The "Inadvertent" Knight

So one of my blog dates cancels on me and it’s a Saturday night. I am kind of pissed because that was  my plan for a Saturday night off but, well, what can you do. People are unreliable and I think perhaps he did me a favor. (Future blog date: The Catfish Knight)

I decide that I am going to still have dinner out and watch a hockey game to make the most of this debacle.  I head over to Bonefish Grill with the desire to have a great piece of fish and a martini while I watch the Devils play.

I arrive just as the game is starting and surprisingly there are very few people at the bar. I make my way over to a seat and settle in. I ask the bartender for a Stoli dirty martini and I begin perusing the menu while I am trying to keep an eye on the game.

“This isn’t so bad,” I think to myself. I will have a peaceful, healthy dinner and get to watch my boys in red kick the Sabres asses.  Win win!

As I am perusing the menu a man sits down next to me.  He has dark hair, a mustache, olive colored skin and is probably in his late 40s.  He kind of reminds me of Eugene Levy.  I gotta let you know, I am not hot for Eugene Levy.

He asks if anyone is sitting next to me and I let him know that no one is.  He then sits down and begins chatting with the bartender. They know him at this bar, and he seems to be a regular. I am hoping he doesn’t want to talk to me. It’s a full moon out and I just have this theory that all the looney tunes come out on these nights (er go why I am out).  I just want to have my dinner, have my drink, watch the game and go home. Period.  The end.

And here it comes . . . Just when I think that I am going to get my wish, the full moon unleashes its fury.

 “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t have someone keeping them waiting, ” Eugene Levy look-alike tells me.

I nod and smile in his general direction, as if to say, “Please, I beg of you, leave me alone.”

He doesn’t get this.

He continues on.  “So is he running late?”

Fuck. I am really gonna have to talk to this man.

At this point I feel the chair on the other side of me get pulled out and someone sits down.  Please let this be Alexander Skarsgard sitting on the other side so I can just run off into the night with him.

So if anyone knows him, and can let him know I'm single, we can stop all this crazy blog. 

 It’s not.

It’s a single dude, also probably in his late 40s, wearing a leather jacket, a black shirt, black pants and has about as much hair as Nero. He looks like a Russian arms dealer (whatever your individual mental image of this may be; yes). He smiles and cocks an eyebrow at me as he sits down.

I am now stuck between the Devil and the deep blue sea.

I turn to Eugene Levy and tell him that I am just dining solo because my boyfriend couldn’t make it out tonight. This should buy me some silence from both parties, I think.

He orders something off menu and it sounds amazing. I try to inquire with the bartender what it is.  Instead he tells me it’s on the website but not on the menu. I am intrigued with this and begin feverishly combing the Internet for this offer. He’s now looking on his phone. Dammit.   

This has opened up the conversation floodgates.

Mr. Levy now wants to know why my boyfriend is not here, and how he could let me out alone on a Saturday night. I make the mistake of telling him my fictitious boyfriend is young and unaccountable. 

“How young,” he asks. 

I now need to pick an arbitrary number, but one that will deter him from thinking he has a shot.

“28,” I lie. Hey, he’s my fictitious boyfriend.

“So if he’s 28, how old are you?” he asks.

Jesus, is this man writing a book? What happened to not asking a woman her age??

“35,” I respond because well, I am, and proud of it.

“Oh you’re a cougar? Huh?”

We discuss cougars in the last blog post. 

WTF. This makes me mad. I am kind of getting sick of hearing this. I feel that it’s pretty rude. I wouldn’t think of telling him he’s having some sort of mid-life crisis if roles were reversed. I am dating down. Men have done this for centuries. What am I, some sort of trailblazer for those dating with a few years spread? So they are born in the 90s. Who cares?? My mother is older than my father. I have always dated younger men. It’s not like I’m hanging out at a high school football game taking home the quarterback. This incenses me. I feel liberated to now retaliate . . .

“Why am I a cougar? I’m not dating a child, and the age spread isn’t that great. You men do this all the time and there is no negative connotation, so why is it when I do it, I have a negative stigma attached to it.”  I’m nearly out of breath I am so wound up. 

If you don’t know why, read the previous blog.

I look over to the black leather jacket Nero guy and he’s snickering. He realizes that his competition is tanking and it seems like being a fly on the wall for this.   

Eugene then responded,  “Well you are a Cougar.”

“Dude,” I think to myself, “this is why you are alone at a bar on Saturday night.”

I am exasperated. I guess this dude gets that I am done with him probably because I have now nearly turned my back entirely to this man. I am now intently staring at the TV where the game is on, and I am trying to appear totally engaged and fixated on the Geico commercial. 

