Partners-N-Crime and PB&J

There are two main kinds of PB&J. The first, Pabst Blue Ribbon and Jameson. The second, that delicious sandwich. Both types of PB&J can fall anywhere within the range of “YESSSS! This is ahhhmaazing!!!” to “Just fucking shoot me.” The latter part of 2016 was asphyxiated by PB&J.

And, while usually names are omitted from the lovely Bananas, it is a little hard to do with this one because I’m talking about Jameson (but not that whiskey shot that may or may not kill me one day) – I’m talking about a human.

I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that 2016 was a particularly low point in Andrea-land. A few weeks ago I was on the phone with my mother and I said something like, “Ugh… October was really really fucking hard.” And my mom said without malice (but a tinge of irony), “Just October?” BITCH. Okay, not a bitch. But really, though. I know that my life is full of ups and downs. Maybe it is because I’m so wildly passionate? I found a great image to depict my life:


I’m sure you’ve never seen anything like the above image. Totally and completely unique.

Anyway, in August I reconnected with an old friend who used to run in the same party circle as me. We’ve known each other ten years and (after my first spout of shit talking) it was nice to hang out. He’s a bit of an enabler but also incredibly smart. Smart and likes to party. AKA Trouble.

Additionally, for a long time I was searching for (what I thought was) a Nelly song – “Hot Boys,” but that is a different thing. What I really wanted was this song:

So I have to thank him for solving that mystery. (Also, I guess thanks for the threesome. I dig it.)

But, back to the main point. My messed-up-as-fuck almost attorney “friend” who really and truly sucks.

I thought I could help him. Get his shit together. Finish law school. Sometimes I am better at giving a fuck about other people than myself. If you ask, I’m happy to help. But, despite the time spent together (he was homeless, I let him stay with me a few times), nothing ever moved forward. It was always someone’s fault – just definitely not his. It was some reason outside of his control that he didn’t have a job. (Not that he was drunk, late and maybe stealing.) Not his fault that he couldn’t finish his thesis. Not his fault that he has (another) child that he can’t afford.

Finally (we are talking about not that long of a time), I was over it. I didn’t want free drugs and I didn’t want (probably) stolen booze without mixers. I had no interest in staying up past 9 or 10 p.m. and I can’t stand falling asleep to TV. *

*For the record: This is deal breaker territory. I suffered through it with Hot Chef but not again and certainly not when you are rolling in drunk and staying for free in my bed and you are going to drive me crazy by drinking and smoking (helllo, I asked you to go outside a gazillion times with that cigarette!) and watching shit on my laptop. Woof.

I really didn’t think he should give up his dream. In every success, there are casualties along the way. I was willing, if he put out any effort, to potentially be one. But, we’d slept together. >>I’m human!!!<< And it made things messy because he is the definition of Bad News Bears and he totally fell for me. But, he wanted to keep it a “secret” because “what would people think?”

I didn’t keep it a secret, but I didn’t talk about it. It only happened a few times and I consistently and firmly told him that I was not interested in dating him and had no romantic feelings whatsoever. It just happened that he was party to a situation that I couldn’t immediately surgically remove from my life so it seemed easier to just let it ride.

Jameson is in the music industry (unemployed) and thought that because I like this song, I was obviously trying to send him a message through the lyrics. He clearly doesn’t read my blog. Let me summarize: a) I like the song and b) I actually don’t always listen to the lyrics of pop songs that much and c) 5 years of Sometimes Boyfriend might connect him to that song now that I am implored to pay more attention to the lyrics but *certainly* not crazy dude.

So, a few messy phone calls later… (him to my voicemail) many, many mean texts. (As my bestie, she got some fucked up shit typed on little phone keys too…) Horrific actually. Followed by me blocking his number… (I thought messages from a blocked number just go to LaLa Land, but I have 5 messages from his 985 # and I refuse to listen.)  and a bit of violence later, I was cleaning up my trashed apartment (he dumped multiple bottles of water on my bed because since I didn’t want to spend the night with him, he was *sure* I was inviting someone else over and proceeded to make a mess of my bed as a precautionary measure.) including flipping over the coffee table and just making a giant mess.

I wasn’t there for that – I left (because he wouldn’t) and then – he finally quit it.

