I Was Just Called a Unicorn, What Does That Mean?

MR. POPULAR:  You watching the game out?

CARRIE:  What game?


CARRIE:  What time?

MR. POPULAR:   1:00pm is kick.

CARRIE:  “I did not plan on it, but I might join you.”

I knew I needed to get out, and the idea of going somewhere, besides my brother’s pub, sounded good to me.

Mr. Popular was set on going to “The Scaryfield.” (That’s town lingo for the country-club/bar/lounge/restaurant that turns “scary” when the steroid freaks show up on the weekends, turning it into a meat market.)  The Scaryfield wasn’t my first pick, but I figured nothing ventured, nothing gained.

It turned out it wasn’t so scary during the day.  I was blown away by all the beautiful outdoor Christmas decorations.  There was real evergreen garland strung everywhere, and the flower boxes were filled to the brim with greenery.  I was so in awe with the decorations that I almost got myself knocked out, by the front door, when it suddenly swung open.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the man said as he realized that he almost clocked me with the door.

“No worries, I wasn’t paying attention,” I said smiling and walked through the door he was held it open for me.

That will teach me a lesson.  Look where I’m walking.

Being highly sensitive to my surroundings, I notice everything, and because of this very fact, I wanted to take in as much as possible, all that was pleasing to my eyes.  It was like a quick fix of beauty before entering into a room that would look like a sea of football jerseys.

Mr. Popular had arrived early and saved me a seat at the u-shaped bar.  Under my breath, I cursed at the fact that he had picked a seat all the way at the end of the “u,” which meant I had walk through the gauntlet of men and their football jerseys, who surrounded the bar.  I’ve walked down a few catwalks in my lifetime, so walking through this crowd shouldn’t be a problem.  Just keep my head held high, shoulders back and to gently swing my arms and sway my hips…easy-peasy…just had to remind myself not to get overwhelmed at everyone staring at me.

Why would this even matter to me?  You see, what the local men here don’t understand (and I can say this because I’ve lived all over the US), is that they make it very obvious that they are checking you out as you walk past them.  It can be unnerving, but I think it’s their way of trying to make eye contact with you.  In New York City, it’s rare that you ever make eye-contact with anyone, because they know it’s rude.

But, not here!

I’m sure you’re wondering, who is Mr. Popular?!

Mr. Popular and I met a couple of months ago, and have been out together a few times, as friends.  We met because, well, he’s “Mr. Popular” for a reason.  He’s usually out and about somewhere in town, and has owned a few businesses in his time.  It was really only a matter of time before we met, as we have a lot of acquaintances in common, and naturally, he also knows Nathan.   He’s smart, fun, and so far, he’s been a gentleman — so he gets to hang out with me.

The afternoon was going well at the bar, until Mr. Popular’s friend and girlfriend showed up and she started blurting out completely inappropriate comments.  Anyone who knows me will tell you that I try really hard not to be judgmental.  We were sitting at a bar.  We were all drinking.  It was Sunday Sunday. But this chick was making a spectacle of herself.  Every comment she made was loud and boisterous.  She could be entertaining at times but, nonetheless, annoying.

After my first pint of beer, I excused myself to get a break from the girlfriend.  When I walked into the ladies room, I apparently interrupted someone taking a selfie in the full-length mirror.  I laughed to myself, because she looked a little ridiculous standing in middle of the bathroom, with her coat on, and her fur-trimmed hood over her head.  I knew what she was doing.  She had found a full-length mirror and thought she looked a sexy little Eskimo in her fur hood, and wanted to capture the moment.  But who goes to the bathroom wearing their coat?  Oh, let me not forget to mention that she also had her fake L.V. bag slung over her shoulder.  Believe me, it was fake.  Not too many people around this town can afford a $1,260 bag and, even if they could afford it, they certainly wouldn’t be taking a selfie in the dang bathroom.

People who have that kind of money don’t do selfies in the bathroom.

As soon as she left, I had a good look around the room.  I couldn’t believe my eyes. The Scaryfield had finally got rid of their horrible mauve and forest-green bathroom decor, and changed it up to something much more appropriate for a country club.  I took out my phone and snapped a picture, and tried my best to get the richness of the gold and purple colors that my was so pleasing to my eyes.  I knew right then that I would definitely be coming back in the future, and I might have to possibly reconsider their nickname.

