Friday

It was rainy and windy and I needed a cocktail. A proper cocktail. Not some flimsy, watered down rum and coke from my local watering hole but a solid concoction produced with love and labor by the sinewy arms of a bartender.

Um, yeah, I guess you start having these kind of fantasies when you don’t go out for a week.

So Ursy and I go to this new restaurant in the East Village and sit at the bar. I order a drink composed of bourbon, lemonade, and maple syrup. Hey, it’s kinda like the master cleanse… only with liquor.

I notice that the bartender is very much the Jinius type: tall, dark, and hizzot. And he kinda looks like Mark Ruffalo. Hellooo, lover.

When Ursy leaves to use the restroom, the bartender comes over and says, “Wanna see something funny?” And he shows me the bottle design for this organic beer and it’s a fuzzy, photo-copied looking photo of a dog sitting on a rock. “Um, yeah, I could design something better on photoshop,” I say. (which is like a total lie; I don’t even own photoshop yet alone know how to use it) and he says, “Yeah, I could design something better with a pencil.” And I laugh. A little too overzealously.

Then this Smashing Pumpkins song comes on.

“This song reminds me of highschool,” I say.
“Really? When did you graduate high school?” the bartender asks.
“I graduated in ‘97,” I say.
“Reaaally?” the bartender asks.
He gives me a look that seems to be a mix of horror and confusion.
“Um, when did you graduate highschool?” I ask.
“I graduated in 2002.”

Jigga…

WHAAAAAAAAAT?!?!?!

You mean to tell me that you graduated highschool the year after I graduated COLLEGE?!?! And when I was interviewing for jobs you were still trying to figure out how to lose your virginity??? Fuck Mark Ruffalo. You’re young enough to be Mark Ruffalo’s son. Are you even old enough to be serving me alcohol???

I literally deflate in my seat.

Ursy comes back. I relay my conversation to her.

“Shut it down, Jinius,” she says.

It was his facial hair. He threw me off with his facial hair! HE LOOKED MUCH OLDER WITH HIS BEARD!!

Yeah, that’s what I pictured myself saying in a future episode of To Catch a Predator.

Ursy and I finish up our drinks. The bartender comes over. We ask for the check. He offers to buy us a round of drinks. I don’t think I’ve ever taken my coat off faster.

So he gives us another round of beer. And then he offers us dessert. FREE. DESSERT. Home made donuts with a bourbon glaze. I had to restrain myself from making out with the plate.

The bartender tells us it’s last call. He asks what we’re up to later. I tell him I’m going to bed.

Yeah, my 28 year old ass goes to bed at 1:30 in the morning while his young ass starts his night at 1:30 in the morning. Ugh.

As my roommate says, this is why people our age start going to so many dinner parties because when we go to bars we’re just more cognizant of how old we are getting.

Oh, and throughout this entire evening the 25 year old has been texting me. I am this close to replying, “Lose my number.”

Saturday:

I decide to fully embrace my cougar side and wear a tight, leopard print dress and red lipstick for Saturday evening. Rar.

I meet up with Vidya at Paladar and we order a round of mojitos–or CRACKITOS as I like to call them. I am pretty sure those drinks are fortified with crack because whenever I drink a Paladar mojito I feel like i can dance on the ceiling and then run across the Brooklyn Bridge.

We drink two.

Then we skip off to Nurse Bettie for a birthday party for Sabbie’s sister…Tammie. Hah. My nicknames are so original!

At Nurse Bettie, we see this tall, lanky black dude dressed up as a milk man and carrying two jugs of milk. I guess this guy just goes around to bars dressed up as a milk man? I should have taken a picture with him. The two of us would have looked like such archetypes of the fifties if we were, you know, white.

After three beers I decide to call it a night. I started imposing a 5 drink maximum and 2 A.M. curfew for myself. It’s kinda nice waking up the next morning and remembering how I came home.

Oh, but on my cab ride home I get another text from the 25 year old. “At Solas…you out?”

Ugh, I am sorry but you can not be sending texts at booty call hour when you haven’t even set the precedent of actually having booty! Fellas, do not make booty calls when you haven’t even set the foundation!

I don’t respond. Instead I make my regular Saturday evening stop at my local pizza place and grab a slice. I nearly choke on the mozzarella because I am eating it so fast. Um, yeah, who needs a booty call when you’re making out with marinara?

Sunday:

I wake up and go to Trader Joes. Or Trader Hoes as I like to call it. I don’t know why. It’s not even a good pun.

It is insanely crowded in there. I think, as a rule, parents should just not bring their children into Trader Joes. I’m sorry but your strollers take up the entire aisle and it’s bad enough trying to contort my body like a Cirque du Soleil performer so that I can just slither past you and grab a can of chickpeas without worrying if I’m going to conk your child on the head with my basket!!!

Children should just be left outside and tied to a hydrant. Like a dog.

Later in the afternoon I get ready for my friend Henri’s superbowl party. He is serving Korean bbq. He calls me and asks how much money I’d be willing to gamble. I tell him zero. I’m just coming for the ribs. I don’t care about football.

I survey the beer and coozy (sp?) situation. Budweiser. Michelob. Keystone. Blech. I leave and go to a wine store down the block. Um, yeah, I guess you know you’re a yuppie when you leave a Super bowl party to buy wine. Tee-hee.

Then Sabbie and our friend Sam and his girlfriend Jess show up. We huddle in the kitchen, drinking wine, and eating chili. We are the only people not watching the game.

The chili is so good that I want to bathe in it. I don’t. But today my clothes smell like cumin and jerk spice. I am this close to licking my spandex.

So lets tally the scores for this weekend.

Drinks: 14
Smoochies: Zero
Booty call texts: Ugh, not worth counting
Ribs consumed: not enough
Bowls of chili: Two
People who don’t deserve to live: everyone I encountered at Trader Joes.