Event: Super Bowl Party
Every year for as long as I can remember I have spent Super Bowl Sunday in my sweats (or at least pants with some elasticity) at a friend's house eating the equivalent of a meal of a contestant on the Biggest Loser. Grazing, grazing and more grazing. This year I decided, (in the name of the blog!) I would not wear pants with an elastic waste band, I would not graze until the cows come home and I would not find myself at a party with all couples. I will go out, to a public place, where boys might be.
So, I invited my trusty wing-woman (same friend who helped provide the embroidered disaster from week three). She and I set out to what we hoped would be a 'happening' location that would attract singles from around the globe. Side note - since there was nothing else going on this weekend, I decided to go out of town to visit family knowing I'd return in time for the Super Bowl. Unfortunately, I got back into town with exactly 37 minutes to shower, do my hair and make-up, get dressed and let the dog out. Super.
38 and a half minutes later, I was out the door. Outfit - check. Hair - check. Make-up - sort of but I had plenty of stop lights to do touch-ups. Lip gloss - check. When I arrived at the bar, I got out of the car and caught a glimpse of myself in the car window - that's when I realized I got ready so fast I looked like a drag queen! My hair was huge and my make-up was terribly overdone. Oh well. Go.
So we walk into the bar and we were quickly disappointed with what we found. The place was half full, and most of the people there were couples. But, we strategically grabbed a table in the middle of the bar and made ourselves at home. Let the grazing begin. Shortly after ordering some appetizers, we notice a table next to us with 3 guys and 2 gals. Then another guy arrived. Ok, the odds were getting better. My friend and I were both eyeing one guy in particular and we noticed he was eyeing us, too. So we played the 7th grade game of back and forth glancing, smiling, flirting, etc. and I think there is a good chance Mr. Cutiepants will come over. My body language was inviting. We were laughing at all the same commercials. We were rooting for the same team (oh who am I kidding, I was cheering for both teams) but low and behold he never came over. Then at one point I look over and he's drinking a drink that gave me pause. While every other person in the bar was drinking a beer, this guy wanted to be different. He wanted to stand out. Don't be fooled America. Blueberries in a drink are masculine. Blueberries sitting at the bottom of your drink while you poke at them with your straw is manly and will make the girls go wild. Wait a second...Blueberries? In your drink? Oh please. Mr. Cutiepants turned into Mr. Fruitypants and that's when I realized I have a high bar. I cannot and will not date a man who, at a Super Bowl party, orders a drink with blueberries. Yes, I'm picky. Next.
With three minutes left in the game, I once again have grazed my life away, have successfully unbuttoned my pants (at this point who cares!) and I have given up on Fruit of the Loom. That's when out of the blue walks up Bill. Now Bill surprises both me and my friend. First, he's Irish. Now let me state for the record: For me, a guy with an accent = let's go to Vegas and get hitched. Unfortunately for Bill, he looked like he was 16 and in between his drunken slurs he was cussing Americans and making fun of our accent. Oh really. At one point Bill tries to invite his friend (a girl) over to join us (I wanted to poke my eyes out) and as he walks over to get her suddenly they both dart out of the bar! Right behind them was security and as it turns out, Bill and his friend were trying to dine and dash! Only Bill left his coat on his chair. Whoops! Stupid Irishman.
So, in the end, my friend and I did get hit on, but only in an attempt to be a decoy for a dine and dash that failed miserably.
In summary, if my life was to be compared to a book, it would be a perfect blend of 'Bridget Jones Diary' and 'He's Just Not That Into You'. Seriously. I'll forever be the single girl in spanx thinking the cute guy is smiling at me only to realize he's smiling at the 6' tall blonde behind me. Oh well. Pass the chicken wings.