This and That (Which One Am I?)

When’s the last time a guy tried to pick you up by pointing out how UNsexy you are?

If you’re female, the answer is probably “never.” If you’re male, “even less.”

Well, my tally is “once,” and I hope I can stop counting.

I’ll explain, but I’ll try to keep it brief. There are a few other stories I want to share in this post, none of which are interesting enough for an entire essay. Or maybe they are interesting enough, but my attention span isn’t up for a battle with the word counter. After all, I’m moving to New Orleans in a week. Anxiety has reached a new high -- better known as “freaking out.”

So, where was I? I was at a Saturday-night wedding reception in Sewanee, TN, home of the University of the South, alma mater to Hillary, who was visiting for a long weekend. Does this make sense? I’ve been accused of comma-happiness, so let me clarify: Hillary knew the bride and groom from college; I didn’t. But I wanted to spend time with Hillary, and I like wedding receptions. Wedding crashing is en vogue, right? In the spirit of Vince Vaughn, I accompanied HTS to the party.

The first thing I noticed about John was his height. I’m 5’4”, and he reached slightly above eye level. Thumbs up. I’ve recently decided that I like short men (Tom Cruise excepted).

It hasn’t always been thus -- Ex Who Shall Not Be Named was at least 6 feet, and I enjoyed the whole “small me/protective him” thing. But we all know how that turned out. Besides, now that I’ve taken karate, I’m less inclined to flirt with bodyguard types. John seemed, well...manageable. Also, he had nice teeth. Good enough for a quick dance.

Once the DJ moved on, I figured I would, too. Foolish girl! Never underestimate the mojo of a drunken short guy. He didn’t exactly jump on a couch, but John tried every other technique to lure me behind the buffet. He showed me digital pics of his springer spaniel. He boasted about his hunting prowess (I didn’t tell him I’m vegetarian. Bygones.). He rhapsodized about Harry Potter. “What did you think of the latest book?” I asked politely. “I can’t believe ____ died!” Remind me to take my as-yet-unread Harry Potter back to Barnes and Noble.

When ruining the end of HP failed, John kicked the subtlety:

“You’re very cute,” he declared.

If only he had stopped there.

I’m not one of those girls who can’t take a compliment. You want to tell me I’m Angelina Jolie-meets-Athena? Go ahead. Maybe John felt compelled to temper his forwardness, because he immediately added: “Not hot, but cute.” Que, senor? When I think “cute,” I imagine bunnies and kittens and heart-dotted “I”s. Hot is....hot. Paris Hilton. Paris Hilton doesn’t dot her “I”s with hearts; she has her Greek shipping heirs do it for her. That’s hot.

Has the battle for feminine allure come to this? Cute vs. Hot? Betty: cute. Veronica: hot. Janet Wood: cute. Chrissy Snow: hot. Jennifer Aniston: cute. Angelina: hot. And look which one got Brad Pitt.

Since this anecdote is dragging on, I’ll give you a multiple-choice guess as to how I handled John’s one-liner. Did I...

a) throw my vodka-tonic in his face?
b) give a karate shout and knee him in the groin?
c) grab his neck, plant a “home from the War” kiss on him, whisper “Hot enough for you?” and walk away?
d) clutch my chest in mock agony, giggle, and exclaim, “NOT HOT! You’re saying I’m not hot? I’m hurt!” Giggle, giggle.

Hint: which is the “cute” response? Sigh. Jennifer, I’m with you.


What else? On Sunday evening, my cell phone rang an unidentifiable PA number.

“Hello?”
“Yes, hello?” Foreign voice -- not just strange, but foreign. As in: a prankster trying to fake a “Ablaham Rincoln” Chinese accent. “Hello. Your Chinese food is ready for pick-up.”
I waited for the punchline. “Um, I didn’t order any Chinese food.”
“Who is this?”
“This is _____,” I sighed, listing my cell phone number.
“No....who IS this?”
Was this really a Chinese restaurant? Or a serial killer trying to match a name with a random phone number? As I’ve divulged, I’m a bit paranoid about security issues. I decided to play enigmatic: “I’m not in Pennsylvania,” I offered.
Pause.
“G-ddamn kids!”
Click.
Somewhere in Pennsylvania, a Moo Shoo Pork remains uneaten.


Yesterday I drove through a small town containing several gazebos. I was reminded of a conversation about musical theater (of course). A few Theater Geek friends and I decided that all musicals can be grouped into two categories: Gazebo Appropriate and Gazebo Inappropriate. “Sound of Music” is Gazebo Appropriate. “Chicago” is Gazebo Inappropriate. Also Gaz. App.: “Music Man,” “Carousel,” “Oklahoma” (there must be some gazebos out west). Gaz. Inapp.: “South Pacific,” “The King and I,” “Hairspray.” I’d like to propose a new Tony category: Best Musical With a Gazebo.


When Milton Bradley’s wife was pregnant did she crave a game of Monopoly? Lately I’ve been searching for a Monopoly partner, to no avail. Dad is a card player, and Mom prefers board games without a side of blatant capitalism. So much for my tryst with Uncle Moneybags.

What I really want is a Monopoly date. Think about it: why blow $7.50 on a movie when you can earn $200 for passing “Go”?

I believe more dates should center around literal game-playing. You can learn a lot about a guy (or girl) based on a round of Monopoly. To wit:

Does she prefer the race car or the top hat? The race car suggests speed and spontaneity, while the top hat is more traditional.

Does he scoop up Baltic Avenue or save his money for Park Place? Is it steamy car windows on the first date, or are we waiting for a full moon and a Van Morrison CD?

Is “Free Parking” a rest stop or a cash pot? Playing by the rules or skinny dipping in a public pool?

Is “Go Directly to Jail” a catastrophe or happenstance? Does your date have a felony record? I hope not.


And last, I just want to say: satellite radio is a beautiful, beautiful thing. “If I Were a Rich Man” followed by the acoustic version of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”? That’s both cute AND hot.