#bottomlessscotch

I procrastinate in my local neighborhood bar, drinking a bottomless scotch to ease the anxiety of an unanswered Mr. Holiday text.  I need help moving a dresser and he has a truck, but he must be back together with his ex again, because he isn’t acting friendly enough for my taste. 

Two guys sit at the end of the bar and creep up on me slowly.  One hides his thoughts under glasses and hair, the other shouts them to the bar.  Loud never works on me, so I focus on the former.  He seems so much more weird and interesting. 

I tell him I am a hostess at a restaurant and Mr. Hollywood tells me he’s a writer (who isn’t?) and that he plays the Hawaiian ukulele.  I am suddenly captivated by coincidence.  I have just recorded a Hawaiian song with my good friend and I ask him if he’d like me to send it to him.  He would.  I do. 

The next day, I receive an email response from him.  It states, “You are quite the polymath.”

That is a very nice compliment.  Usually I feel a little more like a dilettante, so I’ll try and accept it gracefully. 

I think about Mr. Hollywood a little over the next few weeks and even craft a reply email that suggests we meet up again, but I don’t have the guts to send it, so I wait. 

It’s Lent, AGAIN, and I have to spend 40+ days on sober dates.  These are HARD.  Not because I need the alcohol, but because most people are really boring on dates and the booze takes the edge off of me caring about it.

An extraordinarily beautiful boy named Ryan asks me out and I agree, if he’ll meet me at the local neighborhood bar, so I don’t have to put in much effort.  We dine and he complains that I am not drinking and every second is more painful than the last.  I try and redirect my thoughts to how pretty he is (he is very, very pretty), when I notice Mr. Hollywood entering the vicinity. 

I excuse myself and jump up out of my seat to say hello.  I try and take my buoyancy down a notch before I reach him, but I am a little too excited. 

I tell him I was just about to send him an email requesting that we meet up this weekend, but it’s only Monday and it seemed premature to send so early (WHY AM I STILL TALKING?).  He says I should have emailed him and comments on how handsome my date is and I roll my eyes as I tell him I guess I should get back to him, but the entire time I'm sure I am on the WRONG date.

I send the message the next day and he is out of town for a while, but asks me out for when he returns. 

I’ll take it! 

He picks me up and we head to a neighborhood he likes and he chooses a fantastic restaurant.  He is excellent at ordering and we agree to share everything.  He loves cheese, thank goodness.  "Doesn't eat cheese" is a deal-breaker for me, above "has tattoos," below "has dog(s)." 

This date is going very well.  He is a fabulous conversationalist and other than some mentioning of his ridiculously famous ex (my least favorite topic in LA!), I am thoroughly enjoying his company.  

He chuckles with delight as I slowly reveal that I have three master’s degrees and a television gig and he asks why I didn’t lead with that.  I remind him that he asked me out when he thought I was “just a hostess.” 

He admits that he does not play the Hawaiian ukulele and he can’t even remember telling me that he did.  I crack up and ask him why in the hell did he think I sent him that song?  

Speaking of music, “Stranded” abruptly drowns out all of the sounds in the restaurant. 

Since high school I have imagined that when I found the right guy, Van Morrison would play in the background.  Someone is fiddling with the volume, trying to fix it, but I take it as a sign that I was MEANT to hear. 

I bite into a fig and I am suddenly in excruciating pain.  I have definitely broken a back tooth and I do not want him to know.  I can’t break up the flow of this date!  I try and turn my grimace into a smile and I’m pretty sure he is none the wiser as I excuse myself to use the restroom. 

While I am up, I hand the waitress my credit card, to discreetly pay the entire bill. 

Other than the injury, this is the best date I’ve been on all year and I’d like to avoid the awkward, “May I split it with you?” test altogether. 

My tooth seems to be intact, so I return to the table and pretend it didn’t happen.  And the conversation gets even better. 

Mr. Hollywood is hilarious.  I feel comfortable enough to be funny myself, fairly effortlessly and without liquor, which is rare, because I usually feel far more guarded this early on. 

We finish up and he asks for the check.  The waitress says, “You’re all set,” and walks away.  He is confused.  I tell him we’re all set, so let’s go and he WILL NOT MOVE FROM HIS SEAT. 

This guy is totally not a criminal. 

It’s amazing. 

I didn’t mean to set him up for a dine-and-dash test, but it couldn’t be going more swimmingly.  He is getting increasingly awkward as I try and insist we just go.  Finally he requests a manager who tells him I have already paid.  His head spins out a little and I enjoy watching. 

In the car, he is still confused.  I tell him I’m happy that he wasn’t comfortable stiffing a waitress and he still thinks I am scary (fair).  I reveal that my intention wasn’t to test him, but the results were so endearing that I had trouble letting it end. 

He gets pretty paranoid about me paying as a send off and I apologize as he is dropping me off, but he does not kiss me goodbye. 

Ouch.  

Yet a week later he asks me out again, and Lent is finally over, so we drink under the stars outside, listening to Led Zeppelin and pontificating the meaning of life.  I think this is the type of guy with whom I’m meant to be. 

I slip that I went to the dentist and he asks me confidently if it’s because I broke my tooth on our first date.  Even though I tried furtively to hide my dinner mishap, I secretly love that he noticed anyway and calls me out on it.