He also posted this on my Facebook later:


^ Don’t know why I was Googling “Billy Crudup” and the search for “rehab” came from a looking at the multitude of bottles of Taaka bottles and the disaster that Jmo made when he broke into my apartment and threw a bunch of shit around.

** also, I would say that the very, very public Facebook page made all of this OFFICIALLY NOT A FUCKING SECRET. (And potentially a cause for concern…)

He tried to call me for awhile from other numbers but, since he never listened to anything I said, did not attempt between the hours when I am awake. Seriously. Get out of bed before 3 p.m. (or don’t!) but if you are crashing at my place because you can’t get your shit together and I go workout at 7am, at least when you *finally* leave my house around 4, take the trash down. It’s your mess anyway. Also, cool it on the nasty text messages to me. Definitely don’t nasty text my best friend. And mostly, stay the fuck away.

BTW, I’m moving. Let’s all say goodbye to my apartment for the past 5 years. It wreaks of the past anyway.


The Letter P

P is for Portland. And also for Pabst. And Poboy. And Playboy. (Oh, shit! And for Pinot Grigio, too!!)

It is also for pussy. And pizza since I’m being tangential. But most importantly (today, anyway), P is for Parkway!

This photo is when they surprised everyone with a turkey day in May:


Every November, Parkway dishes out their signature Thanksgiving Poboy. It used to happen throughout the month leading up to Thanksgiving (and would sell out daily) and then one sad year they only did it at the Oak Street Poboy Festival (YES I made it out that year. With a hot date, thank you.) They have since changed.

Today they are back to a more consistent schedule: They serve it on Wednesdays during the month of November.

So, thanks to a tip from social media (love you, Instagram!) I was made aware of the opportunity to indulge while at the peak of my hunger on the first Wednesday in November. Move over, world. I have a sandwich to inhale.

To be honest, November crept up on me. I was busy!

School? Definitely.

Boys? They are the worst! (But oh so tempting.)

Apartment? I can’t even.

Then, after working all day, I ended up at Felipe’s (again) in line (again) scrolling through Instagram (okay, again).  But instead of ordering (again) magic happened. I found out that 1) tomorrow is national sandwich day — hashtagnationalsandwichday and 2) Parkway is celebrating it a day early because it is also Thanksgiving Poboy Wednesday. Yassss. So, I immediately left the line for the greater good – turkey. (hashtagblessed. hashtagthewritelife.)

It was an almost-full crayon box of a bar when I walked in. There were just a few of the reject (favorite!) slots open. But, I know better than to queue up at the sandwich line outside. That is for novices. Solo diners, especially, should eat at the bar. It is super fast. And great!

Mike was behind the bar (he always is) and I squeezed myself into my favorite seat (no one likes it; it is in the sun and the bartender can’t see you. < Or that is what other people say. I’ve never had a problem ordering) with my newly delivered Playboy.

Hello, favorite corner seat.

I ordered quickly because I was a lady with a plan. I also threw in some regular fries and a PBR (self explanatory) and started reading an article about fried chicken. Yum and thank you.

Not two minutes in, there is a comment: “I’m sure you are just reading that for the articles.” Laugh, joke. The guy is from Portland…I’d encountered him briefly when I had to stick my head under the bar to find the hooks to hang my bag.

I offered that no, in fact, they don’t do nudes anymore (see below) but my dream as a writer is to be published in Playboy and I do, in fact, read the articles. They are great.


(Not. Nudity.)

His hair was dark and hung in almost curls around his face. Pale, of course. Did I say Portland? He looks like a guy in a band that I can’t place.

Anyway, he was flirting. Heavy. You know, taking any opportunity to brush against my leg. Asking questions. The dark, artsy type. You can imagine how he was stoked when I revealed that I was a writer. (No matter that my genre isn’t literary. Although his diatribe when I said I wasn’t into poetry was something for the books…

My sandwich arrived and, full-on in a white t-shirt, I beasted the most delicious (messiest) sandwich without spilling on myself a single bit of cranberry. I washed my (admittedly half) order down with a bottle of PBR. < Drank it cold!! And all the while, Mr. Portland is talking to me. Flirting with me. I literally didn’t have a fork and was shoveling stuffing and turkey and bread dripping with gravy toward my open mouth with a dexterity I only have when dealing with my favorite sandwich. (Okay I’ve got similar skills with human body parts that I’m a fan of.)

