Boy story – club antics and the married man

So . . . from a previous post, we know that I like nightclubs. And my club experiences provide me with great boy stories.

A few weeks ago, I went to a birthday party that was held in a club. The birthday boy is an old friend; I knew most of his guests, and bounced from group to group.

Mid-bounce, I was halted by a tall, relatively good-looking guy with a pretty smile. One that might have been my type (I likes em tall), if I hadn’t briefly spied a vibrant gleam emanating from his left hand.

Tall Boy introduced himself and asked where I was going. I pointed to the bar. He told me that I was sexy, and aggressively suggested that I stop and spend time with him, since he’d seen me talking to so many people. It was his turn. (Ummm . . . his turn? What am I? A freakin’ video game??)

In the meantime, I had confirmed that the gleam was definitely a gold band on the ring finger of his left hand. In retrospect, I don’t even know why I had to get confirmation. There are very few single men who wear rings on their left hands — unless it’s a class ring.

With that information, I decided not to give Tall Boy “his turn,” but, because he was openly hitting on me while wearing a wedding ring, I decided to fuck with him a little bit.

As an aside, I’m completely put off when ring-wearing married men are unabashed flirts. In essence, what they’re saying is “Yes, I’m married (and I would argue that I’m happily married), but I’m SO irresistable that you might be able to overlook that small detail. In fact, I’m SO hot that you might be down with sharing me with my wife and umpteen kids, and settling for whatever paltry amount of time that I can give you. And I’m sure that you have no problem stepping in on another woman’s relationship, because you have low self-esteem, and being with me is worth it.” So incredibly weak. For those who watch SNL, Biiiiiiitch pleeze! (If you don’t, here’s the reference: http://www.hulu.com/watch/65920/saturday-night-live-update-bitch-pleeze-blogger) As usual, I digress . . .

I told him that I would get my drink and be right back to talk to him. Yeah . . . that didn’t happen.

I got my drink, got (intentionally) sidetracked talking to a group of my female friends (who were WAY more deserving of a “turn” than Tall Boy). Then, about 1/2 hour later, I ran into one of my male friends and hit the dance floor, ironically ending up not 10 feet away from Tall Boy, who by this time had located another woman to dance with.

At the end of the night, I was exiting the club and found myself next to Tall Boy, who reminded me that I never returned to talk to him. I smiled and said “Oh yeah. Wow. I guess I got distracted.” He said “Maybe next time.” I smiled back, but my internal voice was saying “Bitch, pleeeze!”

Aftermath (yes, there’s more), two days later on Sunday morning, I was driving to the grocery store, gabbing to a friend about the weekend. I pulled into a parking space, and noticed another car pulling in two spots away. The driver looked familiar. It was Tall Boy!

I didn’t think he’d recognize me, but he did. Immediately. He was alone, and when he saw me walking through the parking lot, he said “Good morning pretty lady.” (Because he had probably spoken to LOTS of “pretty ladies” the night we met. It was a safe moniker) He mumbled something about getting a paper and coffee and wished me a good day before disappearing inside the store.

I wonder if I’ll see him out again.

Kitten aftermath

A few weeks ago I posted something on Facebook about the mother cat who gave me the “gift” of bringing her very young kittens to live in my backyard. And since a few people have inquired, here’s what’s going on with the kitties . . .

First, we lost one a few weeks ago. She was only about 6 weeks old at the time, really REALLY sick, and I was debating what to do with her. Every veterinary medical professional I consulted told me not to touch her, and to let her mother take care of her. I was afraid to walk out of my house every day for fear that her little cold body would be laying on my porch. But, again, the mother did me a favor by taking the kittens away for a day, and when she returned, the little sick kitty was no longer with her.

And then there were three.

I clearly couldn’t keep them. My cat situation is hardly ideal. I have two cats that hate each other. Okay, that’s not fair. Phoebe hates Bailey, but Bailey LOVES Phoebe. The problem is that Bailey’s version of playing is Phoebe’s idea of assault. When Phoebe feels violated, she becomes nervous and pees everywhere. When I brought Bailey in (because he, too, was born in my backyard), Phoebe exhibited stress behavior, and the cat behaviorist at Anti-Cruelty told me that they should be separated. And they’ve been separated ever since. It completely sucks, and my house is one closed door away from being a feline battle zone, but that’s the only way that I can have them both.

