I guess it was fiction after all...

Last night, I was sitting at PG with a group of friends.

"I don't think BB likes me anymore," I said. "He won't return my text messages."

"Ana," my friend Eff replied, "How many times do I have to tell you that BB is a douche-bag?"

With that Eff grabbed my phone, flipped it open, and began to copy BB's number into his phone.

"Let's see what BB's got to say," Eff laughed as he composed a note from the phone number that BB would not recognize.

We'd had a little bit to drink. Actually, quite a bit. I lunged across the table trying to stop Eff, begging him to be nice. Devon sat next to Eff and peered over his arm to see the message, dropped her mouth, and shook her head.

"What did you write?!?!?" I asked.

Eff flashed his phone.

You might be hot if you had a real job and health insurance.

I threw my head into my hands. It was such a jerky and immature thing to say, to do. I sat in my chair feeling miserable for poor BB until Eff proclaimed, "Oh look, he wrote back."

Eff continued to send BB flirtatious put downs and BB...continued to respond. In the meantime, my phone remained silent. About a half hour later I ran into BB at the outside smoking section, made eye contact, and frowned.

"What's the pouty face for Ana?" BB asked.

"You haven't returned my text messages," I said.

BB rolled his eyes and looked at me.

"Don't be so crazy and overreactive," he told me as he extinguished a half-smoked cigarette and headed back towards the door. "I just haven't checked my phone tonight."

Son.
of.
a.
bitch.

"How's the flirting going?" I asked Eff once I was back inside.

"I just told him that if he wanted to hook up, he was going to have to get on his knees," Eff replied.

"Eff! That's something a guy would say to a girl. You messed it up!"

"Oops," said Eff, then grabbed his phone from his pocket to read BB's reply.

"What he'd say?" I asked.

"'Depends on who this is,'" said Eff, now beginning to roll with laughter.

My jaw dropped and my eyes became large like saucers.

"Hey, don't feel bad, Ana," Eff told me, "now instead of the girl who got rejected by a loser, you're just the girl who made out with a closeted gay man."

I crossed my arms in disbelief.

"Really, you should have seen it coming," Eff continued, "the poodle, the neighborhood, his asking you to meet him AT NIGHT IN THE PARK. It's probably a regular meeting place for him, maybe even a source of secondary income."

Silence. I just sat there in silence.

"Ana? You okay?"

"Maybe he just does a lot of drugs and he's on something right now," I finally replied.

I was already convincing myself that my statement was true. Now it made sense: the erratic behavior, the earlier lie, his hazy memory, the bartending into his late thirties.

Or maybe BB knew Eff was writing the texts and just wanted to add to the story.

Whatever it was, the first thing I did this morning when I woke up (besides grabbing my head in pain) was to erase all the text message exchanges, delete his number from my phone, and pop the the two index cards on which BB'd given me his number into the shredder.

Some stories just aren't worth the loss of self-esteem that goes into creating them.

That was embarrassing...

I was just standing in the express lane at my grocery store when I turned around to notice that the gal behind me was one of the bartenders (cute pigtailed girl) from PG.

"Hi," I said sheepishly.

I was only buying one item, a bottle of wine.

I'm yawning because I'm exhausted, not because I'm bored...

I’m pretty sure that whole ‘3rd year, they bore you to death’ is a bunch of baloney. Unless maybe you’ve already secured full-time employment for the following year, are not working a part-time job in the interim, are not serving on the editorial board for your journal, are not serving on the editorial board for your school newspaper, are not determined to write short stories for your own personal enjoyment, do not have a blog readership that you would kinda like to keep (love you guys), do not have friends that you would like to see on a regular basis, and finally, do not have a demanding little dog running your life. Martha has fallen in love with the dog park and that's our new little activity. The other day, no one was there and I got to read for class under the tree. Martha was miffed by the lack of entertainment, but I thought it was great.


