Pub

Somehow I had a momentary reprieve of my self-diagnosed dating exhaustion and had me a date on Friday night (blind...to be clear, I’m not talking about the legally kind of blind with the cane). I probably agreed because it was the last weekday vacation day I was going to have until thanksgiving and I thought I should have a drink (or 2 bottles of sake and a pint of Guinness) to toast to the past week of freedom; it was either that or sun stroke, or perhaps a healthy combo of the two. Anyway, I agreed to meet up with this guy I’ve heard about for a month or so. He hit me with a one-two (three, four, ten) punch: a 35-year old, New England raised paratrooper turned special agent, with a house, a boat, gorgeous (gorgeous!) Blue eyes, biceps that were each as big as my head and a great cologne (or maybe it was just axe deodorant). Ding ding, welcome back to dating, jules! We were going to meet up at a swank lounge in Pasadena, but given that I hate being around people (and so does he--score!) And the lounge was packed, so we decided to walk 17 miles (or three blocks...it's all the same in 4.5" heels) to a very sweetly lit sushi place. Nevermind that I’m vegan, I ordered a cucumber salad the size of my palm (the sequel to the vegan cupcake I had for lunch 5 hours prior) and we ordered two large bottles of sake to wash that down. Yeehaw! MacGyver really knew how to go all out. I was totally stoked that he was a special agent; as he talked (and talked) about his many adventures, I imagined myself as the second "hart" in "hart to hart," complete with the luscious curled locks, and red dress that disguised the gun that would be wrapped around my thigh, who is mostly always smarter than her husband-special agent counterpart. Anyway, he was a nice enough guy, he never brought up the smell of his morning urine (as my last date did), and aside from the fact that he walked a little too fast for a chick in kick ass heels, things were going swimmingly. He was a huge leap up from what I could tell from where I was sitting. However, wait for it...

Bearing in mind my food caloric intake for the day as compared to my alcohol consumption, I kind of knew that it probably wouldn't be the smartest idea to stand up let alone walk 17.5 miles back to my car or drive to another locale. But I did both. Because I’m Irish, Mexican, and Aries, and my uncle didn't encourage me to be a wallflower wuss. But we hung out for a bit, and talked as his ridiculously ridiculous muscles and I had a staring contest and the alcohol was soaked up by the cucumber and lust. Looking back, I’m thinking that I turned from a classy lady love-interest to a member of the good will hunting posse probably around the time we started talking about pubs we like--I mentioned O’Brien’s, he mentioned Lucky Baldwin’s, which prompted me to say, "oh yeah, I’ve always wondered if that was a cool place," but in a completely innocent way, which led to his enthusiastic, "wanna go?!" I couldn't stop the "absolutely..." from coming out for the life of me, and his sweet little blue eyes lit up so fast I couldn't say "...not." the last thing a responsible lightweight like me would ever want to do is walk more or drink more after 2 hours, and when my futile attempts to get him to say he'd drive me there with his yummy smelling muscles were squashed and it was decided we'd take both cars, I knew I had made a bad call when I had let him start eating his sushi before I was served my two cucumber slices at the beginning of dinner. That might have been the moment I went from his ho to his bro.

And so commenced the 100-meter dash (the guy chases bad guys and hops fences for a living, of course he walks fast) back to our cars. I felt like invoking the "no man left behind" motto of the armed forces, but it seems as though these shoes were made for sprinting, and that's just what they did. We got in our cars, and left to meet the friendly folk (including a Mexican "chef" who worked at a Greek restaurant and wore a German soccer jersey) at lucky Baldwin’s. Here's a very quick synopsis of that 2 hours of sheer, unadulterated delight:

We met a few regulars who insisted we munch on the pickle Pringles they had brought with them to the bar (Magnum P.I. Loved these); the aforementioned mexican man kept telling my guy that he was super lucky to be with me and then turned the tables and became my date's "date" when he bought my dude 3 of his 4 beers; i got hit on twice in the two minutes my date was using the loo; actual time of "date death" was about 10:45pm, but i finally called it at 12:00am; i somehow made the "incredible hulk" cry (just my natural effect on men, i s'ppose?) Right before I walked him to his car, only to find that he had gotten a parking ticket, we hugged each other goodbye, and I walked to my car, alone, at 12:05am through a semi-empty garage that smelled of pee and old armpit.

However, all was not lost when I eventually got to climb into bed with an amazing, sweet, and adorable boy--I guess I just need to fully realize and embrace that Wondermutt is the last love of my life and quit all the rest of the bullshit. Ugh, now I know how Jennifer Aniston feels.