Me and My Merchant Marine: Rum and Diet Coke, The Start

Gene Kelly

   I followed Donna and her boyfriend du jour, Enrique, to get drinks. Chico's Elks Lodge, as I'd learn that night, includes a spacious reception hall - where we'd been sitting and would later dance; and a bar in a separate room across the way.
   Donna led Enrique to the far end of the bar, smiled flirtatiously, then stepped slightly behind him. (Gentlemen, if you're not privy to this maneuver, it means "Take your wallet out and buy mine too.")
   Ugh. I hate third-wheeling and needed a jolt. I nudged my way to the middle of the bar and placed my order. "Rum and Diet Coke, please."
   "That makes sense," I heard, in a deep male voice. A man inches to my right turned to face me, approving my drink request.
   "Doesn't it?" I replied. "Why waste calories on soda when you can get gobs of  'em in rum?"
   "Exactly." He imparted a charming smile. He's handsome, I noted, in a classic film noir way, like Gene Kelly. But bigger, somewhat husky. Not the kind of guy I usually go for. No, this one's rather attractive.
   "My name's Robyn," I extended my hand.
   "I'm Troy," he responded with a firm handshake.
   Troy sipped his drink then asked, "What do you do in Chico?"
   I told Troy about the dance event, third-wheeling, and that I'm a writer and social worker. He listened thoughtfully. The dreaded question followed: "What kind of writing do you do?"
   Crap! "Well, I dabble in lots of things except fiction. I published a small poetry book and I'm working on a novel these days." I stopped there. My brain continued...It's about my spectacularly unromantic romantic life and my remarkably sexless sex life. I've had a string of failed romances, through no fault of my own, really, except that I'm drawn to the deficient. You're an alcoholic, aren't you? You're awfully cute.
   "Nice. I like poetry," Troy said.
   Damn. A gay alcoholic!* Well, I could do worse. I have done worse. I smiled at him.
  "So what do you do around here, Troy?"
  "It's kind of complicated," he said modestly. "I work for the Merchant Marines on a spy ship."
  "A spy ship!" My eyes widened, like an elementary school kid's. "That's sooo cool!" A voice inside my head yelped loudly: Date him, girlfriend. He'll give good story!
   Donna and Enrique suddenly appeared behind Troy, waiting on me. Damn them.
  "Sorry, Troy. It was nice meeting you, but my friends are ready to hit the dance floor."
  "Nice meeting you too." Troy reached into his pocket and handed me his card. "Give me a call if you'd like to do something fun before I leave."
   "Great. I will."
   And so I would...stay tuned.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*No offense to anyone. There's nothing wrong with being gay, straight, asexual or into sheep. Well, nix the last one. That's just wrong. As far as alcoholism, don't drink and drive, don't hurt anyone, and tell me what you think about the rum-diet coke combination.  

Missed Connection: In Search of My NYE Kisser

Hi, friends.

This completes my kiss-diss series (last three posts). I'm enjoying thoughts of finding my New Year's Eve kisser.I think the best way to do that is through Craigslist Missed Connections, because, really, what greater venue is there for sparking a meaningful romance with the person you're destined to be with? 

Here's the ad I'm planning on posting. Your critique is welcome. Thanks.

CL; chico personals missed connections

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Thurs Jan 16

New Year’s Eve Kisser – w4m (chico CA) map

Dear Kisser,

It's all a bit fuzzy, but you kissed me on the lips on New Year's Eve at midnight in a club in Chico (the dark one with a lot of people). I'd like to thank you (repeatedly). You made this 47 year old feel like I still got it or, at least, I can still get it if I want to. I'm fairly certain you look like a perfect combination of Tom Cruise pre-Scientology-sofa-aerobics and Brad Pitt pre-wolverine-Jolie-won't- notice-if-I-give-Aniston-a-few-of-our-kids-right? You're 5'8" give or take four inches, and you're at least 18 years old--provided your ID is legit. You're athletic and toned, with a physique not unlike Michaelangelo's David. You appreciate the premise behind the movie, Harold and Maude (i.e., older women turn you on).