Who’s the cutest little gal in town? I don’t know what I’d do without her!

Bad dog!

At the dog park today someone walked over to me and said, "Hi, I read your blog."

To which I responded. "OMG, I'm so mortified. How did you know it was me?"

He recognized Martha.

Martha outed me!

Dog and Owner have been appeased…

Update a few hours after that: Okay, okay, okay, dear commenters and emailers. I've put it back up.

Via Text Message
BB: I’m about to walk Tinkerbell. I’ll be handing out treats in the park to good little doggies.
Ana: I thought it was unsafe for me to venture out alone at night?
BB: Definitely unsafe.

He was a little shocked that I showed. I know this because, well, he told me so. Personally, I didn't think about what I was doing until I got there and then stood frightened like a deer in headlights. This was all the more funny (um, awkward) in that BB had the same look on his face.

MARTHA AND I GOT TREATS! MARTHA AND I GOT TREATS!

Then again, I also got a spanking for being a feisty, obnoxious little thing. However, that may have been more of treat than the smooches.

He did seem a little put-off when, before I would engage in any activity, I made him expressly promise that I would retain full rights, privileges, and access to the bar regardless of the evening’s outcome. I felt a little bad, but hey, you gotta protect your interests, right?

And, why so sensitive? A guy that calls a meeting in the park in the middle of the night is obviously not interested on a romantic level, so why take offense when I don't get so lost in the moment that I forget to cover my just-previously-swatted butt?

There is more to this story...I'm just trying to determine the appropriateness-level of how much to post about the personal life, especially when as far as I know, the person involved doesn't know about the blog. Sigh.

I will say this: I need to learn to keep my mouth shut - turns out my snarkiness is not so well received in certain contexts. The evening ended with me running down my stairs after him yelling, "I'm so sorry! I was just kidding!" and him turning around, looking up at me to say, "Yeah, well, one can only take so many insults over the course of an evening."

Here she is, Miss Crunchy Granola...

I’ve never been a big fan of make-up. I hate the way it feels on my face and the time it takes to apply it. Plus, once I’ve done all of that, it inevitably causes my eyes to water and then runs down my face. I have two prior ‘bad’ makeup experiences. The first was when I was eighteen. My mother dragged me to the makeup counter because I was getting ready to leave for college and she thought it was time I started using the stuff. The gal at Lan*come worked on my face, and as I sat in the chair patiently I could see both my mother and the clerk beginning to smile.

“Oh, you’re going to love it,” the girl said when she held up the mirror.

I did not love it. Instead I screeched, “Oh my god, I look like a painted whore!”

I grabbed the entire box of Kleenex and began to madly rub the goo off my face. Meanwhile the clerk was grossly apologizing to my mother, staunchly maintaining that she had applied very little actual makeup. My mother, thoroughly embarrassed, dragged me out of the department store, but not before buying blush, eye pencil, mascara, and lip gloss. To give you an idea of just how rarely I wear makeup, I still have that blush from fourteen years ago.

My other bad experience happened in the last decade. I visited a friend in Houston and she took me to a salon where one guy did hair and the other makeup. The makeup guy was apparently famous and had tons of pictures of famous musicians as well as pageant girls hanging on his wall. I should have known not to allow myself to be made up by a guy who did pageants, but aw, what the heck. I asked him for a light daytime look thinking that he only applied the clown makeup under special circumstances.

When he was done and spun me around for a look in the mirror I frowned and said, “What the hell did you do with my freckles? I can’t see my freckles! What part of ‘light’ do you not understand? I told you I don’t like a lot of makeup!”

Not only did I look like a painted whore, but I also looked like I needed a cheap taffeta dress with plastic crown.

“Well,” answered the makeup guy, “I only gave you as much as you needed.”

What? Asshole. He does a bad job and tries to blame it on me?

