My Classy Self

I’m often incredibly classy.  I would say my mannerisms parallel the Queen.  When I shot gun beers, I always ensure I’m outside to avoid spillage. 

When I eat lobster, I always wear a bib and hold my mallet the proper way, clutched in my right hand of course. 

When I sneak booze into a concert, it’s always the classiest of drinks (red wine), with the bladder from the box duct taped around my stomach, under my clothes.

 When I fancy crab legs, I clearly hit up the classiest Chinese buffet with $10.99 in my pocket.

And when I go on first dates, sometimes I get completely shitfaced... in very classy ways.

I decided to pregame this date in one said classy way, with red wine.  After all, the date was at 8pm, and if it was anything like The Leather Jacket, I needed a classy head start.  And what better way than with wine?

Wine after all comes from very classy places.  I often envision myself in such places when I’m drinking wine – Napa, France, Italy, my college dorm room, under a bridge.  And wine has very classy nomenclature - Montrachet, Chateau Lafite, Royal DeMaria, Franzia, Carlo Rossi. 

Wine is also served in very classy containers – decanters, carafes, stemless glassware, crystal, boxes, jugs, coffee mugs.  So you see, this classy evening with my classy self was entirely dependent on a good old-fashioned classy pregame.

I went out with The Crucifix (reason for the name to follow) on Valentine’s Day.  I didn’t realize when I suggested the day.  In fact, he even brought it up, and I forgot again when I suggested that day… again.  Which is so weird, as I always pay so much attention to such holidays chasing after my classy little heart.  Especially when I’m date planning via text during my classiest of activities – drinking red wine.

We met a bar with a live band… I was a little buzzed when I walked in, and decided the classiest thing I could do was order an IPA – because what else says “let’s keep this party of 1 going” like a 9% alcohol content beer.   At least when I knocked over the second IPA at that bar, the glass was empty – a true testament to my sheer classiness – never a wounded soldier.

I don’t know if it was the sheer alcohol consumption, but I was slightly digging The Crucifix that night.  We surprisingly had a lot in common:

1.     We were both raised Catholic

2.     I suspected he had also pregamed this date – CLASSY!

3.     He chose the most classiest of clothing choices: A jewel-toned argyle sweater.  That can only be beat by a knee length leather jacket, and been there/done that.

4.     And we had both been arrested in college.  Now you might say, “Whoa, Vamosa – Arrested? Déclassé!”  But, au contraire, mon amie.  While my 18-yr old self was being bear tackled in the bushes outside my dorm and handcuffed, I could only think one thing: My extreme classiness chose specifically to risk my personal freedom by walking home following a night of keg stands and not driving, where I would endanger other people.  What’s classier than that kind of philanthropy and sacrifice? Rien, I say.  Rien.

We went to a handful of other bars, and at this point in a night of extreme drinking, the classiest thing one can do is switch to vodka, of course.  Before I knew it, my classy self was sucking his face off in that bar.  Just two little Catholics, exchanging spit.  Now that’s classy.

Around midnight, after about 6 vodka sodas (again, claaasssy), I realized I was just a little too shitfaced to stay awake much longer, and god damn it, I wanted pizza.  I stumbled to the corner, and The Crucifix and I said goodbye with plans for another date, and he hailed me a cab.  I fell into it, and like any classy lady would do, began to regale the cab driver about how delicious pizza is, and how I was going to eat pizza all night.  He seemed enchanted, but again, who wouldn’t be?  Classy girls know how to captivate an audience.  

I woke up the next morning with my head at the foot of my bed, my shoes still on, and a frozen pizza out of the box and laying on the floor.  Another testament to my classiness.  Now I know myself, and I didn’t make that pizza because I couldn’t be sure I’d remember to turn the oven off.  My apartment building should thank me.

I went out with The Crucifix a few more times, and it just fizzled.  I’ll admit, I was genuinely weirded out when I saw the Crucifix he had hanging up in his room.  I mean, I’m not that Catholic.  But the real kicker was The Crucifix was looking for a mate to take to church, and I am simply afraid I’ll burst into flames stepping back into St. Whatever some day.  Now that would be déclassé.  This realization hit the last time we saw each other, on Fat Tuesday, and he was a little too excited for Ash Wednesday mass and Lent.  It was time to say goodbye to The Crucifix. 

And after all, I had given up my own Catholicism for Lent, and I really didn’t want to break that commitment.  If Jesus can spend 40 days and 40 nights in a desert without food OR water, the least I could do to mimic this great sacrifice is keep my commitment to eating meat on Fridays and avoiding church.  It’s not very classy to break your commitments.  But that’s just what makes me so utterly… classy. 

The Leather Jacket

Tuesday I went out with... The Leather Jacket.  That is how he will be referred to throughout this blog, and it really was the most interesting and identifiable feature to him.  Now to be fair, I went into this date knowing he had a leather jacket (thank you profile pictures), and not just any leather jacket, but a terrible leather jacket - one that is somehow integral to the structural integrity of of his person.  It was knee length, and complemented his acid washed denim jeans and Converse tennis shoes quite nicely.  I spent the night wondering when the rest of the cast of Saved by the Bell would walk in. 

We met at a wine bar close to my place.  I checked it out online with one of my besties, to be referred to in this blog as Layer Cake (her favorite red wine), over Yahoo IM a few days in advance.  "It's like... a wine bar for old people," she wrote.  "Maybe you can play bridge in the clubhouse after your second flight."  