Besides . . . as my friend Jen pointed out . . . I’m one cat away from being the official single cat lady, and never getting a date again. (Doesn’t seem promising, even without cats, but I guess that’s beside the point)

So . . . I wasn’t sure of what to do with these little kitties. I tried several no-kill shelters, but none of them were accepting new kitties. I tried to explain that they were really cute and sweet (I would be proven wrong on the “sweet” part later), but one of the women — the nicest one — reminded me that most kittens are cute and sweet (which I suspect is the only thing that keeps you from killing them when they’re adults — kinda like kids. But I digress.)

I didn’t want to send them to Anti-Cruelty for fear that they would be euthanized. In the meantime I fed them and their mother twice daily. And, I learned an interesting tidbit — if you feed a stray animal for 7 straight days, that animal is considered to be yours, legally. So technically, those cats were mine. All mine.

But I’m happy to report that Jen saved the day. She and her husband adopted (read: came and picked up) ALL THREE kittens, brave souls that they are.

It was a bit of a surprise. The three of us had brunch a few weeks ago, and when I mentioned the kittens to Jen, she looked at her husband hopefully. Fletch said, definitively, “No more cats!”

The unfortunate death of one of her older cats changed their minds, and Jen wrote me an email in the middle of the night — from her vacation (later she would confide that she was “tipsy”) — to ask if the cats were still around. Of course they were.

A few days later I trapped the kitties, which was both exciting and heartbreaking. Jen said that she would take mother and babies, but I knew the mother would be hard, if not impossible, to catch, so I focused on the little ones. I set up a rudimentary but sufficient “trap,” which consisted of a plate of tuna and a cat carrier.

I transferred the kitties to a larger cage in my basement.

Now . . . when you think of kittens, you think of sweet, playful creatures who cuddle and purr, correct? Oh, not these kittens. These were the scratching, biting, mean variety of wild kittens. I couldn’t figure out why something that has been alive for a mere nine weeks, and weighs less than one pound has so much venom?? Where did that come from?? I had no idea. They seemed sweet enough as they plowed through their kitten chow every morning!

It was a nightmare getting them from my cage to Jen’s carrier. Fletch had to don the leather gloves for protection from the scrappy little kittens. They were squirmy and I was nervous that one of them would get away and become a permanent fixture in the bowels of my basement. Which would suck. Tremendously.

As happy as I was that they had a great home, I hated to see them upset. Jen said it best when she said that the cats thought they were being kidnapped rather than rescued.

Long story (that could get longer) short, we got them in the cage, and after an extended (expensive) vet visit, the kitties are now healthier and happy in their new home with a loving family of people and animal-siblings.

Nice to have a happy ending in this economy! I’m just happy that I can visit occasionally.

Boy story – club encounters and patterns??

I like nightclubs.

I receive much criticism from my married friends, but I don’t care. I like to stay up late, people watch, dance, drink, listen to live music . . . it’s all good stuff.

Sometimes I go alone. Okay, well, actually I mostly go alone and prefer to meet people there. Some people think my behavior is weird but, again, I don’t care because I have my reasons . . . 1. I’m an only child. We’re incredibly independent. 2. I like to be on my own timeframe. I’m not crazy about waiting for people, picking people up or traveling in entourages. 3. If I want to leave, I leave. If I didn’t arrive with anyone, I feel no remorse for leaving alone.

Why am I telling you all of this in a boy story? Eh, I don’t know. Seems pertinent enough. Some people who read my column say that I don’t give enough information. So here I am. Giving lots of information.

That said . . . as much as I like nightclubs, I don’t like meeting men in a club atmosphere. The perfect club scenario is that I run into a few guys that I know, and have a few built-in harmless dance partners. Nothing good has ever come from meeting a guy in a club.

So what did I do on Friday night? That’s right . . . I met a guy in a club.

I was moving through the crowd, heading to the bar and I made eye contact with a man, who looked at me and said, simply: “Can I buy you a drink?”