This is all to say that the other day I found myself standing in a Sep*hora with Wine-Time-Girl thinking about my inherent dislike of makeup and wondering why that was. I decided that it was due to my unwillingness to become a grown up. I’ve never had a job that required me to wear a suit and have always flitted through life like a happy (albeit sarcastic) little hippie. Each day that I move closer to graduation I find myself more and more uncomfortable with entering ‘the real world.’ I wondered if perhaps my crush on bartender-boy was due in part to this rebellion. I was somewhat jealous of his non-9-to-5 job and his unencumbered life. If only I could reconcile myself to being okay with a lifestyle that didn’t offer health insurance and required me to live hand to mouth, I would drop this whole law silliness in a second. But I wasn’t, and I wouldn’t, and I needed to grow up, so in the middle of the store I announced, “I think I am going to blow my entire first paycheck from my new job on cosmetics.”

At first WTG seemed excited, then remembered her audience and suggested, “Maybe you should just start with a lip gloss?”

Oh, heck no. If I was going to do this, I needed to go bold and go all the way. I began to pluck items from the different drawers until I realized I had no idea what I was doing. WTG informed me that there was a M*A*C next door and maybe that would be an easier start, so I tromped on over and grabbed the first heavily-pancaked face that I could find.

“Do you have any make-up on?” she asked.

I do in fact have a standard makeup regimen. It entails slathering my entire face each morning with an SPF 45 sunblock.

I plopped down in a chair and let the gal go to town. She thought my face was dry so started with a moisturizer. I was kind of stoked because around age thirty I started suspiciously breaking out on my chin. Zit creams and astringents only made it worse until I realized that my adult acne was due not to an over-oily complexion, but rather a dryness issue. I stopped using the products, but never quite got around to finding a moisturizer.

Next she headed for the foundation and I gave her a queer look when she dispensed it from a spray can. She insisted there was a good scientific reason behind putting foundation in such a receptacle, but I have to admit, it kind of screamed gimmick to me. Next came a special brush to apply the foundation. More gimmick. I sighed. This was lame.

Eventually she finished, proud of herself and turned me to the mirror. My first thought was, “Hey I can go as an Oompa-loompa for Halloween!” but I did not say this out loud. Instead I deferred to Wine-Time, “Is it too orange?”

“No, it’s fine,” she said. “It looks good, but do you really think you’re going to use this stuff? I just can’t see you getting up every morning to do this.”

“Of course I will!” I insisted and threw all of the crap on the cashier counter.

All-in-all I walked out with moisturizer, foundation, special gimmick brush, blush, and lip gloss. I was also $150 poorer, but I had made that crucial step towards becoming a grown-up.

A little less than a week later WTG asked, “Have you worn any of your new makeup yet?”

“YES!” I declared proudly. “I’ve worn the moisturizer every day!”

“Hmm,” she pondered, “well, maybe in the next few days you can try the blush and go from there?”

“Yes, yes. Good idea. I think I will,” I answered.

So the other day I was meeting WTG and WTGBF for dinner and I put on the blush before leaving my house.

After arriving WTG said, “Oh my god, you wore the blush!”

But she said it kind of oddly.

“I thought you’d be proud of me,” I grimaced. “Did I apply it wrong?”

“No,” said WTG, “it’s just, um. Oh sorry sweetie, but you’ve got a big rash across your cheekbones. I think you might be allergic.”

I’m convinced this is God's way of telling me not to go corporate.

Did someone just throw me a bone?

So what with parking issues, work, school, and the like, Martha’s been spending quite a bit of time in her cage this week. When I took her out for her after-dinner walk a few days ago she seemed a little restless, so I decided to treat her and take her to the dog park where she can run off-leash.

Stoked as soon as she noticed I was loading the carrier into the car, Martha easily hopped inside with a simple pat on the bumper, and her owner announcing, “Up!”

She literally bounced up and down the entire three minute drive to the park and when I opened the carrier, she ran out of it so fast that I almost lost her. As we approached the gates I spied a large poodle.