Anyway, the level of flirting was off the charts considering the food consumption of the moment.

I then made a few really un-sexy (sexy?) stretch moves to make room for the second beer I was drinking. Mr. Portland kept hinting to wanting to hang out while he was in town. I would have loved to say I had a boyfriend, but I don’t (sigh) so I had to continue with the “I’m super busy…” Because I am! —  Busy unabashedly shoving a sandwich in my face.

I do also have several current/pressing/omfuckinggod work projects on my plate.

His friend finished work so he should have been “done” but ordered another round because he wanted to sit with me longer. He asked about the seasonal Abita. I warned him against the peach beer because I assumed that it probably tasted like baby food. He declined a taste and suffered through that whole pint. Whatever. I was right. Baby food.

Beer. Digestion.

Beer. Digestion.

I checked my phone a few times though generally enjoying the group conversation – me, Mr. Portland, Mike and the other guy next to me.

Finally, out of the mildest curiosity, I looked over after returning from the bathroom to see what book was propped open in front of my new friend. (Beer makes me have to pee.) Scratch that…Everything makes me have to pee.

Long story not-so-short, he flat out asked for my number. And said he’d love to see me while I in town. He quit with the subtle (not subtle) hints and just went for it. He was like, “How are you so tiny?” “Do you always eat like this?”  (Me: no and I work out all the time.) “You’re so pretty.” … it went on.

He was reading The Bell Jar. I thought of my best friend. I thought of me. I wondered how old he is, but since I had no intention of meeting him later, I didn’t bother to ask.

He told me he likes to say “YES” and aims to live fully his week in New Orleans. He wants to sleep under bridges (okay maybe my memory is wrong on that one – but that is the idea.) His friend, he says, just got his master’s in film and (omg) works at a pizza place.

Is that the fate for us all? He wants to know. He also wants to know how I got into writing. He wants to tell me how pretty I am some more. I bet he wants to do more than that. I decide he is most definitely under 25.

I wonder if I did hang out with him, how fast his enamor would last. I think I hold the record for guys falling hard and fast for me and then immediately thinking, “Better not.”


Hey, What Are You Reading?

So, I’m sitting at the pizza place across the street slowly sipping a giant glass of Pinot Grigio and reading my book when a bunch of sexy firefighters come in to pick up pizza. And by pizza I mean a stack of large pizzas. (There is a football game on, the place is getting crowed with pick-up orders.)


Full Disclosure: That pizza/wine photo was from the pre-cleanse send off. But I love to rip the bubble off so I took this photo and would also like to say I’m sorry to everyone across the street for past and future impropriety.

BUT, back to my story. Saints Game! WHO DAT!

This very sexy guy in uniform interrupts my reading with a “Hey, what are you reading?!”

And I flash a copy of Technical Editing, Fifth Edition. And then he says “Wow that is so cool, I’m actually looking for someone to edit my dissertation and none of my friends will help me.”

(Insertion: I look super hot because before studying I went out to brunch with one of my favorite ladies and then got my nails done. I’m still rockin’ an all-black super cute skirt and tank combo and have on and this amazing purple shade of lip gloss.)

I have no idea what I would charge or what it would entail but it seemed pretty flirty. No man has ever asked me “What are you reading” when I am clearly not seeking attention unless they are actually trying to flirt. But I don’t know. He actually might need help? But who interrupts someone clearly not aware that there is a game on just trying to carb binge and who says “cool” to Technical Editing, Fifth Edition who isn’t flirting?

In any case, I wrote down my phone number and my email. (I mean, hottie fighting fires while he finished his PhD. SWOON.)

They walk out.

And then the woman next to me GUSHES about how he was just flirting with me and OMG yadda yadda yadda.

THEN, I get an email. Like within minutes!?


Ummm what does that mean? That was so fast. Did he think he was going to forget?! So I waited like an hour… finished my wine and wrote back. Because I assumed he meant “editing” and maybe more… wink, wink.


And then since I had his name I looked him up on Facebook. (UGHGHHG) And sent this:


And then this happened:


Ahhhh I am so awkward. ALSO: “Not too many New Orleanians interested in reading and writing” is a big fucking red flag. NOLA is where so many famous writers come to write and there are a slew of us competing for the same limited jobs.