He told me to wear red - I couldn't help but roll my eyes at that text, and barely refrained from responding, "Fuck off, I'll wear what I want."  I mean really?  Wear red?  How big of a cliche is this guy?    What are we without phones that can send a text and identify a person?  Are we meeting in a large crowd, where I would be otherwise unidentifiable unless I was wearing a specific generically colored top?  And really, red?  What kind of stupid communist adventure does he think he's going on?  I told him I'd be in purple, and would meet him outside.  I figured I'd be safe unless a large number of blond girls would be waiting outside this retirement home for wine drinkers at 7pm, looking for their own Leather Jacket - none of whom would be wearing red (that's our color, after all).  Thank god I checked my knee-length leather jacket and faded denim at home.

I walked into the bar - well, stumbled really.  The lights were dimmed so low I thought I was going to get kidnapped.  There were leather couches and those terrible parlor chairs with big brass buttons around the edges.  It was almost like we were recreating a scene from Clue - the night was bludgeoned, in the old person bar, with the leather jacket.  The heat was turned on so high, it was like going on a date in a cigar humidor.  I could only imagine how Leather Jacket felt, particularly since I knew that jacket - and his affliction toward it - was staying on his person the entire night.  I mean, how do you strip off something that cool, even when you are trapped in a torridly tropical... wine bar hospice?  He led me to a couch in the corner in the back, as the bartender met us.  I had resolved to order whatever he ordered - partially because I couldn't quite see the menu in the heart of such illumination, but mostly I had resolved to give it an hour and jet. 


I quickly noticed that he shaved his chest, as his button-up shirt opened when he sat and he was sans undershirt.  It seemed odd his shirt strained to remain closed against his body, since he described himself "athletic."  Muscle definition must be impervious to a solid leather jacket.  


He ordered a flight of Malbec, and I followed in suit.  I figured I had 3 tiny glasses of wine to choke down before I could leave, and decided to make the best of it.  He started sweating, which honestly surprised me it took that long.  I wanted to start stripping the minute I walked in the place, and I was not in a fantastic jacket direct from the closet of Morpheus. 

We talked a little about what we did for a living, what brought both of us to San Francisco and when - and honestly, it was nice enough conversation that wasn't awkward that would have led to an amicable night.  But then he had to "play a game."  Sigh.  Why, Leather Jacket - why?  When he proposed that question to me, "Do you want to play a game?", I had to bite my tongue from yelling to the bar, "Shot, please." 


He proceeded to to tell me one of his friends told him of this great game to play, and then proposed a scenario: 


Leather Jacket: "You are walking and you find a box - describe the box."
Me: "Okay, it's a cube I guess - see through, with the edges kind of glowing."
(Although, I wanted to say: "it's an impossibly hot coffin in a terrible wine bar, adorned with a faboosh leather jacket.")


Leather Jacket: "Okay, that's interesting." (Um, not really). 
"Now you see a ladder, describe the ladder."
(Oh jesus). 


Me: "Okay, it's bunk bed ladder, kind of short."
Leather Jacket: "Is it leading up to something?"
Me: "Yes.  A bunk bed." (Oh god, please don't think I want to sleep with you because I said "bed.")


Leather Jacket: "Now you see a horse, what's the horse like?"
(A stallion like you, Big Leather.)
Me: "It's a unicorn."  (why not.)


He then proceeded to tell me what my answers indicated about my personality.  Great.  I was living a game of MASH - only I got the apartment, not the Mansion.  Honestly, I wasn't really listening, I was just glad I didn't have to describe a meadow or something.  Then he asked if I agreed with the analysis - "Sure, why not?" I said.  He seemed pleased this game was such a date hit, telling me that his good friend told him about it, and played it on him and he was just... blown away. 

All I could think was, "who is this terrible friend of yours, telling you that women like this?"  In my 25 years on this planet, I never knew my being could be described by a glowing box, a bunk bed ladder and.. a unicorn.  How did I ever come this far without this knowledge??  Where was Big Leather when I was choosing my major, my location, my career??


At this point, the waitress came back to check on another round, and he asked for water.  I guess it would have been inappropriate to order an IV of Pinot.. plus it gave me wiggle room to start my descent from the hellfire room of mediocre wine and terrible games that should never be played past the 6th grade.  I glanced at my watch (hey, I gave it an hour), yawned and told him I had to wake up for an early 6am call the next day.  Then probably embellished the lie a little too far when I described why I scheduled a call for 6am.. It's just one of those things that are universally said on dates when one person clearly wants to leave.  Almost like the, "it's not you, it's me" break up line.  You know you want to bang someone else, but it's just easier (and arguably nicer) to let the other person down, where they can think, "Maybe it really isn't me," or "Maybe it really is all her issues," or "Maybe she really does have a 6am meeting."


He walked me a couple blocks to where our paths diverged, and as he said goodbye, he. went. for. it.  Puckered lips and all, chasing after my glowing unicorn.  He went in for a smoochie boochie, and I pulled a Heisman.  Maybe we were on a communist date, I did have to exercise the duck and cover.  I basically shouted goodbye over my shoulder as I made my way up the hill to my place, practically running in booties and jeggings.  I made it half a block before I called Sangiovese (another bestie, with a penchant for Italy and wine) to lament the details of the hour from hell.  Popped into a corner store, picked up a bottle of Pinot (Noir of course - white wines are so... summer) and a box of mac n cheese, and settled into my bed to laugh it off and schedule the next one.