But I’m blogging, reader dears. Or doing my best to. And doing so at work. Oh yes.
Theoretically I could have blogged yesterday (as some readers were apparently awaiting — whoops! Guess ya had to wait a little longer, but ya’ll are patient types, right? ;)) … but last night was that infamous monthly cocktail hour and then when I got home a Brooklyn friend rang me up for drinks in a neighborhood bar that went till nearly 1 a.m.*
Back at the bar, however, I was apparently missing lots of excitement involving Best Friend, Blogfather, Covert Romantic (who allegedly “hooked up” with a certain late-coming interloper) and so forth.
But that’s OK. Plenty “excitement” had anyway over chicken quesadillas, red velvet cupcakes … oh, but I suppose you don’t care much for the food part, eh?
The rhythm method
So Covert Romantic was there, as mentioned, and we had our usual kiss-cheek, “Good to see you” “Oh you’re leaving? Sorry we didn’t get to talk this time” farcical exchange. It’s kind of like with Hapless Hesitator, in a way. With me, the man is perpetually doomed to be just a tad behind the beat. He missed — and continues to miss — that window of opportunity by just a little bit. I, of course, have frequently been ahead of the beat with certain men — in that bad, rushing way when the drummer’s not holding the tempo steady — as opposed to the good, driving, on-top-of-the-beat tempo.
Sorry, flashbacks to my rhythm-section days. Based on what I remember, I think the ticket is waiting for that time when the rhythm is right “in the pocket” as we used to say — or was that the name of a song? At nearly 10 a.m. on still no coffee, I can’t be expected to remember these things. Maybe Poster Boy can set me straight on it all, Saturday. Since I haven’t heard back from that Tom Jones ticket holder, looks like I’m back to Plan A for the evening.
Lickwit gets sentimental
Plan A for last night involved more extensive socializing, but with everything I’m trying to do this week in preparation for ze Beeg Trr-eep, it was all I could do greet Tim Robbins Type and banter with the Harvard Lickwit awhile. He kept calling me Anna Broadstreet and bragging of how he was doing pro-bono PR for my blog.
He was actually quite nice last night: bored, on good behavior, or else feeling a bit of remorse at the prospect of probably never seeing me again. Or so he would have me believe.
I think it was possibly one of the longest conversations we’ve had in recent memory. And, at its most ribald moments harkened back to our initial flirtation. We discussed how he had always admired my figure (particularly the top half), and I told him that women have what we dubbed a “comparative bra advantage” (CBA for short), which men don’t often take into account. Of course by the point a chap might realize this moderate deception, we both agreed he probably doesn’t care much because he’s just so ... grateful. Enthused? We never did settle on the precise word for that state of mind.
Then later, speaking of CBAs and all, Lickwit chided me for constantly folding arms across my middle so much and generally concealing the figure in question. I told him I didn’t want his wit to suffer (as it does when he is visually overcome) and then we bantered about how both our wits had been a significant part of that briefly explored attraction. Well, wit and the CBA, on my part. ;)
And that was about the evening. Then Lickwit gave me a hug goodbye, swinging me up off the floor in a final, funny, vaguely chivalrous gesture (or would that be dashing?), briefly appearing to consider a parting ass-grab. There was even some neck-nuzzling. Not bad for a girl with no perfume, no makeup, and only a form-fitting polyester dress!
In the search for a kind of closure (assuming I do move, shortly, to the West), I suppose it wasn’t bad. I mean, at most Lickwit and I shared something like 5-8 dates, some of them more loosely defined than others. Perhaps I should say we were “couple-y” on that many occasions? At any rate, that makes him the closest thing to a boyfriend I’ve ever had. And though I’ve certainly gotten over whatever wounds he may have caused, it was nice to part on such friendly terms.
Getting to be a goodbye girl?
Geez, made peace with Hippie the Groper, the Harvard Lickwit … I’m just crossing all my New York men off the list. I guess there’s still the Latin American … but truthfully I can’t really see dragging myself to the Comedian’s weekly laugh-show tonight just for the sake of Burlesque Bar closure and a possible chance of saying one last goodbye. Today I’m wearing the sweater I knit** while he was away at his homeland, but I think that’s enough. Tonight, perhaps, I’ll go home and play some Nina — “I’m going where the chilly winds don’t blow,”*** tip my hand in a little salute, and finally be done with that whole business.
Music makes for an apt parting line all around, in fact. Last night I was fastening the buttons on my coat, when what song should break over the sound system, but ole Frank singing “New York, New York” — an oddly apt homage. I remember my brother playing that song shortly before I left Arizona for New York; last night it seemed it could signal the end of this New York chapter. Only time — and the next few weeks — will tell.
*Beers for her, two Tequila Sunrises for me. “Do you even know what that is?” she asked, mystified, when I ordered. “No, but the bartender will.” back
**It’s pretty but doesn’t fit so well — kind of like the man would have been in my life.
***Which was a strange kind of theme song in his absence, and inspired many winter batches of sangria.