn't matter, because watching Calsee's face turns out to be the most fun.

Calsee's face goes from interest to shock. "Is he...CRYING?"

"Just wait," Molly says.

"Oh my God," Calsee says, "Is he SINGING now?"

Five minutes pass. The boy cries his heart out, sings, "I'm All Out Of Love", and then tells Molly to stop being a brat and just call him. Calsee hands back the phone, a priceless look on her face.

"How long have you known this guy?"

Molly is a hot, hot blond with a subversive streak and a barely hidden contempt for most social niceties. This is unsurprisingly a potent combination for attracting just about every male under 40--and especially the weirdest possible males under 40, which Molly dates for entertainment value, both for herself and for us. There was the hockey player. The body builder with the Adderall addiction. The thirty-two year-old man who played Christina Aguilera and drank White Russians. The man who sent her shirtless pictures of him flexing in a mirror. And I'm sure I'm forgetting someone.

And now, the Art Student from Axis who, after meeting her once, set her a five minute voicemail of crying, singing, and berating all mixed together. In the next week, I fully expect her to meet a circus clown who proposes marriage. And it is going to be AWESOME.