The Article and the Boat Guy

It’s really weird to have your face on the front page of the paper, even if it’s a free alternative-daily newspaper. I didn’t think anyone really read the Portland Daily Sun, I just thought people picked it up for the crosswords. Not the case, and here’s a story about the repercussions of having your fifteen minutes of local fame.

The night of the run in with the promiscuous 85 year old, this cute guy came by the bowling alley. This is nothing out of the ordinary, tons of cute guys come by all the time. But then I recognized him as a friend of a friend, and had a tiny freak out because I had a crush on this man, even though we’d never actually met. What was he doing in Portland, at my bowling alley? Before I had a chance to go over and introduce myself, busy caught up with my senior citizen suitor, he was gone. So, I did what I do best- I wrote him an email. He came up right away on the Google search, and right there on his website, I found his email. Although Googling someone usually yeilds results, it never ceases to amaze me. This was like the scene in High Fidelity where Rob is going through his what-does-it-all-mean phase and finds Charlie in the phone book. “She’s in the fucking phone book.” There is the whole stalker factor one has to be considerate of when confessing to someone that you found them on the internet, so I carefully wrote him a pleasant, complimentary email, trying as hard as possible to not sound like a total creep show, and offered to buy him a beer.

Much to my surprise, he wrote back within 24 hours with his phone number. We sort of text a little bit about a potential time and place to meet, but I soon realize we were going to have to have a conversation to figure this out due to my complicated transportation issues and scheduling conflicts. Unbelievably nervous, I call him. It goes to voicemail. He calls back almost right away. I try to smile the whole time, which is the only thing I learned during my one week of telemarketing, other than that telemarketing is the worst job on the planet. I recommended Flatbread to a friend for a lunch date, once. Since he’s now in a serious relationship with that girl, I figured my intuitions were correct that it’s a good lunch date spot. Although, anyone who was at the Scratchpad Series knows how I feel about lunch dates. For lack of a better nickname, we’ll call this man the Boat Guy (but not the man in the boat,) because he has a boat.  I call him the night before our scheduled meet-up to confirm plans, and we talk on the phone for over an hour. I love talking, and I love talking on the phone. This is already a really good sign.

***

My day consisted of meeting Matt from the Portland Daily Sun at the Hilltop for a quick picture for the paper, then a lunch shift at the bowling alley and then my date with Boat Guy. My hair was a mess and I had no make-up, but there was no turning back now. What does one WEAR on a day with so many different kinds of activities?! A severe thundershower narrowly misses me as I duck into the restaurant. (So much for the eating outdoors idea.) I’m right exactly on time. He’s already sitting at the bar, and from the amount of beer in his bottle, I can tell he’s been there for more than five minutes. This is actually a stunt I usually pull- showing up extra early for a date. That way you just sit, cool and collected, letting them come to you. There’s always the possibility that they’ll walk in, see you, turn around and walk out, but luckily that hasn’t happened to me, and it definitely didn’t happen to Boat Guy. We make eye contact right away and he waves me over. I breath a sigh of relief and sit down.

It seems to be going well. He’s asking me a lot of questions, which keeps the conversation moving. We talk about travelling and Portland and food. I make him tell me everything he’s done since college, which is a lot, and he confesses that he’s recently ended a serious relationship. Noted. At some point in the process of getting to know someone, they’re going to want to know what you “do.” What I mean by this isn’t your job, but what drives you. What your passions are, what you would spend all of your free time doing if money wasn’t an issue. For me, lately, the answer has been writing. Looking back, I’ve been writing for years, I even had a LiveJournal way back when, but never seemed to realize it was like, my thing. I went to art school, so new people usually tend to focus on that- “Oh, Amanda, well, what kind of art did you do? Are you still making art?” I hate that question, and so does everyone who’s ever “done art.” I’m halfway through my second pint, and apparently feeling some sort of liquid courage, because I start talking about the blog. I mean, you’re here, reading it. My Google Analytics tracker tells me that my readership has been steadily growing, which wouldn’t happen if it sucked. And I tell him that the next day I was going to get my first big press- the Portland Daily Sun. It seemed like all of the silly stories I’ve been putting down were actually kind of going somewhere. My writer friend Sean even said that he was thinking there might be a book in there somewhere.  A book! Holy shit! This is completely self-motivated, I’m in complete control of the whole thing, I’m working on it a lot, and I’m happy.