I don’t even know. I was confused. Was he really looking for help? Who the fuck reads a Technical Editing book at a pizza place during a football match? (Me.) Or, as the rest of the crowd seemed to think, was he hitting on me? Or just wanting to fuck because he totally just got kicked out and no one was misreading the situation, I just have no filter and made it weird??

Who knows because at this point I’m drunk even though I ate a whole calzone the shape of a football because I was just finishing a cleanse. (Makes total sense, don’t judge me.) BUT JUDGE ME FOR THIS: and never, ever again wonder why I am single.

First I wrote, “Interesting.” SEND

Then I wrote, “I am confused” SEND



Shockingly, he never wrote back. And that doesn’t even make sense? Anyway. Curtain call on that one. Sorry hot fire fighter, it wasn’t meant to be.




We can all agree that “situation” is a terrible code word. It is the actual word for the thing, and in no way represents any sort of concealment of meaning. Alas, it WAS the code word, so, while volunteer bartending the other night with a girlfriend of mine at a charter school fundraiser, we were instructed on multiple occasions that if something happened (like someone was way too drunk and inappropriate) find someone with a walkie talkie and say we have a SITUATION. Um okay. Errrr, totally no one will know what we are talking about. The problem will be squashed without anyone knowing that there was a disturbance in the Force.

But this got me thinking. Why had they mentioned it SO many times? It came up in training, then it came up the day of the event. But then I was working the party. It is open bar and let me tell you, we ran out of white wine within the first 90 minutes. This is a white wine drinking crowd. To be fair, there was only white wine, red wine, a signature pre-batched cocktail, and an assortment of local beers to choose from. So, it isn’t like any of those uptown bitches could order a Titos and soda.

Anywho, the party was fun. I saw friends there, and we all get drunk. (Spoiler Alert: There was never a “situation.”) We went out and drink more. YAYYYYY drinking. This was Thursday so Friday sucked hard. Real hard. I actually managed to sort of pull the same outfit I wore the night before into a sort of work appropriate ensemble and headed (a bit late) to the office. FML.

I had abandoned my bike at the school, which was just 2 miles from my house. This was a good idea because a) I was drunk and b) schools are safe places to legally lock up bicycles.

Which lead to this: IMG_0696

Yeah, that is my hungover ass chowing down on a scooped bagel with my favorite peanut butter. Gotta get through work, right?

Did I mention Friday was rough sauce? I was feeling superbly down but instead of having a self-pity party, I Googled the “saddest movies” and ended up spending $3.99 to rent P.S. I Love You. TEARS. Oh the tears for Hilary Swank and Gerard Butler. And then slept.

Saturday, I was filming a commercial with some girlfriends of mine. It was fun! We got our makeup done and put on costumes. But then the day dragged. And dragged. And the mimosas were being felt but no food. So we went out to eat (Finally!) after we were done shooting – 7 hours later… SITIUATION!!! (oh shit, that was Thursday. There is no walkie talkie person AND the situation is me. Whooops.)

Sad face. Attempting to get home, I found more misadventures. Perhaps a later share…it is not exactly my story to tell anyway…But I made it home. Wohoo! With most of my belongings (Double Woohoo!) And then, after some SERIOUS (and I mean serious) cuddle time with a new favorite, I got my shit together to walk to the corner store for this:


OH yes. Honey Nut Cheerios to save your soul. I ate the whole box in two days (why I don’t buy cereal or gummy vitamins -but that is another post for another day)

Did I mention I turn 31 in a week? Because I do. I got off at Trainwreck City for the weekend but have no fear. I got it together, eventually.

On Tuesday the next week I finally picked up my bike. I went to running club on Wednesday and have been adulting SO hard you would be impressed. (I am!)

31 should be fun. I’m working on ousting some shitttay people from my life and looking for new adventures with some fresh faces that aren’t so darn dramatic. Wish me luck.

Also, happy bathing suit season. I’m officially cut off from dairy and sugary carbs until my birthday.


Wine (Whine?) About It

Did Facebook Matt trademark that yet? I hope not. Congratulations on the win!