Now, a few things went through my head. First, when I’m alone, I don’t typically allow men (strangers) to buy me drinks at clubs. Why? Because some guys think that when they’ve bought me a drink, they’ve effectively bought a portion of my time. I don’t want to subject myself to having to stand there and talk to him as I sip my cocktail. Also, if I’m not interested, I wouldn’t want to waste HIS time/money. I believe strongly in dating karma.

But, despite all that, I said “Sure,” and followed him to the bar. Let’s call him M.

M was cute enough, and by that I mean that he was a pleasant looking guy with nice eyes and a nice smile. Was he “damn-I-gotta-get-me-some-of-that” hot? No . . . which is okay. since that type is great to look at, but that’s about it.

I talked to him for a while, and I’m glad I did. Turns out that M and I in the same industry, and there could be some business synergies. We talked long enough to have two drinks. In between the business-speak, he peppered the conversation with a bit of flirtation and nice, well-placed compliments. We exchanged info, and he mentioned wanting to go out on a real dinner date.

I honestly didn’t give him or our exchange that much thought until the following afternoon. I’ve trained myself this way. Countless men have taken my number with the intention of calling and never followed through. Therefore, I was surprised to receive his “nice to meet you” text, to which I politely replied.

Later the next evening, I went to the same club. I approached the bar to get a drink and as I spoke my order to Nikkole, I felt a tap on my shoulder. There he was . . . M, my flirt/conversation partner from the previous evening. He said hello, but that was about it. He didn’t have a lot conversation for me because he had a new girl du jour that he was showering with compliments and cocktails. Apparently she looked “amazing” too.

I got my drink, stood there and sipped it down for a minute, and then bounced off. I didn’t see M for the remainder of the night.

All of the fun had been taken out of the previous evening as I began to wonder if this was a nightly activity for him.

Now, granted, why should I care? After all, I got a couple of cocktails and a good conversation out of the deal. He was a nice enough guy, and I’ve certainly spent more time with worse people. I think that I was more bothered by the cookie-cutter, one size fits all approach.

But again . . . that’s what I get for violating my own rules!!

I relayed this story to one of my male friends at breakfast on Sunday morning. His opinion is that everyone has a dating/flirting pattern of sorts.

And then I began to wonder . . . do I have a pattern? Is there any one thing that I will say to every guy that I find attractive? I honestly don’t think so, but I have to ruminate about it . . . especially since my interractions with attractive men (who aren’t my platonic friends) are few and far between.

I guess I’ll figure it out as more boy stories unfold.

Boy story – Flirting, Shots, Christina, and Twitter

Fourth of July weekend was jam-packed with boy stories. Frog Man (see previous post) was the most memorable, but this one is a close second — and documented on Twitter for those who follow me.

On Thursday night, I went to the Goodman to see a play – “Boleros for the Disenchanted,” which was really good — well acted and directed — but the subject matter made me want to stick my head in the oven. Needed a cocktail.

Enter Christina.

Christina is a good friend, and an actress/comedian extraordinaire at Second City (she plays Mother Nature in the Vitamin Water 10 commercials). She’s been focusing on writing her next show and we hadn’t seen in other in a while, so we decided to meet for drinks after her show at a bar in Old Town, directly across from the Piper’s Alley building.

A few minutes early, I bellied up to the bar and ordered a Ketel and soda with lime. And, because Christina and I always seem to get into trouble together, I was anticipating the need to flirt, but I couldn’t identify any victims.

So, I tweeted: “GinaSpot feels like flirting, but alas . . . No partners in crime.“

At that point, an inordinately drunk woman staggered up to the bar, and slammed down a 1/2 bottle of Corona. She said “If you want this, you’re welcome to it. I shouldn’t be drinking anymore.” As though I would be interested in her backwashed swill.

Again, I tweeted: “GinaSpot: still not flirting, but a strange, drunk woman just offered me 1/2 of her beer. No thanks, beeyotch.”

Christina arrived, and within five minutes two guys stood behind us. They were nice enough — not so cute — but we started talking after I became bitchy when they violated my personal space (I’m big on the personal space). They smoothed it over by flirting, and insisting on buying us shots of Patron. Who were we to decline?

The guys were a little strange, verging on creepy. One of them made sure to tell us that he used to date/live with a black woman. I declined to thank him for sharing that tidbit. They bought us another round of drinks, but once they figured out that neither of us were going home with either of them, they moved on.