This does not go over well. Boat Guy says things like, “I can’t believe I ended up here with a blogger. This is the last thing I need in my life right now.” Suddenly, Boat Guy was no longer smiling and his body language has completely changed. I back pedal. “Listen, Boat Guy, I don’t write to offend or hurt feelings. My relationships are more important to me than the blog. It’s supposed to be funny, that’s all.” (This is all completely true, by the way.)  I try and change the subject, but I’m totally flailing. This date did a 180, and I’m not even sure if it’s still considered a date at this point. No amount of arm touching or eyelash batting was helping.  I had unknowingly struck some sort of nerve. Something was going on in his life that he wasn’t going to tell me, but was making him freak out. He was invited out under the pretence that I was buying him a beer. So, I insisted on paying for lunch. The check came, and I threw down. This probably made things even worse, in some kind of old fashioned emasculation way. We walk outside and I seriously want to get the fuck out of there, it’s awful. I’m fairly certain at this point I’m never going to see Boat Guy again, and don’t know if I even want to. I make a lame excuse and try not to run. I barge into Angela’s office two blocks from Flatbread, flabbergasted, and tell her the whole story.

That night at work, I’m sad. When you’re trying to get over someone, having someone new to take up that space in your brain is always helpful, and I was especially disappointed that Boat Guy was not going to be my new distraction. I’m good at dating and it shouldn’t have gone down like that. But whatever. Whatever was going on with Boat Guy had nothing to do with me. We all have varying degrees of fucked-upness in our lives, he was at some sort of peak. My blog is awesome, and I shouldn’t have to make excuses for my writing. Men should be lining up at my door to take me out, blog or no blog. So... imagine my surprise when I miss a call from Boat Guy later that night. He doesn’t leave a voicemail. Perplexed, I decide to call him back in the morning.

***

8:30 a.m., I get a call from Kate Digby Skinner. I can’t imagine what on earth she needs at this ungodly hour of the morning, especially since I had a pretty good idea what she was doing the night before and until what time, but I answer. She screams into the phone: AMANDA YOUR FACE IS ON THE PAPER AND IT’S HUGE AHHHHH!!!! I wince, then smile, and wince again. I hang up the phone, immediately throw some shorts on and run out to Sonny’s Variety, then over to the Greyhound Station. I probably grabbed 30 copies, not really knowing what to do with them. It was hard to not make eye contact with anyone, but I didn’t need any crazy St. John Street people stopping me. (Except for the Pizza Villa people. I wanted them to see it and think, that’s our GIRL! By the way, I didn’t tell anyone there I was moving. They probably think something happened to me.) Upstairs, in the comfort of my room, I read the whole thing twice. Although I’m reasonably satisfied with how the blog is represented, with Matt’s reporting, it’s shocking that my picture is so huge, a full half of the cover. Then there was the headline, “Putting it all on(the)line/Blogging as commentary on the modern dating scene” which might as well have said, “BEWARE! Amanda Pleau has a dating blog, do not go out with her!!!” That copy editor must’ve felt pretty fucking good about themselves.  I spent my remaining minutes with Boat Guy downplaying the whole thing, and this headline couldn’t have made things worse. “Oh, but Boat Guy, no, don’t worry about it, it’s not even like that. No one really reads the blog, it’s not that big of a deal, I don’t really write about dating, it’s just a fun hobby that I’m not even really that into. It’s not about dating or anything, I promise I’m not going to write about this or you or anything. This isn’t just like, research for the blog. REALLY, it’s not that big of a deal. The only reason that reporter guy talked to me about the blog is because we like, know each other and it’s been a slow news month. REALLY.” This headline made me feel like I had to give a disclaimer in the first thirty seconds of a date: I have a blog and you might be the subject.  