I finally figured out why I can never find great wine when I’m back home. Imagine going to the DMV to buy wine. That is what it is like in Pennsylvania, because the state runs the alcohol distribution. So, just like if you got in the wrong line at the DMV, if you needed a 6-pack and went to the case store, you are shit out of luck and need to go somewhere else. Womp womp. Also, no one that works there actually gives a fuck, because they are low-pay government workers. (But hey! They get like EVERY holiday and Sunday off… soo….) Except for the guys that work at the Yardley beer distributor, they are always really nice when I used to run in for a case of Yuengling.

Truthfully, I always knew about the separation of wine/liquor, 6-pack beer and case/keg beer, but for some reason I never put together the ridiculously commercialized crappy selection of wine until this year. Thanks, mom, for turning on the light.

I left PA when I was 19 and prior to that, I only accompanied some friends to the super hood corner store in Trenton, NJ ONCE and I bought a case of Corona and nearly vomited because it was a) dark out b) probably dangerous c) I was maybe 16 or 17 (and if you asked me then, of course I looked 21, but if you ask me now, ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY you do not look 21.) That’s why the boys buy the beer. We are no good at it. Anyway, it was a success and we drove back over the bridge and presumably got drunk and made bad decisions.

When I was older, one time I DID vomit in the store because it was 4th of July and everything in PA was closed so I hopped in the back seat of a hot car and a few of us drove from Philly to get supplies. I was with this boy I was seeing and another couple and (yay me) got sick from the disgusting smell of alcohol permeating the entire massive store thanks to my excessive consumption the night before, the raging heat and stop and go traffic in the car. I mostly made it to their back room bathroom. Gross.

I digress, per usual. Anyway as my mom and I were selecting wine for New Year’s Eve, I had my usual grumbling about the poor selection and how in New Orleans you can spend $15 and get something super delicious and at the store I go to they help you pick AND they keep track of things you bought in the past (blah blah blah… you get the idea. I’m sure my mom really enjoyed my tirade). Then, when we were leaving, I had a masterful idea that I would open up a boutique wine store there! Huzzah!! Problem solved. With the slight issue that I don’t know enough about wine so I’d need to find a sommelier to marry. (Insert funny/sort of mean-spirited joke about my sisters awful ex boyfriend and imagine me making the sound of slurping wine around my mouth.)

But then in comes mom with the dream crushing yet enlightening tidbit about how, previous issues notwithstanding, I can’t open a wine store anyway because it is run by the state, and they make a shit ton of money off of it, and be happy they’ve caved and allowed a few people to sell on Sunday. God’s day. (Unless you are Jewish.) AMEN.


Nothing Compère (s to your terrible service)

For many years, I was a pretty hardcore Top Chef fan. Of course I no longer have a television because I’m pretty sure mostly everyone watches TV on the internet now, so I am tapped out when it comes to addiction to cable TV shows, however, this did not stop me from getting excited to celebrate with one of my best gals at former Top Chef competitor Nina Compton’s new restaurant in the CBD.

Fun news, I just finished my first semester of grad school and my friend just wrapped her first semester of law school. (One of ours was harder than the other, I’ll let you guess.) Anyway we got all fancy to go out and celebrate. Even though it was a few days early, I thought it would be a fun surprise to call the restaurant to see if I could prearrange a candle in whatever dessert we ordered and they said “no problem.” Great, I basically expected nothing less because it is pretty darn easy to make a note on a reservation and give the chit to the server that says “birthday” and no seat number necessary because we always share.

Or so you would think. En route to dinner my friend shared a horrific story from the other night when she attempted to surprise her main man with a Star Wars ice cream cake at dinner. She spoke with them to make sure that they knew it was an ice cream cake and made arrangements for it to be placed in the freezer until dinner when she dropped off the cake a few hours prior. She also explained that the cake needed to be thawed for 20 minutes before they served it. Pretty straight forward: Ice cream goes in the freezer always and make a note about the defrost time. Check and check. Actually not. I tried very hard not to laugh too hard when she told me the story of how amid other points of bad service, some all-star employee put the ice cream cake in the walk-in refrigerator (READ: NOT THE FREEZER) several hours before their dinner reservation. And finally, after a long, long delay the manager came out with the bad news that the cake had melted. All of it a giant puddle. The force was not with that one. SIGH.

