How did I end up cleaning my house Sunday morning in my bathrobe and killer heels?
Well, you have to start from the beginning.
New Haven: Restaurant Week. We can’t let the week pass without making at least one pilgrimage to a delightfully over-priced and decadent restaurant. Scene: Friday Night, The Cask Republic. Table for 7.
My beautiful Greek friend put the outing together. She embodies the plight of the modern woman, displaying both the determination of a career chic and a domestic diva. Being Greek, she has a knack for both making Baklava and matchmaking.
This weekend was the first time I ever saw her work the old world matchmaker talents. I was impressed.
Dinner Friday felt a little bit like a middle school dance – boys on one side, girls on the other. There was one boy that sat on the girls’ side and one girl that sat on the boys’ side. I, however, didn’t mind sitting across from eligible bachelors 1, 2, and 3 – it’s easier to discretely stare at them when you are not sitting right next to them! Plus, I was impressed at the sheer multitude – 3 eligible and employed men at my table? Go Matchmaker!
Unfortunately, the bachelors were a bust. Two of them seemed nice (initially) but as soon as the insanely good looking frat boy showed up and established his superiority over the rest of us, not even my second glass of Cabernet could redeem them. I thought about going for a third, but really, if you need three glasses of wine to stomach a conversation, maybe it’s just time to start Tweeting from your phone and wait for the bill. I did ask if one if he could lick his elbow. He made a valient effort and we enjoyed 5 additional minutes of intellectual discussion regarding elbow licking.
Not to be a Negative Nancy about the night, the Hot Frat Boy had his charm – as does a snake. He did some things very right – he gave me a bite of his mac n’ cheese when I expressed interest in it, but explained that even though mac n’ cheese at gourmet restaurants is one of my favorite things, I always feel like a 12-year-old when I order it. He also had (brief) moments of extreme attentiveness. And he laughed at the appropriate dry jokes. I bet he gets into politics.
Afterwards, my Greek Matchmaker told me not to lose faith, she had a guy specifically in mind for me – he’s tall, has an engineering degree but doesn’t believe in money or working for “the man” and dresses like a hobo. I told her I was definitely interested.
It would only make sense to follow up Friday night with Saturday night.
All day Saturday I felt like I was winning, Charlie Sheen style. After a 2-hour hike around the supply ponds with the beagle and friends, I took off for Hot Yoga. 90 minutes later I was in a total state of dehydrated Zen, driving home. It was time for showering, accessorizing and dining. In that order. I dressed to the 9’s and met up with the Matchmaker for some Turkish cuisine. The food at Istanbul Cafe was awesome, as was the performance by the belly dancer. Before we left, we swapped numbers with her and signed up for lessons. I might be skipping Bible Study on Tuesday nights to take belly dancing classes, but there is something so wildly sexy about it, I just have to learn!
After stuffing ourselves with lamb and other Turkish Delights, we used my very scientific and finely tuned method of inner-city echo-location to find Lindsay. She was driving down Chapel Street in her car, and we were walking up High Street, down an Alley, over to the street after High Street on which we had parked….we thought…maybe. SOMEHOW, Lindsay found us! How did people do this stuff without cell phones? We followed her to The Elm Bar (Formerly Rudy’s) because her husband Matt was going to be photographing one of the bands playing there.
As soon as I walked into the Punk/Hipster Dive Bar, I knew I should have dressed a little more PBR and a little less Appletini.
This is what we saw (pictures curtesy of BSC Photo)
I stuck out like a sore thumb in my party dress, opaque blue tights and yellow wedge shoes. Hipsters wear flats. Damn.
To add insult to injury, I had intentionally left my dark-framed glasses in the car. My only hope at quasi-blending in. Eh, I got over it pretty quickly. The girls gave me a mini-pep-talk about owning my outfit and individuality and handed me a gin and tonic in a beer stein and suddenly Hipster kids didn’t seem so intimidating.
I loved the scene: mutton chops, tattoos, piercings and a mosh pit. We even had a beer thrown all over us in the first 10 minutes we were there. Classic.
We somehow made it to the back room where the guys in corduroy pants and different colored hoodies were watching the pool table. Enter tall, dark, handsome artist, stage left.
He barged into several of our pictures, conversed with ease, stole a kiss, and got my number. And that’s all I’m going to say about that….for now.
I think I played it cool while I was out. Unfortunately, I am still a girl and we must find some outlets for our crazy. So I cleaned this morning in my bathrobe and high heels. Obviously.