As an aside, I think it’s absolutely hilarious when men of other nationalities (usually white men) make sure to inform me that they’re black-woman-friendly. This manifests in several ways:
1. They refer to previous relationships with black women
2. They comment on how much they love my darker skin
3. They make reference to an element of “black” culture, and how they’re comfortable with it. Maybe they quote hip-hop lyrics, or refer to something that happens on the south side. They expect that I and my friends will be impressed. Instead, we look at them as though they have three heads.

But I digress . . .

Again, I tweeted: “GinaSpot: Will be careful what I ask for when I say I just feel like flirting. The Universe delivered flirting partner, but he was scary!!“

I immediately followed that tweet with this one: “GinaSpot: Is being more specific – would like someone CUTE to flirt with!!“

At that point, a relatively cute guy appeared — seemingly from out of nowhere. He was wearing a vest — like one that would go with a suit.

His opening line was to ask what we thought of said vest. We gave it the thumbs down. He took it off and sat at the bar next to me, and introduced himself. Let’s call him P.

P was clearly trashed. The indicators were 1) he had a slight slur, 2) his decision to order a drink was a production — kinda like he was afraid that if he had one more drink, he and his vest might be curled up on the floor, 3) his penchant for staring at me and telling me that he found me attractive. One time is nice. 10 times is scary. He won back a few points when he laughed and said “but you’re not as attractive as me.”

He bought me a drink . . . which I neither needed nor asked for.

In the meantime, I encouraged Christina to order food. I was thinking she would choose something absorbent, like bread. Instead, she ordered chicken tenders, which are about as absorbent as a pair of dice.

As I gingerly sipped my THIRD Ketel and soda, three guys appeared behind us. They were trashed, 21 (25 max), and they were screaming that it was one of their birthdays (which could have been a line to get the guy laid. Who knows). Once again, we had the personal space issue, and once again, that complaint garnered us a pair of shots. They even bought a shot for P.

Just what we needed — MORE Patron.

Again, I tweeted: GinaSpot: Thinks the Universe is fucking with her. Just had two tequila shots w/@christinanthony and a few random men.

While Christina tweeted: christinanthony: Got the glow tonight. Out with @ginaspot and the men are THIRSTY for chrisgina cocktails! -christina

Don’tcha just love social media???

So . . . P. (who’s blood type is now Reposado) got enough courage to ask me where I was going after leaving the bar. I told him that I would go wherever he wanted. KIDDING!!! Of course, I told him that I was going home. He groused about it, and told me that I looked like I needed lots of kisses. I scowled.

Another aside — I was really happy that P. didn’t do the thing that a lot of drunk white guys do, which is to wait until they’re drunk to the point where they can barely stand, approach me (or any other woman of color in their midst) and say “I’ve always been attracted to black women.” Yuck!

He stumbled out of the bar, polyester vest in hand. He didn’t even try to get a phone number, which was fine. He was probably some poor woman’s fiance.

We were approached by yet another man, but quickly declined his offer for a shot. By some grace of God, last call was announced.

My final tweet of the night: GinaSpot: Is packing it in. No longer looking for flirt partner, Universe, so DON’T send another man to buy me a Patron shot!

The lesson of the night — be careful what you ask for — and be specific!

FYI, I was lucky. I arose early the next morning, and my tweet read: GinaSpot: is surprisingly hangover free

Boy story — the Barbecue Stalker

I had a great fourth of July weekend — especially considering that the weekend completely snuck up on me.

But, of course, the weekend wouldn’t be complete without a good boy story.

The back story goes something like this — over the course of several years, I would periodically catch a glimpse of a guy that we dubbed Frog Man. He earned that nickname because his eyes would bug whenever he liked what he saw (also because he’s a funny looking dude). He blatantly stares at women lasciviously. If you’re one of his visual victims, it’s best that you don’t let him get any closer, because he’s liable to say anything, and really . . . you don’t want to hear any of it.

That said, I was at a barbecue on the fourth which was awesome — with the exception of the presence of Frog Man. He walked in and I shuddered.