Keep in mind now, I have not even received my main at this point. I am still working my way through my salad, and because it’s a busy Saturday night, I know my entrée isn’t showing up anytime soon. F.

I try to throw myself into viewing the game. I am going to ignore more awkwardness if it kills me. 

I look to my left. The man in the leather jacket is there.   He is still awakrdly sitting there half watching the game, half watching his food. Not a good candidate for a chat. I am already neck deep in weirdness.

I fixate on the hockey game. The man next to me hasn’t responded since my Hiroshima Cougar attack.  My main arrives and I delve into my lobster and scallops.  I want to want my meal but I have been so God damned hot today I can hardly eat. 

The man next to me takes the butter warmer candle that comes with my meal and puts it between the two of us. I think that this is either a peace offering, or an attempt to make this more like a date. Either way, this is still neck deep in weirdness. 

You too can have a date with a complete stranger at a bar. Just add a candle. 

“Here you go,” he smiles at me. “It’s like we’re on a date.”

WHAT THE CHRIST. CAN’T I JUST EAT MY MEAL IN PEACE?

I immediately put the butter back on the open flame and fain interest in dipping my scallops in the butter. I throw back a butter-covered scallop.  This is now not even turning out to be the healthy meal I so craved!

I’m now not even interested in the food. I just want to leave now. But there is only 8 minutes left in the 3^rd period. If I leave now, I will miss the end of this nail biting game.  If I stay, Eugene Levy may try to start feeding me my dinner.

I decide that I am willing to risk a few more minutes of this awkward dining experience to not miss the rest of the game. I still have a few sips of my martini left and I imagine that this is as bad as it’s going to get.

Oh no. It can always get worse. And it did.

At about this 8-minute mark other trouble was a brewing.

I had watched them come in and debate over where to sit. They were an older couple, probably retired. He was kinda of Irish drunk red, and she was beaming so they must have been coming from somewhere where alcohol had been served.

They sit down one seat over from Eugene. I can see them surveying the landscape. The look intentely at Eugene, then me and then Eugene again. They then look over at the Russian arms dealer. They seem to be huddled in conversation. I don’t really know or care what they are talking about, because I am trying to focus on the game.

The couple now emerges from their secret conversation and seems to be focusing their attention in my direction.  I quickly look back to the TV. 

“Look engrossed in the game.  Look engrossed in the game,” is all I can think to myself. 

No sooner to I turn my attention to this action packed game but I hear from a few chairs over; “How long have the two of you been dating.”

I feel like she is speaking to me, but why would she ask if we were dating. I make like haven’t heard the question.

Eugene however turns to her and responds that we are not dating.

“Why?” she asks.

Really lady?? This can’t be happening to me.

Roughly 5 minutes left in the game and I just wanna watch the end of the game.

“You make such a lovely couple,” she coos.

“You think so?” Eugene asks her. 

He then turns to me. “She thinks we make a good couple,” he tells me with pride.

Oh great Scott.

I make a weak smile at him and am now staring at the game like my life depends on it.

“Why don’t you ask her out?” says this woman in her lovely English accent.

"She has a boyfriend,” Eugene replies.

“And he’s 28 and she’s a cougar so she won’t want to go out with me.”

The Queen Mum then replies, “well she doesn’t know what she wants.”

Hello?? WTF. I am still sitting here.

“And you over there,” the English woman shouts to the Russian arms dealer. “You don’t want him to ask her out because you want a shot at her.”

He looks as confused as I do.  When did this turn into a soap opera. There is now 2 minutes in the game. I just want out of here.

I grab the bartender’s attention.

“I need a to-go box and the bill please,” I tell her. I have already slogged back the remainder of my martini. 

I get the bill and I notice it’s way more than I expected. Did they put an embargo on my Stoli? I read the itemized menu and notice that they have Eugene and I on the same tab.  Oh Jesus. Even the bartender thinks that we are together.

“Um, miss,” I call to her. “I think that his food was put on my bill by accident.”

“Oh, I thought  you two were together.”

HUH??????

I shake my head vehemently NO and quietly pay my bill while Eugene is deep in conversation with the Brit and the red dude. 

I gather my to-go and my purse and catch the last glimpse of the last seconds of the game.  I think I am getting away Scott-free.

Eugene immediately turns from talking to the couple who have alerted him that I am leaving. “Go get her,” I hear the crazy English lady cry out.

“Would you like to go get a drink?” he asks me as I am gathering my things.

I tell him I have plans and thank you for offering. I just want to get home, lock my door and wait for this crazy full moon to go away. 

I walk out and I can still hear the English woman carrying on about how “she’s young and she’ll learn soon enough.”

Yes lady. I have learned to stay home when there’s a full moon.