Egad. I’ve seen Bartender-Boy once since my return to reality, and while everything went fine, I still retain a certain amount of healthy embarrassment over the whole thing. The last time I saw him at the bar he said, “Sorry it took me awhile to come over to say ‘hi.’ It’s just that well, I’m afraid of you.”

Alex fell off his barstool in laughter while I buried my head in my hands. BB continued to tease me throughout the evening, even suggesting that the bar institute a surcharge on my tab for 'putting up with me.'

After leaving I texted him, “Thanks for flirting with me the other evening. It’s nice to have a safe flirt.”

“What makes you think I’m safe?” he replied.

All bark and no bite.

Woof!

Exactly. Good dog!

Martha and I have only been to the dog park a few times because it has a kind of clique-ish feel to it. Everyone there seems to know everyone else and they can sometimes seem like, “Who invited you to the party?”

I let Martha through the gate and she immediately ran off to play while I lingered near the entrance. There’s a large tree in the center of the park with a bench built around it and that’s typically where the owners hang out. BB stood there talking with a group of others, this poor guy with whom I’d created an imaginary flirtation. I lasted about three minutes in owner-Siberia before I screamed, “Martha!” put her back on the leash, and ran around the corner to a friend’s house. I didn’t want to deal with BB stress. Maybe if I came back in half an hour, he would be gone.

After a quick stop at my friend Em’s where I made plans to meet up later with her and Eff for dinner, I trotted Martha back to the park…and BB was still there.

“Ana, you are being retarded,” I told myself.

I grimaced and walked into the park, straight to the bench, and sat down. My dog was going to get to play, and my crazy antics were not going to interfere with such. I owed her.

“I didn’t know you came here,” BB said as he sat down next to me, scratching his ankles.

“Yeah, well, Martha’s not super-trained and I worry about other owners getting annoyed with her, so we don't come regularly,” I answered.

“But you’ve got to bring her,” he said. “It’s so necessary for her proper socialization and blah, blah, blah….”

BB was still rambling on about dog-training when a plump Jack Russell approached me for a little lovin'.

“Oh look at you, you little fatty!” I said as I swooped the dog into my arms.

“I know,” BB said in response. “Sometimes I come here and just wonder what the heck people are feeding their dogs.”

Hmm, no doubt BB would instantly judge my decision to feed Martha Cheapo. And for the record, I thought Fatty was very cute. BB continued his scratching.

“Are you getting eaten by mosquitoes?” I asked.

“Yeah, I usually don’t stay here this long. It’s just, every time I get ready to leave, a new dog comes in, and I really want Tinkerbell to have every opportunity to meet new dogs for her socialization.”

Or possibly BB wants the opportunity to talk to Ana in an effort to improve his socialization. Every time he scratched, I smiled a little more.

“I don’t blame you for not talking to anyone here,” BB added, apparently noticing my earlier lingering near the entrance. “As soon as you open your mouth, everyone wants to tell you how you should raise your dog.”

No kidding?

Around that time Martha must have decided that I needed a wingman because she popped by to check on me. BB grabbed her and began to play.

“That’s right, I’ve got treats,” he said to her.

Oh no, BB had said the magic word. You didn’t say T-R-E-A-T to Martha unless you intended to give her one.

Martha immediately picked up on BB’s words and began to hop up and down. When that produced nothing, she did one of the few commands she knew and plopped down into 'sit,' her tail wagging madly. She waited patiently for a minute or so, but when the treat was still not forthcoming, she got a little peeved, and um, lunged for BB.

“Where’s my treat? Huh? Dude? Gimme!” she seemed to say as she jumped all over him.

BB held up a knee, but as soon as he did, Martha just jumped on his other leg. Within seconds BB was hopping back and forth from leg-to-leg and Martha clearly thought this was some kind of play tactic, so she jumped even more. I giggled. The owner may have been okay with mixed signals, but Martha was having none of it. BB tried to walk away, but when he did, Martha just followed, grabbing at his shorts every two seconds. She was still stalking him when I said, “Ok, I think I’m going to head home.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna leave too,” BB answered.