I’ve never been formally introduced to Frogger, yet he approached the group of friends that I was standing with — two men, another woman and myself. He hugged the other woman (whom he didn’t know), and I immediately stuck out my hand in introduction. He hugged me anyway, and I didn’t have the presence of mind to avoid it. It was probably the most reluctant hug I’ve ever given. For him, it must have been like hugging a two-by-four. He completely ignored the men, M. and J.. They weren’t offended, and found it amusing — especially J., who kept threatening to leave me standing alone so that Frogger would feel free to approach me for another hug. Yuck.

But, Frogger was off to the races, offended every woman in his midst. He asked the bartender if her breasts were real. He grabbed another woman’s ass. He demanded that people pose for pictures. He tried to get a picture of me, but he got mostly hair and a jawbone. He spoke loudly, and caused the other party guests to wonder why he was there, and what his problem might be.

Here are the highlights of speculation:
- “I think he’s just really wasted.”
- “Maybe something’s wrong with him . . . genetically.”
- “You think he might be on drugs? Like, pills?”

Frogger and I had a second negative encounter. While waiting in line for the buffet, he stood not one foot away from me, facing me while I was looking in the other direction.

As an aside — I’m big on personal space. I’m not a fan of close talkers. I never want to get close enough to smell what you might have been eating five minutes before. I don’t want to gaze into your pores. We don’t live in China; there’s plenty of space here for all of us, so back the hell up.

Sick of him in my space, I glared at him, and he said that he was “just testing.”

Gina: “Just testing what?”
Frogger: [to the woman behind me] “She [meaning me] used to be my girl. We used to hang out all the time.”
G: “Ummm . .. WHAT are you talking about? I’ve never hung out with you.”
F: “We used to hang out at Red’s all the time?”
G: “Red’s?? I’ve been to Red’s, like, four times in my LIFE.”
F: “See . . . now she’s trying to play me off.”
Woman behind me: “Maybe she just looks like someone you know.”
F: “No, it’s her. She knows what I’m talking about.”
G: “Listen, you stand in my face, claim that I used to hang out with you — which I didn’t — and now you say I’m LYING about it? What reason would I have for lying? You’ve got the wrong person. Period.”
F: [to the woman behind me] She’s a nice woman.
G: “I’m trying to be. You’re not making it easy, though.”

Frogger went on his merry way — before he got cracked in the head with a chicken leg.

As the evening progressed, Frogger was the subject of much conversation. The women were irritated, and the men stopped ignoring him, and had decided, instead, to take him out back, Tony-Soprano-style.

Frogger must have sensed that he was in trouble and left abruptly.

We were glad to see him go, but I must admit that Frogger was responsible for a lot of co-mingling. If a guy didn’t have an opening line, he could merely point to Frog Man, and say “what’s up with him?” Much conversation ensued.

In the end, a good thing. And he gave me a great story.

Boy stories

It’s funny . . . I’ve been writing a relationship column since 2001, and it’s one of my favorite things to do. A great hobby. The irony is that it hasn’t been great for my love life.

Some of the guys who would ask me out say that they’ve refrained for fear that they would show up in the column. Or at least that’s what they tell me — maybe they’re lying and it’s their gentle way of not telling me that they’re not interested. (My friend Diana N. teases me that they all fear the release of a column titled “Loving an Impotent Man.” I tell her that’s ridiculous — what in the world would I do with an impotent man?? LOL) The other catch is that I don’t date guys who only knew me through the column, because that’s also kind of weird.

That said, if I wanted to preserve my love life, I had to keep much of it out of the column, and off of this blog.

But at this point I don’t really care. If someone doesn’t like me because of my fave hobby, then so be it. I don’t have a “serious” love life, but the random encounters and flirtations that I have are hilarious, so why not write about them?

Look forward to more boy stories — like, perhaps when it’s not the middle of the night, I haven’t had a few shots, and I’m not exhausted.

Retro posting – rental car return

Forgot to post some funny stuff . . . .

Okay, so when I went to return my rental car last week (http://theginaspot.wordpress.com/2009/06/26/), Enterprise was going to give me a ride to the mechanic to pick up my car. I arrived at the same time as a man in a similar predicament. He was an older guy, liberal professorial appearance — kinda shaggy with glasses, grayish-blonde hair, long shorts and bad sandals.

We began the parallel process of returning our vehicles.