Who knew the redeeming qualities of beautiful wallpaper?  I was completely enthralled.Bathroom wallpaper purple

When I came back to my seat, I asked Mr. Popular if the  men’s room had wallpaper like the women’s room.  He said he didn’t notice.  How could he not notice?  As I showed him my picture I had taken, I explained that my camera really didn’t do the beautiful, purple and gold wallpaper justice, and maybe I needed to send him back to the men’s room on a recon mission…?

“Hey, Unicorn!”

I looked at Mr. Popular and asked, “Why is she calling me Unicorn?”

“I don’t know, but we were talking about you while you were gone.”

I figured that would happen, but really?  She knew my name, so why was she calling me Unicorn?  Mr. Popular assured me it was a compliment, but I wasn’t so easily convinced.  It wasn’t the name she called me, it was more about the tone she was using that, to me, was totally suspect.

“So, are you guys a couple or what?”

Oh, here we go…

“No, we are just friends,” I replied trying not to make a big deal of it.

“Well, obviously, you two are and you just need to get over it.”

I need to get over it?  Oh, that’s right, because I am sharing a pitcher of beer with my friend, watching football, and discussing wallpaper –that makes us a couple? Got it.

Did I ask her for her opinion?  Did this chick have no boundaries?  What about my boundaries?  More importantly, why did she feel so entitled to inject her opinion, when I sure a hell didn’t ask for it?

I leaned over to Mr. Popular and said smiling, “Is it me, or is she really annoying?”

“Don’t worry, she thinks they are in love.  She won’t be around much longer.  My friend has commitment issues.”

“Well, I don’t know how any guy would want to put up with someone like that.  The sex must be great, because her voice, alone, makes my ears bleed.”

After the game, the four of us went downtown to a popular restaurant that is known for their sushi.  We sat all sat at the sushi bar.  Mr. Popular and I order two Stella’s, but his friend and the girlfriend ordered two martinis.

Like they needed more booze…

To me, more booze could only mean more PDA, coupled with more inappropriate comments.

I could hardly wait…

About half way through her martini, the girlfriend proclaimed to her boyfriend that I had “a nice rack.”

I turned to Mr. Popular, “Did she just say I had a nice rack? I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

If the mood wasn’t weird before, it was officially weird now.  The Crass Chick and her boyfriend looked pretty hammered and I could hardly wait to leave.

Mr. Popular just laughed it all off.  He explained to me that he had seen girls like her come and go and again assured me that this chick’s days were numbered.

And again, came the unsolicited comment:  “Next time, don’t wear a turtleneck.”


zcavaricci (2)

This picture not taken the night of this event, but these are indeed the jeans I wore that night.

Sure. I’ll make a note of that, considering I was wearing a very nice, steel-gray French Connection turtleneck, with my Z. Cavaricci jeans.

(Can you believe they still make those jeans?!)

News flash:  Warm clothes are generally what you wear, when it’s only 37 degrees outside, Sweetheart…

zcavaricci jeans

This is why people fascinate me.  Her comments kept reflecting her own insecurities. Why do women do that?  Why did she feel it was okay to be so crass and annoying?  When did this become acceptable?

I had nothing in common with this chick.  She was short, petite and very loud to ensure she had the spotlight at all times.  Her cute boyfriend was very into her, or maybe, he was just as needy as she was.

Our next stop was my brother’s pub.  Thankfully, the PDA couple actually left and I could breathe a little easier not having to deal with her nonsense.

We approach the end of the bar by the server station and Belfast Bartender takes our drink order. When I asked for an ice water, I noticed he looked a little stressed.  Could it be something in the air?  Belfast Bartender was always in a good mood and always happy to see me.  Or, maybe it was the group of young female patrons, who had just sat at the other end of the bar.

By the time I drank my water, I was tired and ready to leave.  Mr. Popular was now mingling with the young group of women at the end of the bar.

I had gotten into a conversation with the 6’5″ guy sitting next to me.   I had seen him before, I thought.  I asked how tall he was. My question led us into a conversation about how the Norwegians invaded Ireland and how it could be why he was so tall. That sounded like a reasonable statement and I found the conversation to be interesting, until he started talking about how he had seen me before, and that he was awestruck from the first moment he saw me.

“Well, thank you.  That’s really nice of you to say.  Do you know Belfast Bartender?”  I said trying to redirect our conversation.  But it didn’t work.  He was giving me the hard sell and pushed for my phone number.  That’s when our conversation came to a screeching halt and that was my queue to leave.

thumb down

I politely declined said point-blank, “No, you cannot have my phone number.”