I call Boat Guy back and he’s on the boat. He says he read the blog, and I’m assuming this has put his mind at ease from whatever shit show he was picturing. It’s a beautiful Friday morning, and he asks me to meet him for coffee. This would be all well and good, I love/need coffee, except I told him I was going to be in the paper. I panicked. Up until Blog-Gate 2010, the Great Blog Meltdown, it seemed like things were going well between us, and I wanted to put the blog in the past. I weighed my options, which were few. There was definitely not enough time to beat him to Aurora and hide any papers there, and those papers are everywhere, anyway. Unless maybe I ran. He could have forgotten, although that seemed unlikely. I sucked it up, got dressed and headed over. It’s on his table when I arrive. Right there, my face, same hair and clothes that he had seen the day before. Thinking quick, I acknowledge that he’s seen it, by pointing and rolling my eyes, in and attempt to act annoyed rather than embarrassed. We don’t talk about it, it’s as if nothing happened. Close call.

You, my awesome and devoted readership (have I mentioned I work for tips for a living?) might be wondering how it’s possible that you’re reading this right now, since I promised Boat Guy I’d never write about him. Well, I pled my case. “Listen, Boat Guy, I’m reasonably certain that I’m never going to be in the paper again. It’s incredibly funny and ironic- the timing of all this whole thing, and it’d be a shame if I didn’t get to write about it.” He agreed, gave me the go-ahead, as long as he remained completely anonymous.

Moose River Vacation

Tomorrow I'll be leaving for a four day-three night canoe trip extraveganza. This will be our third year in a row, and it's really exciting. I remember way back when I didn't know what a Crazy Creek was and I couldn't pee in the woods. Now I'm thinking about buying serious gear and my J-stroke is getting better every year. 

The first year we had unbelievable weather, but took a wrong turn on the first day, putting us almost half a day behind. We had no gear, no gps, no flashlight and ended up in the middle of the lake. I had a serious panic attack, made everyone put their life jackets on while bats were flying around us under the moonlight. We had no idea where our campsite was, but thanks to some barking dog waking up their owner in a house on the middle of the lake, we got there safe and sound. She probably rolled her eyes, thinking we were really fucking stupid to be out there so late. We had Magnetic Fields singalongs around the campfire at the most beautiful campsite and Paddled for our Soul. 

The second year the weather wasn't quite as good, ahem, it rained so much we practically needed an arc. Although there weren't any singalongs, we did have a Rock Paper Scissor tournament and survived a tipped canoe. I also madeout with the self-proclaimed best rapper in Maine and ate a lot of jerky.  

Not sure what's in store for this trip, but I'll hopefully have stories for when I get back. 

 Giant Beaver Dam, first year

Riding Princess with the boys, second year

More Adventures at Bayside Bowl

Here is a recap of my last two days:

My first table of the night was four guy who were competing, two against two. Their first game was a tie, 136 and 136 to 134 and 138. A TIE! It was awesome. When they were ready to pay their tab, they gave me their credit cards in a pile and told me to just pick one, a credit card roulette. I laughed out loud. One guy said, this is my card. Don't pick my card. It was a smart move, because I really felt like I couldn't pick his card.  The other was an AMX, and we don't take AMX. Therefore, I had only one choice left (fourth guy came late, didn't eat, and only had two beers,) and ran the card. But to them, it was still a roulette and we had a good laugh about the whole thing.

Meanwhile, I bowled two pretty decent games, 110 and 117, which is where my scores should be every time. People come in all the time and ask how I bowl and I tell them all the time that I'm terrible, but those were better than my average. Though I don't have very many tables, things are looking up. Then I get a group of four bowling, they've been drinking at the bar, so they're feeling GREAT. So great, even, they leave me a fifty percent tip. Awesome.

There are some candlepin people bowling, drinking Bud Light and diet Coke. I can tell they're candlepin people, like hardcore candlepin bowlers, because they have their own shoes, but aren't friendly at all, and don't tip well. They're focused on this new and confusing world of tenpin and don't have time to talk to the waitress. There are also some guys who get moved to my side of the lanes, and they keep asking me the most annoying questions, even though I'm not their server. "Can we leave our stuff here while we go out and smoke? If we want another game can we do that here or do we have to go to the front? What does the red circle on the scoreboard mean? Do we close our tab with our waitress or do we go to the bar?" Me: "Yes, the front, a split, how the hell should I know." Then they spill their beer. SO ANNOYING. Oh, and it's brought to my attention that none of them are wearing socks with their rented shoes. At this point, it's like 10 pm,things haven't really picked up, and I'm thinking I wanted to go home. Or start drinking.