My return transaction was easy:

Enterprise Rental Car Agent: “Was everything okay with your car?”
Gina: “Yes.” [I refrained from discussing the fact that it was the slowest car that I'd ever driven, and pointing out that someone should feed the guinea pigs who are clearly powering the engine. What would be the point?? And in the grand scheme of things, the guy behind the corner wouldn't give a tinker's dam.]

I paid, and stepped to the side to await my ride.

The man next to me was far less concise:

Enterprise Rental Car Agent: “Was everything okay with your car?”
Kooky Professor Dude: “Well . . . there was a glare on the back window, which dramatically reduced visibility, and I was having trouble with my radio reception, so I called the office [Enterprise], and the agent suggested that I take it to the Toyota dealer. And when I did, they told me that the car is missing an external antenna, but they wouldn’t replace it, so I just suffered without radio. But other than that, and the fact that the lights on the steering wheel are really dim, everything was great!”

Okay, seriously?? WHO takes a rental car to the dealership?? The whole point of renting a car is so that you don’t have to deal with BS maintenance issues, correct? If something is wrong with a rental car, you simply take the damned thing back to the rental car company and swap cars!

It was determined that he and I needed rides to the same area, so we had to ride together.

We rode in the car that he returned. It was a Prius. I think he’d only rented it for three days, and it looked as though he had been living in it. I had to move a bunch of crap over to sit in the back seat, and there were boxes and bags crammed into the hatch area.

The entire time, he was giving a Prius tutorial to the rental car agent who was driving. Poor guy.

Believe it or not, that exchange actually made me really happy to see my car again.

Yard sale, etc.

Every year, three of us have a joint yard sale (and no, we don’t sell marijuana for those of you with a one-track mind). Jean graciously hosts at her lovely Evanston home, and it’s something that we look forward to.

One of the best parts is trying to figure out who the “patron of the year” will be. We’ve done this for several years now, and the most memorable to date has been the family that showed up with pet squirrel. Apparently they found the squirrel as a baby, and raised it as a domesticated pet.

Everything was fine when they arrived. One of the kids was holding the squirrel. And of course I had to hold the squirrel, because I can’t resist anything with fur (except for men with too much body hair. Yuck! But I digress . . .) The trouble started when the put the squirrel down and let it run around among our wares. Patty was quick on her feet and sold them a pet carrier.

This year, there was no such outstanding patron.

There were the garden variety cheap people who wanted to negotiate everything. One of my faves was a woman who wanted to buy my plastic Ikea magazine racks. They were priced at fifty cents apiece and there were four left. She wanted them all for 75 cents, which would have been irritating had she not been very sweet. That, and the fact that I had no desire to take those things back home. I made change for her dollar and off she went — in her E-class shiny Mercedes. Had I seen her car, I would have charged her $1 each!

We somehow managed to get rid of items that had never sold in the past. Jean sold her toe socks, popularized in the 70s. I sold a porcelain teapot and the old pedestal sink from my powder room that had been taking up real estate in Jean’s garage since last year. Patty sold votives and other little doo-dads that she wanted permanently removed from her home.

However, we’re still saddled with a few remaining items, namely
- A DKNY halter dress that I bought and then realized that it was about 3 sizes too large.
- Jean’s smokin’ hot black leather mini that she’s never worn. It’s marked as a size 8, but it’s looking more like a 4. Either that, or it’s for a size 8 who likes to show off their cheeks.
- A lovely Precious Moments bride and groom that Jean found in her house when she moved in many years ago. I swear, nobody wants that thing — not even its original owners. That ugly little tchotchke has become Jean’s personal albatross.

My personal joke for the year was a club-sized Betty Crocker box mix for a Cherry Crisp. We think it feeds 24. It consists of a few large cans of cherries — similar to Hostess cherry pies — along with a crumble topping. I found it while rifling through my pantry, and I can’t recall when I got it, or why I have it. I’m SO not the box baker. I was going to throw it away, but then I remembered that Jean was able to sell a jar of powdered CountryTime Lemonade, so I thought I’d give it a whirl.

Well . . . despite the prominent placement and convincing sales pitches, can you believe that nobody bought it???

It’s gone back into the vault (since its shelf life is comparable to a Twinkie), and we’ve decided that we’re either going to cook it, or try to sell it next year.