Mr. Popular was standing in the mix of girls at the bar when I approached him.  I told him it was time for me to leave.  As I was asking him if he would mind walking me back to my car, I notice a bit of a ruckus out of the corner of my eye to my right from one of the in the group, who was obviously vying for attention.

I ignore it, as I just didn’t want to deal with anything more, from anyone.

I walked back to my bar stool, past 6’5″ guy and grabbed by coat as quickly as possible and walked back towards Mr. Popular.  As I make my approach, I can hear the loud girl say, “Clearly, she doesn’t like me…”

In my head, I’m telling myself that her comment has nothing to do with me.  It couldn’t be.  I am just minding my own business, putting my coat on, and getting ready to leave.  Even if it was about me, I was going to stay the course.  My goal was to leave.

No sooner that I get my favorite red scarf tied around my neck, the loud chick approaches me with her hand jutting out…

As she introduces herself, I’m noticing that she has some sort of deer-in-the-headlights look.

I shake her hand.

I say the usual pleasantries.

I smile.

I look her straight in the eyes, because on a gut level, I can tell something was up.  God forbid I give her any indication that I wasn’t being sincere.

When I get to, “It’s nice to meet you,” she just stands there, staring bug-eyed at me.

Was I supposed to say something more?

It was weird, so I added, “I was just leaving…” and smiled again, and walked towards the front door.

It was very cold outside and made some small talk with the Bearded Bouncer *snort* by the front door,  while I waited for Mr. Popular was paying his tab.

“I don’t know what’s happening over there,” indicating in the direction of the group of girls.

“Ya, I don’t either.”

I shook my head and he just smiled at me.

“I feel bad that you have to put up with that kind of nonsense all night.”

Right on queue, the female whose hand I hand I just shook, let out a piercing shrill, loud enough for the whole entire bar could hear her. “Clearly, she doesn’t like me! I did introduce myself to her.  I don’t know what more I could have done!” 


She doesn’t know what more she could have done?  What more did she want?

I smiled.

I shook her hand.

I looked her in the eyes.

I said my name.

I smiled more.

I said it was nice to meet her….

I couldn’t wait to get home!

Oh, and it was so good to get home.  I jumped into my bed, turned on my electric mattress cover to #3 and logged into my laptop.  I felt that it had been such a weird night that I had to share the “unicorn” comment with my Facebook fans to get clarification.

CARRIE:  I was just called a unicorn tonight… What the hell does that mean?

PAMELA:  A unicorn is a beautiful creature that doesn’t exist.

CLAIRE:  on YouTube – look up “Crazy Hot Matrix.”

HEATHER: Magical and elusive?

JASON:  A magical beautiful creature of extreme beauty and purity, perhaps? Crap, I think I just spilled the beans that as a kid I played a lot of dungeons and dragons.

JULIE:   I’d rather be called a unicorn than a cow… Do you *poof* rainbows and pixie dust.

KENNY:  The personification of feminine transformative power…

LEIGH:  Fantastic, unique and horny…

Okay, I guess that settles that.  I’m a dang unicorn.  I get it, and now I can see why.

I wasn’t quite sure how to end this post, but as I sit here typing away, I noticed I had an email in my inbox on Facebook.  Dear Lord…it’s an email from the 6’5″ guy.  I guess he didn’t get that I wasn’t interested in him when I looked him dead in the eye and told him he could not have my phone number.  Believe me, I’m not playing hard-to-get when I say, “No, you can not have my phone number.”


Finding me on Facebook and sending me an email isn’t being creepy at all…[she says pouring on the sarcasm]

Here is his email:

“It was such a pleasure meeting you tonight, Carrie. I hope to see you again soon.”

Breakfast Club

So, on that note, I’ve had enough.

I’m going to bed.

Boundaries, people…boundaries!

Good night,


Moderate Drinker and My Small Town Problems

There’s a lot to be said about living in a big city.  I’ve been fortunate enough to have come from a small New England town and live in some of our best major cities.

Dating in a large city like Los Angeles and New York, has some perks.  For one thing, if I had a bad date, most likely I would never have to see that person ever again.  There would be no uncomfortable moments, like bumping into each other in the grocery store or at the gym.  Basically, there would be no reminders of that person or the bad date.  The memory of the date and the guy would simply go away as easy as deleting their phone number in my cell phone and,  somehow, in a very unhealthy way, that appealed to me.