I had to laugh, but of course at the time that was definitely not as funny to her. There is some formula to level of tragedy and time it takes to become funny… I’m not 100% sure of what that is but for since both of us put more than our share of time in working with idiot hosts, I found this all very amusing. Also it will make a very memorable story for years to come. And he’s a grown up so no kids birthday was ruined.

Needless to say, I’m feeling really optimistic for the dinner that we are heading to because you can’t really fuck up a candle or a plate that says “Happy Birthday” on it.

Alas, no. We take a seat at our table to pour over the new menu. It is bound like a book and the outside is soft. (I like soft things!) We are a little close to the wall of window on a brisk New Orleans “winter” night but that is nothing a drink won’t fix… if those came.

The restaurant is pretty full so the fact that it took our server a long time to even greet us was noted but totally forgivable. But he didn’t seem to care and gruffly asked for our water preference. “Bottle of sparkling, and one of flat but I’m fine with house water, thank you” <- because we are still being nice and we are two fun people trying to have a fun night.

One glass of water gets poured. I don’t know what happened to the rest of that pretty straightforward order. We order drinks and some appetizers and then go to find a pretty spot to snap a few photos.

A few things 1) we did not ask grumpy server to take a picture and 2) we ordered before we ran off anywhere.

The hostesses were nice and obliging and we took a few pictures and then headed back to wait for an eternity for our drinks. And then, finally, our drinks came. I look at mine quizzically because I thought I’d ordered sparkling. (The heading said “sparkling and rose”) I missed that detail but Mr. Grumpy Pants was enraged that I even suggested that he perhaps brought the wrong thing. Wah fucking wah.

Ahhh appetizers. They were both fried with a dipping sauce and nothing to write home about, so I won’t except to say that he didn’t come by once to check on the food or to see if we needed anything (we did…to order the rest of our food.) and maybe, I don’t know, not be such a dick about the still water that I’d ordered and refresh my glass. But he did, however, stalk past us several times. I don’t know what his problem was. Two hot girls having a nice dinner and neither of us being demanding or rude, just chilling and having a nice, relaxed dinner. One of the pitfalls of being at a 100% tourist joint I guess.

We decide to pow wow about what we should do because it became clear that we were not getting another round of drinks anytime soon. And that he wasn’t in the mood to tell us the specials or what some standout dishes were. We think about perhaps a yelp review. (You know how I feel about naming servers on Yelp…) so we decided to just talk to the manager and see how that goes. We obviously got the greenest manager on the block and all that resulted was even MORE scowls from our waiter because now he’s pissed that we complained. GAHHH.

The bar was full when we sat down but magically, like a gift from the dinner gods, two spots opened up and we decide to make a move. Fuck this guy, he is ruining our night for no reason. And then like another gift from the dinner gods, the second course of crudo with shaved ice that we enjoyed at the bar with a plethora of attractive men as added eye candy working the bar, things turned around. We also had a delicious roasted beet salad with kale pesto and two (teeny tiny) pieces of house made bread. Yummy.

But here’s the thing. Now I’m worried that our move has ruined my “easy” birthday surprise so I have to jet off to make sure that everyone is still on board. (They were!)

We finished off with a lobster pasta. Waited mmmm 15 actual minutes for them to apparently bake two more (teeny tiny) pieces of that delicious house made bread to scoop up the rest of the sauce, and… dessert!

Dessert, amari and a candle.

And then we all lived happily ever after without ever setting food in Compère Lapin again because in this food town, no one needs that kind of crap. Woof.



Ce fut un échec total: La Petit Grocery-style

I am terrible at dating. Sometimes, if the situation is right, I might say yes in order to “practice social skills” but more often than not I just own the fact that I am slowly both getting older while simultaneously barreling toward being the weird lady that people only come knocking on Halloween because I decorate and “she’s rich or something and who cares that she’s weird she gives out great candy…” Okay the last bit is a nod to my dreams that still exist about being wildly successful. No wait, moderately successful. Let’s stick with Not a Failure and move on.

Saturday night was definitely not a date. For starters, there were three of us at dinner so the later confusion was kind of funny because possible flirting from The Dude aside (who happened to be the one to invite me to dinner) there were plenty of clear signs that this was not a date.

