MR. POPULAR: You watching the game out?
CARRIE: What game?
MR. POPULAR: Pats.
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.
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…?
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.”
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…
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.
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 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 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.”
So, on that note, I’ve had enough.
I’m going to bed.