We all do unhealthy things living in a big city, because it’s easy to get away with it.  I certainly had my fair share of them.  (However, none of them will be discussed here on a free blog.)

I would like to think that at least I was smart enough not to do something dumb like date a co-worker.  Actually, I was very careful not to let my private life get mixed up with my professional life.  That’s the golden rule of dating: Don’t Poop Where You Eat.   

Lord, don’t ever do it.  It is like playing Russian Roulette!  Instead of losing your life, you’ll lose your job.

I’m more of a planner than a gambler, so if ever I did think about doing something that dumb, you know the guy would have to be damn hot.

I’ve heard people say they have me their spouse at work, but believe me when I say, they are the exception to the rule and not the rule.

So, don’t date anyone at work…

…okay, so there was one time I did end up making-out all night with a very young, cutie-patootie intern from work.  In my defense, however, the making out did NOT happen at work.  Although, now that I think of it, there was a lot of flirty-flirty going on months before the rendezvous at the night club in New York City.  (And, if my former boss, Jason, is reading this right now, I’m sorry.  I realize it was the client’s nephew….but you can’t go hiring a cute guy, with great arms, and a contagious smile, and expect me not to notice.)  It was harmless and the only time something like that ever happened…with an intern.

I swear.

(Hey, considering I worked with all men, I thought that was a pretty good track record.)

Crap, okay, so there was this other close call, but nothing happened.  Before the cutie-patootie intern, there was a real cute Latino guy that came into my office for an interview one day.  I got no warning except, “Hey, Care, I have a guy coming in today for an interview.”  Literally, two minutes later, the guy walks in.

I was very single when he walked in.  Naturally, my hormones got the best of me.


Surely, my boss wouldn’t subject me to someone so hunky, would he?  

If he hired him, I would have to exercise the Don’t Poop Where You Eat Rule, every day.

Every. Single. Damn. Day.

That would be exhausting.

My brain was telling me this was definitely conflict of interest.


As a single girl, with nobody taking care of me, except me, I knew I needed my job more than I needed a boyfriend.

I lived and breathed that very fact.

This was about survival.

He got hired and I suffered for a little while.  It sucked.  I was wound up tighter than a drum those first few weeks, but then the more I got to know that Latino Hottie, the more the attraction-factor fizzled.

It only took me a short while to figure out WHY he drove a big, fat Hummer–it was for his big, fat EGO.

A few afternoons of listening to his B.M.D. (baby mamma drama) he soon didn’t even show up as a blip on my radar.


Now that I’m back living back home, which is a small town, I have created a new rule for myself:

Don’t Poop, Where You Drink

Pooping where you drink, is a very, very, very, very easy thing to do.  Especially in this town.

I’ve already made the mistake of bringing a date to my brother’s bar.

Big, mistake.


How could I let that happen?

It happens because guys are lame and clueless on how to plan a date and they leave it up to me.

Speaking of which, I had two dates in one week, with two different guys.  This wouldn’t be a problem living in New York City, but living here, where the selection of places to go on a first date are kind of limited, I happened to end up at the same restaurant, being waiting on by the same waitress.  That was fun, getting that look from the waitress of, weren’t you just here with another dude last night?

Having a brother that owns the most popular pub in town, makes living here worth it.  It’s been one of the many highlights of moving back. I’ve made new friends, I get to help out with the holiday decorations and I get to see Nathan more now than ever.

Nathan is an excellent bartender.  The fact that he remembers not only your name, but your drink as well, makes for good business.

Everyone knows who he is and pretty much everyone knows my name:  “Nate’s Sister.”  Trust me, I’ve had it since high school.  Some things don’t change.

Lately, I’ve been joking with him that if he ever ran for mayor, he probably would win.

Keeping that in mind on how popular Nathan is, try dating in this small town…

…try being anonymous.

…try finding someone, who doesn’t know your brother.

…try finding some privacy.

Don’t get me wrong.  Nathan is a very supportive brother.  When I want a no-nonsense straight-up answer about a guy, I go to Nathan.

Here’s the thing though, I always feel conflicted.  Should I run a new guy’s name by Nathan first or should I just take my chances?

Because who else knows more about a man, than his bartender?  

But then I think, wouldn’t it take the fun out of figuring it on my own?

Did I just say that it was fun to figure it out for myself?