Sign number one: The age difference between The Dude and I made it hard for me to consider him a possible date. (Cue every lesson learned from dating Chef who was 13 years my senior.) The Dude is 43 going on 21 so in some instances was actually pretty fun in a frat party sort of way but I was purposely staying away from topics like marriage, divorce or children: topics that are generally feelers for “are you a potential sexual partner?”

Two: How I was introduced. Here is what he should have said to his dining companion: “Hey I invited a friend to join us at dinner, she’s into restaurants and stuff and it will be fun.” Or maybe even floated the idea by her first, like “Hey do you mind…” Some variety of that. Instead, what was offered was WAY weirder. I don’t actually know what he said but I know it was apparently confusing.

We were 20 minutes late thanks to homie wanting to have one more drink before dinner (we also passed the restaurant b/c I was navigating) and because our dining companion was at the bar prior to meeting us for dinner, she was drunk when we arrived. Well on her way to being a wasted and still throwing back drinks. She’s an attorney and they were friends who don’t see each other often so much of the conversation was reminiscing of old times past. Also being snide about my obvious youth at the age of thirty. (FYI I looked fierce because that is the only way to be.) Fine. The two of them were a sight to see for sure and many of the stories were actually pretty funny.

Anyway, on her third (that I saw) French 75, she goes “so what are you like the nanny?” (I don’t like children.)

“No,” I responded. I might have laughed. I might have glared across the table at The Dude. I was maintaining my first drink at dinner, thank you.

“OHhhh so you are (insert my best friend’s name). Sorry I only met you in a wig.”


“So wait (drink sloshes) why are you here?”

This was where I started having a slight crisis over WHY AM I HERE!!?? I have deadlines!

I am quitting my job so I probably had no business going out to dinner anyway. I should have waited for my best friend to come back from Europe rather than accepting an invite to dinner from “a friend of a friend” because that sucked and if I’d waited, we certainly wouldn’t share a bib lettuce salad and macaroni and cheese amid the obvious better choices at La Petit Grocery for God’s sake.

(Okay, the macaroni and cheese was delicious.) As was the rabbit, the fish, the ricotta dumplings and everything else that was put in front of me. I found it annoying that the waiter refused to just bring me the wine list and instead was asking me “what are you looking for?” He actually nailed the red, it was perfect but I still don’t see why it is so hard to just grab me a menu. Last time I just took a random suggestion my sister and I were at a hip bar in Austin and ended up ordering a $30 glass of wine when there were plenty of delicious glasses to choose from that were more reasonably priced for our budget.

Anyway, The Dude thought that this was a possible date but instead of saying anything, when the bill was dropped he kind of awkwardly threw down cash that was about 2/3 of the bill. Um, no. Not the way to buy me dinner. Very confusing. So, glancing at the cash, I made a show of pulling out my phone to find out what 1/3 of the bill was. (I was a little drunk at this point and I suck at math) This was partially because the lady that was with us was so drunk I needed to give the waiter exact directions as to how much to put on her card (and directed her that no, it did not include tip) and then paid my third (plus a generous tip in case old girl was a cheap lawyer) and made sure that the waiter got an extra generious tip from the remaining cash that The Dude had so thoughtfully thrown in.

The three of us decided to head to the bar but then the other lady didn’t show! I threw back her tequila shot and then mine before I having an angry spat with The Dude who was still hitting on me. (Trying to be nice, trying to keep things casual…jeesh.) Needless to say it was a bit of a messy goodbye, as in I said “fuck you” and left him at the bar and walked myself home. It wasn’t the prettiest sight but it was better than sticking around for more awkward bullshit.

I’m not 100% sure he remembers any of this. I did him a solid by deleting his voicemail (assuming that it was to the same tune of the 6 or 7 text messages he sent me that evening) without listening to it and told him where he left his car when he asked me via text the next morning. (I actually drove by to make sure to give him the precise cross street and direction.) Since we know my history with being drunk with a phone, I don’t mind letting that kind of stuff go and I actually don’t really care. We’ll never know what the message said. Sigh. I’ll probably see The Dude at my friend’s wedding? Let’s hope he picks something other than tequila on the rocks as his drink of the night. (He won’t. It’s his favorite.)