Please respond with a close-up selfie of your lips, so I know you're not an imposter. Thank you. Looking forward to our next encounter.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

PS  I'm leaving town for the weekend, to celebrate a friend's son's Bar Mitzvah. I'll take a picture of the cake for you. My Internet access will be limited or nonexistent. I'll miss you. 

Be well. 

Have a great weekend, and I'll see you soon.

Wherein I Get Dissed and Tell, part III

Needless to say, my New Year's Eve was incredible. See last two posts.

I awake on Wed, January 1, 2014 to this text message from Woody:

Good morning. I'm feeling a little hong over. How about you?

Hong over? Is that like being hung over in Asia? 

I respond:

:) I'm still waking up, tired and feet are sore. I only had a lil champagne so I'm okay.

No response. I text Woody later in the eve/early night:

I hope you're feeling better. Good night.

No response.

Thursday evening, January 2, 2014 text message correspondences:

Woody:              Hey

Me:        Hi

Woody:        What are you doing? 

Me:                      Not much. About to make dinner. You?

Woody:              Empty frige. Need to go to the store. 

Me:                      I know how that is.
                            Are we still on for dinner Friday night?

I expect an enthusiastic "definitely." Instead, I get this:

Woody:      I hate to disappoint you but I have my 
           kids tomarrow.

I didn't know he has kids. I like kids. But he has "to marrow" them? Geeze, that sounds painful. I wonder if it's similar to a spinal tap. Well, I understand why dinner wouldn't fit into the equation. Still, I'm hurt, disappointed, and irritated.

Me:         K 

Woody:               Need to reschedule. Maybe we can talk
           on the phone.

Whoa! Talk on the phone? Slow down, tiger! What kind of girl do you think I am?

I call Woody. "I've tried dating single dads before, and it hasn't worked out," I explain. "They've said they want to date, but they don't actually have the time. If that's your situation, I'm not going there. I'd just get hurt."

Woody: "Yeah, that's my situation. I don't want a relationship. I guess I just want friends. With kids, anything can come up, and I messed up with the custody for New Year's Day, so I have them this weekend."

"Well, it's Thursday. We were supposed to have dinner tomorrow," I add - with extra emphasis on the second "o". "When were you going to tell me this?"

He chuckles. "I was just about to text you when you texted me. I just found out today." You were going to cancel on me through a text message? How sweet, mature, and respectful.

We're silent for a moment. I don't know what to say. I'm thinking that I don't tend to stick any portion of my tongue into my "friends" mouths. Thus, I don't want to be "friends." I'm also realizing that I liked him a lot better when he liked me a lot better because he was drunk.

"I guess we'll leave it at that," Woody states.

"Okay," I reply. "No hard feelings."  F*cker! "I did have a great New Year's."

"I did too, Robyn. You're really fun."

"Thanks," my voice quiets. "Goodbye."

"Bye."

 I close my phone, feeling very sad and wishing that I hadn't fallen so quickly from such a high. Was that it for my excitement for the year? What a teaser.

I do have one idea, though, that boosts my mood...stay tuned for one more post to end this series.

Wherein I Kiss Again and Tell Again, part II

A vigorous, funky groove pulsates through me. Between the music, half a glass of champagne a bit earlier,* and the fact that an adorable man had planted his lips on mine at midnight, I buzz ecstatically into 2014.

Donna shifts further from me and closer to the stage again. My attention strays to a tall, slender man bouncing by my side.  He's cute, in a young Woody Harrelson kind of way. With a beer bottle in one hand, he offers the other for an introduction.

“Happy New Year. I’m Woody.”**

I knew it! “Happy New Year. I’m Robyn.” 

Woody abruptly finds a nearby table on which to unload his beer and returns, determined to focus on dancing with me. I'm elated by another dose of male attention--more than I got all last year. This guy's fun too, probably a 30-somethinger. I like to get down low (when I’m dancing) and Woody keeps up just fine, mimicking my movements, and taking my hands sporadically to spin me around.

“You’re fun,” I spout.

“So are you. You’re great, Robyn.”

“Thanks.” This is going well. Really well. But I feel off-balance. Damn heels. I hate them. I hope I don’t fall. I’m probably not completely sober. Oh no, I’m slipping. Woody grabs me by the waist and steadies me. Phew. We keep grooving, as though it never happened.

