...the IMOL saga continues

Last Saturday night I was out with my pals for a little holiday cheer when we decided to hit up our favorite local dive bar. It comes complete with pool tables, a shuffleboard table, an excellent juke box, TV screens, beer flags, banners and neon, insanely dirty tap lines, surly female bartenders and patrons ranging from the likes of my yuppified group to the regulars my dad lovingly refers to as Furniture. He'll often say, "Oh you're going to that Furniture Bar?" Yup, I am headed to the upholstered sewer.

Me and the gals finished up a sushi dinner which included much alcohol to wash down the raw fish and met the rest at the bar. Rounds of bottled beers, some tragically bad games of pool, and much DJ-ing the jukebox had us all silly and drunk. We then spied a group of guys coming in including a very tall, athletic, red-haired Irish guy who we decided I had to meet on height alone. Chit chatted with him and then one of the guys in our group came to say hi to him as they knew each other from the gym. Perfect, I thought, he's already been vetted by my friend's husband. Card trading ensued and he hands me a card with a cheesy photo of a sailboat that had his name, number and title on it: International Man of Leisure. We laughed our ASSES off. I gave him mine capitalizing on the flirty vibes and he said he'd give me a call. Cool, score one for the tall chick.

The next day I was transferring the contents of my go-out purse (basics include: money, ID, lipstick, key) back to my daytime schlepper while my dad sat drinking his coffee and doing his crossword. I pulled out the IMOL card and had a chuckle, then showed my dad. His response was non-plussed, "Watch out for THAT guy." To which I countered, "Daaa-ad. Well he's a big, tall Irish smart ass." My Irish smart ass father goes, "Figures."

Then, he emailed me. =) Chicks loooove this part. We loooove getting the call, the email, the validation of the nighttime flirt, the possibility of a date that you didn't meet while trolling through pages of PROFILES. A real, live, human man is emailing me! We traded a few back and forth including The One where he asked me on A Date. We were just getting into the scheduling issues, but were corresponding at a now predictable pace. [I know, never use the word "predictable." It make an ass (out of) u (and) me.] Monday afternoon rolls around and NO EMAILS. Nothing. Crickets. Radio silence. The re-reading of my emails begins, the forwarding to the girls for analysis like some dating post-mortem. Find the clues, see where she murdered the hint of a happy date with the Irish guy. Ugh, I was so annoyed, but felt irritatingly comfortable having been in this very limbo countless times. Another day went by, and I knew I was going to make it when I started to plan outfits for my upcoming trip to NYC.

Wednesday morning as I climbed the stairs to the start my day, first with a much needed cup of tea, my dad called my NAME from the Den of Iniquity. A scary, dad-style baritone, "Madeline?" Oh fuck, here it comes, he is kicking my broke ass out on the street. Here's how it went:

"Yeah...?"

"Uh, the International Man of Leisure...? Wasn't his name spelled with two Ns?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Well, it looks like he was arrested last night with three other guys for growing pot in a warehouse down by the water."

"WHAT, SHUT UP?!! WHAT?! Let me see that paper!" I grabbed my computer and sat down next to him and his and read the article aloud through fits of laughter.

Yup, ARRESTED for growing over 1300 pot plants in a warehouse in a business district with irrigation, and grow lights, and ventilation and HOLY OH MY GOD, ARRESTED!!! Now I know why he did not email me back. Gotta say, of the three reasons we ladies list for the only adequate excuses for lack of communication when in the middle of flirting/planning/dating/marriage etc., getting arrested is ON THE LIST.

I then reminded my dad that I was supposed to go on a date with the IMOL and he, pardon the expression, fell off the face of the Earth, and now we know why. Dad goes, "So he's not a flaky, insensitive guy, just a drug dealer." We fell into a pile of giggles and there was no place I'd rather have been than with him at that moment.

Not a Grinch

I have decided not to get a Christmas tree this year, not because I am willfully rebelling, but because it feels liberated. Or maybe I am feeling a bit like a bachlorette and would rather lie around and watch football and Christmas specials with a hangover in my PJ's without having to remember to put water in the tree. I still put the jingle bells on the dogs for their walks and THAT is festive.

It's okay, I am feeling good about it. Maybe my dad is rubbing off on me...