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. 

The "Cougar" Knight

So I am bartending on a Thursday night, surprise surprise.  

Let me start by saying where I bartend has the lowest rate of attractive men after a Star Trek festival.  In the two years that I have worked there, I have probably seen six men that I would want to ask me out; if I was forced at gunpoint to want that. 

I don’t understand what the deal is. How can one place be such an abysmal showing of the male species . . .

This particular night we had been dead all night and then had this massive surge of college students around 11pm.  I jump off tending tables and begin helping out the bartenders with the throngs of students drinking Fireball shots and downing Miller Lites.

 

I think this is an actual a place in Australia. . .

As I am slinging shots I happen to notice an attractive man at the bar. I do a double-take.  This is a first. 

He is sitting by himself, seemingly watching some game behind me. I am craning to see him. As I focus on him, I realize that he is meeting my gaze.  I quickly look away. He’s just watching the bartending show, or the other bartender. He couldn’t possibly be looking at me?

He looks young, but maybe, not terribly younger? I can't tell anymore. Whatever age he is, he's still older than 21 and has enough confidence to come to a bar by himself.  Kudos kid.

"It's my sparkly teeth that attracted you to me."

He looks like he should pitch for a baseball team somewhere. He has one of those twisty fabric necklaces like the ball players wear, he's wearing a cotton A&F or Hollister shirt, khaki shorts and sneakers.  No tattoos, clean shaven; I'd say some military service because his cotton outfit is pressed and his light brown hair is cut short. He looks like he's super fit but I wonder if he and I are the same height. That's a deal breaker, but I am willing to roll the dice. Well, I haven't had any luck with military men yet, why stop now. 

I decide I am going to ask one of the other bartenders what his story is. He's not a regular and I have never seen him in here before. I grab my fellow bartender. . .

“Erin, there is a cute boy at the bar!" I exclaim. "This never happens!” 

“And he’s been checking you out, hard” she responds.

“Really?” I inquire.

“Yeah, he’s definitely been checking you out,” she tells me with 100% assurance. 

"Well shit. I am going to do something about this," I tell her. 

When opportunity comes a knocking, I definitely don't wanna miss the chance. 

The bar has now calmed down enough for me to get out from behind the bar and get back on tables. I begin wandering around wondering how I can get close enough to see this man. Hmmmm. . .

Part of my job is making sure that the chairs are where they should be. I realize that there is a deluge of chairs over where this man is sitting. This is my in.

I go over and ask him if he is using any of the chairs that have piled up next to him. He smiles at me and says, “Sadly, I am here alone. Feel free to take the chairs as you wish. I am not using them.”

I look at him and this just rolls off my tongue: “There’s nothing sad about it. I go out on my own all the time.” I give him a smile and a shrug and proceed to begin to pick up one of the chairs.

He stops me from picking up the chair and says “ How about some we go out some night and sit together.”

Smooth man. Super smooth. 

 

"I'm so smooth, I'm chilling this glass as I drink this martini"

For a guy that looks barely 21, he clearly knows how to pick up a chick. Sweet. He did the asking; I am in. 

I flush red.  “I’d like that,” I respond.

“Good,” he says.  “When are you not working?”

“Umm, this is sort of a wacky week," I share.  "I think I am around on Tuesday night.  Do you want to get my number so we can coordinate?” 

“Nope,” he replies.  

“Tuesday night at 10pm at George and Martha’s work for you? I’ve never been there before,” he shares, “and I’d like to take you out there if that works for you.”

“Um, sure. That sounds awesome,”  I  reply.

I love that he is assertive. I love that he made the plans. I think he’s super cute. 

I’m beaming.

The bar picks back up again and I am back behind the bar.  Now I notice that he is watching my every move. Not in a creepy way, but in a way that says he's into me. 

I’m now excited for my Tuesday tonight.  He pays his tab and I get to see his name.  It occurred to me that I was so excited to be asked out that I totally forgot to ask him his name.  Well at least now I know who the hell I am going out with.

Tuesday night rolls around. I drive myself to the bar. It's been a long time since I have been here.

As I am pulling in I notice he is walking across the lot.

Phew, here is my opportunity to suggest another place to go.

“Hey there! So you still wanna check this place out?” I shout, hoping he is not set on having drinks here.

“Yeah, I have never been here before,” he responds. 

Dang. I’m stuck.

We proceed inside.  We sit down at the bar and then chat for over two and a half hours over our cider beers.  He is pleasant and fun to talk to. The conversation ebbs and flows. There are some pregnant pauses when he talks about high school and his prom. I realize that there probably aren't a ton of years under his dating belt.  It's sweet, but he's a bit novice it would seem. 

He has a youthful charm and innocence but has nearly a Fifty Shades control on his life and destiny. 

We both love the same sports teams, are very into our fitness and local, organic food. He has a dry sense of humor, and pokes me back when I am playfully abusive.  It was a great chat. I am happy that I decided to come, even though I think he's too young.  

He then tells me he is going into the service and that he is departing in the near future. This is kind of a bummer. I appreciate his service to his country, but I don’t want to get into a relationship with someone who is going away for four to eight months. 

I am exhausted . I am just cooked from my big week and I realize it is time to go home. I think he's a lovely kid, but he’s goin away for a while. A long while. I wanna date someone who is going to be around, not away, who knows where, for who knows how long.  I kinda feel the universe giggling at me. I suggest since the bar is closing that perhaps we should pay our tabs and head out on our way. Good bartender karma, you know.

He agrees and asks me if I will go out with him again. I nod. I am not sure why. This is going nowhere.  Maybe I choose to nod in compliance because this is just easier.  When he texts or calls, I'll just say I am busy, and it will just fade away.  

I ask him if he has had a good night.

He tells me that he has had an amazing night "with a hot cougar". 

I don't even drink coffee or tea. Oh wait. . .

HUH???

I ask him, "How old do you think I am?"

"I don't know," he stammers. "28?"

I press my smile into a thin grimace. I am seething inside. I don't consider myself a cougar. I looked it up online once and the definition was "a woman 40 years of age or older who exclusively pursues very young men."

 I am not 40. And it's not like he's  young enough to be my son. 

I perceive this term "cougar" as a way for men to poke fun at those of us who are just doing what men have done for eons.  There is no negative connotation for a man who dates women significantly younger than he is, why do I get to bear this scarlet "C"?

I'm not having it.  

I don't respond.

I decide I am not going to say anything further. He doesn’t notice this. Perhaps because he is smitten with this older woman.  Perhaps he is mapping out in his head what he is going to tell his friends about going out with a cougar. Either way, this is over. 

I bid him goodnight and get in my car. 

I can't hardly wait to tell my friends this story. I can't hardly believe the exchange that has just happened. 

Kudos kid on your epic fail with your "cougar".