His hand grazes the side of my body, and Woody tells me he’s been in Chico for 17 years.  He’s working on his Master’s in Psychology. Pretty good, I think, admiring his soft blue eyes, dirty blond hair, and marginally innocent smile.

“What do you do, Robyn?”

“Social services. I’m a—” I stop myself from saying that I’m also a writer.  And I write humorous snippets about my non-romantic romantic life. He’ll likely be the subject of my next blog post, especially if he proves himself a jerk or a dufus—“I’m a social worker.” That was close.

We chat and keep dancing and time floats by. Woody pulls his phone out and asks for my number.

“Sure,” I say. He types it, as I enunciate each number, digit by digit: 8, 6, 7, 5, 3, 0, 9.***

“I’m going to call you. I am. Can I take you to dinner sometime?” he asks.

“Yeah, that’d be nice.” I try to look cool and hide my excitement.

Woody leans closer and wraps his arms around me in a tender embrace. He pulls back slightly,  gently strokes the side of my face and kisses me, with fervor and a teaser of tongue.

Am I dreaming? I don't think so because my feet hurt like hell. Wow. Kisses from not one but two men! That only happens to other women like Carrie Bradshaw.

“You made my New Year’s, Robyn.”

“You made mine too.” Well, the other guy did first. He was a little cuter and younger too. But your kiss was just as good. Almost. He edged you out due to his timing and boldness. Otherwise, it was a very close race.  

--

As I clumsily approach my door at 2am, my phone rings. It's Woody, already. We speak briefly, sharing that we're glad to have met, and confirming a date for dinner Friday night.“But what day is it?” I ask. “I think it’s Wednesday. Or is it Thursday? I’m all mixed up. Maybe it’s Tuesday. Hm, why don’t we make exact plans after a good night’s sleep? Friday's good though.”

“Okay, I’ll let you get some sleep. Goodnight, Robyn.”

“Goodnight, Woody.”

Stay tuned for part III.

*I'm such a lightweight. Let's keep that a secret. Thanks.
**Not his real name. Woody is a euphemism.

***I gave him my actual number, not Jenny’s. For you youngins, I’m referencing Tommy Tutone’s 1982 hit single, Jenny.

Wherein I Kiss and Tell: NYE 2014

My New Year's date, Donna, is the type of gal pal a woman both loves and hates to hang out with: a sweet, outgoing, gorgeous blonde who can fit into a size zero with room to breathe. She disappears in the swarms of people close to the stage, all following the band's lead as we ready ourselves to welcome 2014.

The band breaks to announce the countdown. Anticipation cuts through the cement walls of the boisterous nightclub. Champagne makes rounds. Beer is chugged; joints, puffed; and the time, eyed. I end up on the fringes of the commotion.

"Ten!"

A raucous crowd surrounds me with an intoxicating energy -- to my right, and in front, and...

"Nine!"

I glance left. Whoa. Cute guy. Standing close.

"Eight!"

Mm. Dark hair. Young. Handsome. He glances at me and...

"Seven!"

moves slowly closer and closer to me and...

"Six!"

I think he's going to kiss me. Nah. He probably just...

"Five!"

wants to look at my watch to check the time or something but

"Four!"

his lips look nice and closer and full and closer and...

"Three!"

juicy and closer and I can almost...

"Two!"

taste them as they come even closer and

"One!" YES! His aim and timing are perfect. So are his lips - moist, gentle, assertive, not aggressive or slobbery. They press against mine for one glorious moment, lingering sweetly as I pucker in response. Then they lift, easing away slowly.

I freeze, wide-eyed. Happy New Year to me!

Donna stammers through the crowd, arms extended. "There you are, Robyn. Happy New Year!"

"Happy New Year, Donna! It's going to be a good one!" What a start!

Funny that I didn't think to watch him walk away. I wouldn't even recognize my kisser if I saw him again. I mean, he was cute and approximately half my age and maybe 5'8" or so, give or take a few inches. I was in heels, so I don't know. None of it mattered. Kisser made my night.

As thrilled as I was, I never imagined my New Year's could get even better. But it would.

Stay tuned for part II.