But luckily, Nate and Colleen show up with their wedding party and things get AWESOME.  Everyone is smiling, drinking, having a great time.  Colleen is making really funny jokes about how her husband is a douche for saying it was the happiest day of his life and rolling her eyes. There are two guys dressed like the Blues Brothers. I start getting beers for Elwood  and he tells me he wants to makeout with me just as someone I've had the pleasure of making out with on a previous occasion walks over and hears the whole thing. I can't stop laughing at myself and the ridiculousness of the timing. I love my job. Then I start getting beers for a bald man who was having trouble ordering at the bar. After I tell him that yes, I like MC Hammer, he tells me I'm HOT! Then an amazing balls to the wall Michael Jackson dance party starts, like, people dancing on tables and shit. I have a Bulleit bourbon on the rocks and go home.

The next night I skip dinner, roll a 126, and accidentally get drunk after work. I stumble into and East End bar at 12:30, run into a frequent customer from Maine Roasters. We have an awesome talk about life, death, marriage, canoeing, backpacking. I stay and hang out with the bartender for a while longer after they close, and make my way to the 7-11 because I need a snack. At 2:45 I run into Adam, the bartender from DTL, who has been serving me for years. I insist on buying his sandwich, refuse his cab, and stumble up the Hill. The next morning I woke up with a penny stuck to my ass, a "Do you remember calling me last night?" text, and a string cheese in my bag. My eyes are barely open, when I look down at my cat who's sitting next to my bed. We make eye contact, then in unison, turn and look at her empty bowl. New low. Great weekend.

Best Brunch and Where to Find It

I had to be out of my Gilman Street apartment by noon on the first of July. It took me right up until 11:59 to throw the last box down the stairs, sweep and find a piece of paper to leave a note with my new address. The first of July was a Thursday, and we had advertised a huge 4th of July cookout for that Sunday. This gave us exactly two days to unpack, organize, clean, hang pictures, etc. One of those days being Angela's birthday, and all of us working in some capacity on one or both of those days. There wasn't very much time, and honestly, I kind of freaked out.

The biggest job, by far, was the kitchen. I started Saturday morning, and balls to the wall, unpacked everything. Much to my discouragement, this is approximately what I found: five coffeemakers (four percelators and a press,) two blenders, two food processors, two mortar and pestles,  two dish racks, at least two, sometimes three containers of every spice imaginable, seven wooden spoons of various shapes and sizes, eighteen pint glasses, twenty mugs, five whisks AND  an old school crank mixer AND a Kitchen Aid mixer, two full sets of china, a partridge and a fucking pear tree. I was feeling stressed, and opening another box and finding another double or triple was making it worse. Especially because hardly any of this stuff belonged to me, and how was I going to decide whose things were kept and what went into storage? But in the back of my mind, I kept thinking to myself, "Amanda. It's going to be alright. They are going to use these magic kitchen devices to feed you incredible meals and you're going to be happy."

I was right. This morning Rebecca had some friends over for a brunch/bluegrass jam session (yes, that's what they call these things.) I was treated to the following: crepes with either homemade pesto cream cheese or a strawberry rhubarb sauce (strawberries from Rebecca's garden, rhubarb from the farm,) sliced mango and peach, homemade pain au lait bread, (baked by one of Rebecca's friends the day before, kind of tasted like pound cake,) a crab/avocado/cream sauce of some sort over a poached egg ON the fresh baked bread, coffee, bellinis, and sun-dried tomatoes. But I don't even know where the sun-dried tomatoes were supposed to go. And we ate on the porch. It was amazing, and I didn't do a goddamn thing. I'm seriously going to have to do some hardcore cleaning, grocery shopping and sweet talking to be able to hold up my end of the roommate bargain. Anyone on a quest for the best brunch spot in town, look no further. My house!

