So Many Dates, So Little Dinner

In terms of man activity, this week has been quite interesting. In terms of cooking, my bottle-opener has seen much more action than my frying pan. I've been too busy juggling potential boyfriends to get creative in the kitchen, so this week saw a lot of boring salads and the Kumo Sushi delivery guy.

The man-week started off with a lovely date with Hoboken (let's call him Josh) on Tuesday night. The wine bar he picked was perfect and romantic, though slightly crowded. Also, the temperature inside and outside the bar was hovering around a cool 80 degrees, so I had to excuse myself to the bathroom twice to get my sweat situation under control. Once that was taken care of, however, Josh and I had a wonderful time comparing accents (read: me making fun of his Jersey-twinged word endings) and slugging down wine at an equally aggressive pace. After we finished bottle number one, it was on to carafe number two. Whether attributable to the wine or not, we were in love by the time we said goodnight close to midnight. I've got a second (dinner) date planned with Josh for Tuesday, so we'll see if he's as charming sans liquid aphrodisiac. Fortunately, he's out of town for the holiday weekend, so I've been able to restrain myself from sending freakish, trying-to-sound-laid-back texts. ("What's up yo? You out tonight? Where you at?")

Date number two did not fare so well. Brooklyn (he'll be Mitch, as there are bound to be more dates from Brooklyn, no?) arrived 30 minutes late. However, this was just enough time for me to finish dirty martini #1 and make friends with the gay couple sitting next to me. We created a code word (baseball) in case Mitch turned out to be a loser. As soon as Mitch walks in, sets his stuff down and makes for the bar, my new friends and I exchange looks. BASEBALL BASEBALL BASEBALL! GRAND SLAM WORLD SERIES GET OUT OF THERE! Mitch sits back down and I carefully explain that my roommate had to undergo a serious medical procedure earlier that day. I feel terrible, but I really can only stay for one drink, as I must go home and tend to my ailing roommate. Poor Mitch, it isn't your fault. It isn't your fault that you leaned in too close to me, or that your shoulders are a quarter the size of mine. It isn't your fault that all your look is missing is a bow tie and you'd be a red-headed Pee Wee Herman. It isn't your fault. Or is it?

In other news, the nice gay couple and I have plans to go out for drinks together next week.