Legend has it, our cousin, and her date, walked into Nathan’s bar one night, a little schnockered.  Nathan had no idea they were dating and probably would have told our cousin it was a bad decision, had she asked him.  But instead, as soon as they walked in and Nathan saw them together, he looked at my cousin, looked at the guy, and then looked back at my cousin and in a very definitive manner said, no.

Stern look

In the words of our cousin:  “I’ll never forge the look of disappointment on your brother’s face when he saw me walk in that night with that guy.”

One thing about Nathan, if he says no, there is usually a very good reason for it.  He has a very good judge of character and fortunately, it didn’t take our cousin very long before she figured out the guy she was dating, was a train wreck.  Handsome, and athletic as hell, but such a hot mess.

In August, I met someone I decided not to run by the brother.

I met my date on a beautiful hot summer night in the middle of the week.  My date suggested a place where I hardly ever frequented.

(In my sweet, humble opinion, I don’t go there because the people are either stuck in the 80’s or steroid gym rats.)

“Moderate Drinker” was easy to nickname.  It was something that we joked about during our initial contact on Match from Hell.  (Yes, I know I vowed never to get back on there, but it was a free 7-day trail.)  I can sometimes be a ball buster, so I had to point out that he was the only person I’ve seen actually admit to being a “moderate drinker.” In fact, most people check the box, “social drinker.”

Not him.  He check the box “moderate drinker.”

The fact that he had the balls to say he was a moderate drinker, made me chuckle.  This made me think that he was somewhat of an honest person, plus I liked the fact that he was 6’3″ and had a great smile.  A little on the heavy side, but I thought, what the heck, there would be more to love.

We met outside of the restaurant/lounge and let’s just say his reaction was great for my ego.  He really made me feel appreciated.  Before he even got 15 feet of me, he exclaimed out loud, “Oh, my God!  I think I just won the dating lottery!  You’re gorgeous!”

(Points for him for showing such enthusiasm.)

Besides being a big guy, Moderate Drinker had a great sense of style.  He came dressed in a nice pair of dark jeans, beautiful shoes, and (from what I could tell) a pretty expensive button-down shirt.  His glasses were trendy and the whole ensemble made him look updated and sharp.


We took a seat at the outside bar overlooking the golf course.  It was a beautiful summer night during the week, so the regular weekend crowd was nowhere in sight.  That made me happy.

“I can’t believe I’ve never seen you out before, Carrie.  Where have you been hiding?”

Politely, I replied, “Oh, ya, well, I never come here.”  I figured I would be gracious and not mention the gym rats, or the fact that the bar had a reputation of being “meat market.”  I’m glad I didn’t, because it happened to be his favorite place to hang out.  (He lived on the 9th hole.)

“Oh, so where do you hang out then?”

I give him my usual spiel:  I grew up here, moved away for many years, moved home three years ago.

Then, like a complete idiot, I got ahead of myself and added, “I normally hang out downtown.”

“Oh, where?  I hardly go downtown, except when me and my buddy go to the cigar lounge.”

I figured I wouldn’t name names and mentioned casually under my breath that my brother owned a pub downtown.

It took a second for it to register in his head, what I just said, but as soon as it did, his mouth dropped and he slapped his head.  “Oh, my God, Carrie,” he said throwing his hands up in the air, “Is your brother Nathan?!”

And that’s how my plan of having an anonymous, new place to go out on a date, got completely scrapped.

Reaching for my cocktail, I maintained my uncomfortable half-smile, while Moderate Drinker got our bartender’s attention.

“Hey, Dennis!  You know Nathan, right?  Well, this is his sister,” he boasted.

Well, silly Moderate Drinker…of course the bartender knew my brother.  They used to work together.

cheers sex and city

While Moderate Drinker was making it known to everyone at the bar that I was Nathan’s sister, the guy sitting diagonal from us, also knew Nathan.  From the gym.

After we got that whole conversation out of the way, things started to look up.  I guess Moderate Drinker didn’t have a problem (or any hidden secrets, or buried bodies to speak of) and felt confident to take out “Nathan’s sister” for a second date.

“Hey, what are you doing Friday night?  I think I can get tickets to the Red Sox/Yankee game.  One of our vendors has a suite.  Would you mind going out on a double-date with me and my buddy I work with?  He is bringing his new girl.  It will be a lot of fun.”


Trust me, he didn’t have to ask me twice.

Especially, after the nice kiss good night…

This doesnt end here