Why is it the times I crave social stimulation everybody is busy washing their hair?
I discovered this jazz trio in Portlandia while on a date earlier this year.
Boy & Bean.
They were the Bee's Knees.
They played great.
They looked great.
And the venues they played at were some of my favorite bars in town.
So on this particular eve they were playing at The Box Social, who hands down makes the best old fashioneds in town.
The Phantom of the Opera may make the best sazerac.
But the old fashioned at Box Social had my heart.
I hadn't been there since last summer, the last night I saw Ireland.
I glanced at the table where he'd been sitting when I'd walked in and remembered the way a stunned smile had danced on his lips.
I smiled myself and then caught the bartender and who I'm assuming was the cook huddled together glancing my way.
I lifted my drink and nodded in approval.
I love feeling SEEN by men.
It makes me feel so pretty.
Like I'm going to the Prom.
And I was glad I took myself out.
There are times when I love being alone and then there are times when it makes me feel lonely.
But I'd slipped into one of the new fabulous dresses I hadn't yet worn and sipping one of my favorite drinks, hearing one of my favorite bands, it didn't even matter that no one was sharing the moment with me.
I delighted in it.
And that was quite enough.
After my two decadent old fashioneds I ordered a sazerac because I wanted one.
I wanted to keep drinking.
And maybe part of me wanted to be drunk in my pretty dress.
Fashion. And music. And intoxication.
My passions.
After my saz, the band still playing the night away, I got up, ready to go home.
I was a happy little drunk and the evening had been a swell success.
And then I decided I was going to call The Phantom of the Opera.
Right Now.
There is one problem with the iPhone.
It's TOO smart.
It won't ACTUALLY let you delete someone's number from its phone memory.
You can delete it from your contacts.
You can delete all the texts.
Which I'd done because enough was enough and he'd been a big meanie face and I didn't want to play with him anymore.
(I mean, Ok, part of me did, obviously, because some men are just so good at what they do you just can't be bothered with the fact they're a perfectly poor match because, you know, well--PENIS.)
Anyway, despite my resolve to never talk to him or his penis again, there I sat, starting to compose a text so I could type in his name and my damn iphone would recall his number.
And then I could call it.
Because.
You know.
I'm good at Life Choices.
Me drunk dialing him and leaving a rambly brambly message would have been one thing.
I'm sure that's what I expected would happen.
But to my absolute S H O C K
HE ANSWERED THE PHONE.
Gasp.
And you know the most incredible part?
I don't remember the conversation.
I don't remember what he said.
I don't remember what I said.
My call log says we talked for ten minutes and I remember like, two sentences.
That's so not fair!!!
We hadn't talked for WEEKS, then we have an actual conversation and I don't remember it?!
I can't even remember his tone or how it ended.
I remember he sounded better and he was working again so that made me happy.
But the next morning when I woke up I felt really weird about drunk dialing him (and forgetting whatever the fuck I even said) so I called and left him a sober message.
Thinking, ok, well he answered, so I guess that means we're cool.
I haven't heard anything since.
My life needs to stop being a tragic comedy.
I finally hear from him and I don't even know what I heard.
And that's likely all I'll hear for who knows how long.
And all I keep thinking is
Why did he answer?
I thought we were done with each other.
And yet I surprised myself by dialing.
And maybe he surprised himself by answering.
Surprise.
Your life doesn't know what the fuck is going on.
(And I secretly love that.)
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