Oh, and to top the whole thing off, I'm sitting in my living room, checking my email. Rebecca is bustling in the kitchen, preparing for her guests to arrive. I hear a motorcycle pull up, and I run to the window. I decided way back in our days of frequenting Bentley's that one of my summer goals is to get on the back of one of those things, along with skinny dipping and Moose River and Great Falls Balloon Fest. I've had a few leads, but it'd be awesome if he ended up being my neighbor. Then I realize, the guy that gets off the bike, no jacket, no helmet, is kind of hot. He stands there for a second looking at his phone, and I run to the kitchen to get Rebecca. "REBECCA, get over here." (The sixteen year old in me lives on.) She's like oh, I know that guy. He's here for bluegrass. "Hey! C'mon in!" He walks in, I shake his hand, and realize that he looks like this guy, only younger:

The Infamous Bobby Lipps

If you live on the Hill, you know Bobby Lipps. You might not have ever spoken to him, but he's lengen... wait for it... dary. I had a blowout fight with an ex boyfriend once about Bobby's paintings. He said he liked the paintings, and since my ego was slightly bruised from him judging my taste in art earlier that day, I shot back, "You only like it because it's outsider art and he has no idea what the fuck he's doing!" Yes, in the heat of the moment, I can be a raging bitch. Anyway, we made up, and for the next gift-giving occasion that came along, I got him a Bobby Lipps original.

I found this documentary about him on the St. Lawrence website. It's 20 minutes, but it was worth posting.


bobby lipps from lcm=liquidcreativemedia on Vimeo.

To the Window, To the Wall

I just moved to Munjoy Hill, and I'm sure the bartender at the Front Room thinks I'm probably stalking him. No, they just have really amazing happy hour deals. I'd been wanting to move back to the Hill for a while. I won't miss that terrifying place known as the St. John Valley, except of course, Nicka P and the Pizza Villa. 


Mandy had picked me up the day before we moved into our new place at Vesper Street, and we went to meet Angela at the Front Room. We parked on Howard, my old stomping ground, and I pointed out a house next to my old house which had a beautiful garden. The couple that lives there used to put on MPBN Saturday morning while they did their gardening. From the windows, I could tell that their decoration of the entire house was really amazing. Mandy happened to mention the walls and the windows as we walked by. A few steps later, in unison, out loud, we started singing Lil' Jon's Get Low, "To The Windows/To The Wall!" IN UNISON! Urban Dictionary says um, well, you'll just have to look at it.  


Here is a video which might accurately capture the whiteness of the whole situation, Mandy and I, Munjoy Hill, Lil' Jon...  There was a girl at karaoke once who did the song, actually, she nailed it, while wearing a yellow cardigan. I'd post a video of that, if I could. 

Fan Mail

I received this story from a guy who saw the article in the Portland Daily Sun. Some names have been changed. I guess the blog could use a man's perspective, so here you go:

It's a cold winter day in Burlington, Vermont and I am in the middle of my shift at Speeder and Earl's coffee shop. At the time, I was managing two shops, as well as the roastery and was looking forward to my first day off in weeks. As I am making someone their beverage, I glance over to the entrance and see a stunningly beautiful girl walk in. I held her glance much longer than normal- not only was she gorgeous, but I didn't recognize her. At that time of the year 99% of our customers were regulars. When she gets to the counter to order, I notice she has a name tag from across the street. Her name is Chloe. My lame attempt at humor went something like this:

"Hello! My name is Steve, I will be your barista for the next 45 seconds to 1 minute what can I get for you?" I was expecting either a polite chuckle or an eye roll, but got a full on guffaw. We both proceeded to make coy small talk. She told me that she just moved to town a week ago. That sounded the internal guy alarm- it was time to storm the beach. As I gave her back her change, I informed her that Burlington just became a much better place with her presence. She blushed as she walked away, and turned around twice to wave goodbye. I decided right then and there that I was going to go across the street after work and ask her out. I could have waited until she comes in again,  which was probably a better idea, as to not seem desperate. But since she was brand new, I didn't want to wait for the other sharks to circle, so after work it was. The last 3 hours of my shift took forever. As I am cashing out, I hear a knock on the front door. I figured it was one of the many stupid customers who don't realize that even though the door is locked, the place might be open for 'them'. It was Chloe. I tried to suppress my insta-huge smile but failed. My walk to the door was probably more of a sprint than it needed to be. When I opened the door she uncomfortably said, "Hi, umm,,,,this is a little awkward for me....I'm not used to doing this but...."  I decided to cut her off and ease some of her embarrassment. (Awesome.)

"Never mind that, why don't you let me take you out for drinks and perhaps dinner tonight." She relaxed immensely and concurred that would be a good idea. We joked and made small talk while I finished closing up the shop. As we were walking down the street to our restaurant of choice, I ran into an old friend that I had not seen in over 2 years, who happened to be female. This is where things start to go bad. Chloe stood there with her arms folded tightly and just glared at my friend as if she had just kicked her cat. She let out at least two hmmmphs. When my friend departed, we continued down the street, but the energy and vibe had changed significantly. The flirty, sexual tension was replaced by a cloud of potential confrontation. She went from chatty Cathy to short, clipped, one word responses. This is where, in hindsight, I should have asked her right then and there what exactly was the problem. Waiting until we got to the restaurant was a bad idea. I decided we would have a drink at the bar before getting a table. I ordered us drinks. Looking at this angry girl, I decided to ignore her obvious mood and make like we are out to have a good time. This was thwarted with, "Did you fuck her!" This was said much louder than necessary. It stopped the other conversations around us dead in their tracks.

"Ummm, excuse me?"

"DID YOU FUCK HER!!" 

I turned to the bartender and told him to cancel her martini and just get my magic hat. She asked why I was cancelling her drink and I told her that it was because I was going to have a drink and enjoy myself and didn't need her see you next Tuesday attitude to ruin it. Now, considering how she overreacted to my lady friend, I should have known better than to deliberately provoke her. She grabbed a drink of the person sitting next to her and threw it at me while calling me a bunch of rated R type words. The owner came around and tossed her out and told her never to come back. I apologized for her and had my beer. You are probably thinking that I didn't handle it as maturely or as civil as I could have, but why waste my time trying to explain myself to someone I just met? Who in the world did she think she was to interrogate me like that? I know quite a few guys that would have done anything to appease her because of the hottie factor and three months down the road would be in a miserable controlling relationship.

I believe this story is 100% true, based on the details of the geography of Burlington, having lived there myself. I believe this girl was probably hot, and therefore bat-shit crazy. One of my coworkers, who also bartends on Wharf Street, told me he's figured out there is a direct hottness:craziness ratio. The hotter the girl, the crazier she is.  The only thing missing from this story, which from my perspective is REALLY interesting, is that Steve never actually specifies whether he did sleep with that girl. Which makes me think yes, he probably did. 

The Penis Heater, Take 2

Darcy was doing a language exchange with a friend a few months ago and they were talking about the differences between "hooking up" and "making out" in English. She said: "Well, my friend Amanda will often kiss guys in bars, but that doesn't mean she has sex with them. So she can make out with them but not necessarily hook up." This is, on a side note, not the case in British English… she thought her British friends were sluts until she realized her mistake.

He looked at her and said "Ah, pero eso es una calienta pollas!" - literally, “someone who heats penises”.

Turns out that is the Spanish equivalent of calling someone a cock tease. She fell out of her chair laughing and left me a voicemail via Skype that night telling me I was a penis heater. Sometime after that, I wrote myself a note to blog about the "Penis Heater," lost the note and forgot the story. Thanks, Darc.

My making out in bars phase ended with the move to Kennebunkport last summer, but I thought since my name was recently plastered all over Portland as having "a dating blog," I might as well try to live up to the hype for a few posts. Although I consider this stupid thing to be about telling entertaining stories, Laura pointed out, in her infinite wisdom, that since I'm single, all of the stories I tell are from the perspective of a single person. Here's a story of a time that I was making out in public, a real-life penis heater.

It was a fucking blizzard, one of those bitterly cold, silent storms. It seemed so bright- the roads, sidewalks, buildings covered in snow reflected the streetlights, completely untouched late that night. Angela, her niece and I were hanging out at Angela's apartment, if I remember correctly. We probably had beers with dinner, and decided that the Nor'easter outside was no match for us. This is Maine, it's a storm, we're going out. Gritty's was celebrating their 21 IPA anniversary on December 21. It's not my first choice of hangouts, certainly not the closest place to our house, but Angela was in the middle of trying to get them to sign on for a fundraiser at work. We bundled in our Bean boots, our peacoats, the thickest mittens. We couldn't really see each other's faces, so in order to communicate on the walk, er, knee-deep trek, we had to turn and face each other and yell above the wind, through our scarves.


We arrive and peel our wet layers off, just like a Campbell’s soup commercial, revealing dry sweaters, rosey cheeks and runny noses. A reggae-influenced band is playing, but I’m so happy to be warm that I ignore the fact that I never voluntarily listen to reggae of any kind and cozy up to an IPA. We find some of Angela’s friends from high school, sit down and introduce ourselves. Quickly, the conversation turns to our “numbers.” By this I mean the number of people we’ve slept with. The people at the table in their late 20’s, 30ish, all seem to be around twenty. I was almost 25 at the time, and I believe my number was between 5 and 7. Angela’s niece, however, is 21 years old, if that, and her number blows us all out of the water. She whispers it to Angela and Angela tells her not to say it out loud. She does, and immediately I text my younger sister, who is the same age, and ask her what her number is. First she tells me her phone number (which is ridiculous, considering I was TEXTING her phone number,) then her cup size, and I am relieved when she tells me it’s about half Angela’s niece’s, although, it’s still, not low.

The IPA and the music is moving us, literally, and we get up, three single girls, making our moves. Angela starts talking to some damn painter, the Niece is chatting up one of Angela’s high school friends (ten years her senior, him knowing full well how many people she's had relations with), and I set my sights on this guy. He’s dancing like a fool, possibly yelling incoherently, and from the looks of it, not drinking the IPA, but vodka Redbull. (Did I mention I was drunk?) He has to tell me his name five times and I still don't understand it. He gives me his business card, and I find out his name in Russian is the equivalent of George. Russian George is cute, about 5’7”, with round shoulders that nicely filled out his red and black buffalo plaid shirt. We're dancing, everyone is dancing, and it's getting really warm. No one wants to leave the bar to step out into the storm. We probably would've partied there all night. Russian George sits down next to me at one of the long benches. He's been living in DC, grew up in Portland, and tells me about his job- I can't remember- investment banking, or something. Since I now have all of the necessary information, we start making out. In the bar. Penis. Heater.

This doesn’t last very long, and eventually the Niece and I are talking to Russian George over by the bar, shouting over the music. He’s telling a story about some girl he knows, and somewhere, somehow, Russian George says the c-word- the see you next Tuesday word. This is when the Pizzo fire inside flares up and the Niece goes absolutely bananas. I don’t know if she thinks that he is calling her the c-word,  she wasn’t acting particularly c-wordy. Granted, it was loud and I was three sheets to the wind, but I’m fairly certain that he was referring to a woman who wasn’t in the room and merely describing her as the c-word, not recounting a conversation in which she was called the c-word. In any case, the Niece karate chops Russian George in the shoulder. If this was a movie, the music would’ve stopped, and the slow-motion would’ve kicked in. Actually, it kind of felt like it happened in slow motion. My jaw drops. They start yelling at each other, and I’m surprised we haven’t been kicked out of the bar. Angela sees the scuffle from across the room, goes all Mama Bear and flies over. She starts yelling at Russian George, pointing her finger, poking out her chest. I’m begging the Pizzo girls to let it go. The Niece walks away. Angela calms down and she enters into a serious conversation with Russian George about the meaning of words, social context and how your upbringing affects your vocabulary. I'm livid. Those damn Pizzos totally cock blocked me! Defeated, I pulled my famous leave without saying goodbye, cursing them up and down the whole blustery, snowy, hike back to Deering Street. I haven't seen Russian George since, and I'm not positive that I'd even recognize him.