What about all those new dogs Tinkerbell could meet? Martha kept an eye on BB as he walked down the sidewalk and I headed towards my car. I opened the carrier and she refused to budge.

“What’s your problem?” I asked her.

“I’m still waiting for my treat,” she replied.

“Oh honey, I could have told you that you weren’t going to get anything from that boy,” I told her as I hoisted her into the car.

Hours later, Martha was still miffed and looking at me like I was the meanest person alive. I texted BB, “Someone is still moping over lack of treat, especially after she sat so nicely. You just can’t tease her like that!”

Ok, I’ll give you a treat next time I see you. Unless you mean the dog.

Who are you related to?

My dad's really into genealogy and his latest personal coup was admission to the Mayflower Society. (Apparently it takes a lot of paperwork to prove that you are related to someone from the Mayflower.) Anyhoo, my Mayflower ancestor is some guy named Edward Fuller. Now my dad is searching through all the different lines of the Edward Fuller family and has figured out that I am remotely related to Georgia O'Keefe (VERYCOOL) as well as David Souter (oh geez, it's genetic). I thought it was kind of neato.

Public transit is starting to look very attractive...

Well, my friends, it turns out the parking situation is much more dire than I first suspected. The lot closed is the largest lot near school and holds several hundred spaces. Worse yet, there are no plans to reopen it, as the university has decided to build student housing in its place. (I think my university might be attempting to make a shift from nice, personal, reasonably-priced, community-serving school to impersonal, over-charging national prestige whore. Here's hoping they fail miserably.)

This has caused quite a mess in the parking department (as a street running right in front of the law building has been closed as well) and students, without any alternatives, are parking on the grass, on the curbs, and sometimes even in the roadways. One of the deans sent out a pleading email yesterday asking that we park in the designated, marked spaces. Dear Dean, we would love to – if only marked, designated spaces were made available to us.

As a result, my schedule is somewhat disrupted and today I drove to school several hours early in order to avoid any major complications. The good news is, I’ve read over sixty pages of law-crap, no small feat considering that my daily reading has been a little off-on given that this is the first semester I’ve tried to coordinate school and job. So, the parking situation, while nasty, may in fact help my GPA. The downside? Who wants to bet that I go home this afternoon to find one peeved little dog?

The New York Times online will now function more like a public library - sort of. Yippee-skippee just the same.

Chemerinsky to head up UC-Irvine's new law school.

Oh geez...

I had a couple of glasses of wine before I came to class. Apparently I had too many as I now seem unable to focus on anything other than the ceiling tiles.

Where oh where has my parking space gone?

Recently my university has been doing quite a bit of construction in the area of parking lots. Why they didn't do this during the summer when traffic was lighter is beyond me, but the whole thing has been rather confusing. Faculty lots are now student lots, but only for certain spaces. One day a parking lot exists, the next day it's torn up by bulldozers, and there has never been an abundance of spaces to begin with.

This weekend the Dean of Students sent out an announcement saying that Lot X would officially close on Sunday while Lot Y would be partially closed. Attached was a map outlining a shuttle bus route that only ran in certain directions at certain times. I was rather stressed about this all weekend as I was unsure what lots the Dean was speaking of in regards to the closure (the north one? the south one?) as well as how I would find the mysterious outlying lots for the shuttle bus routes since the administration neglected to include such on the attachment. (Oh wait, I just found it. There's a second attachment for the offsite lot - and when they say offsite, they aren't kidding. Not only is it on the other side of campus, but it's off campus and no permit is required. What are the odds that this overflow lot will fill up by 10 am?)

As my Monday class approached I became more and more bothered until I finally made a command decision: skip class, stay home, and play with the dog. I feel ten times better now. I've got a night class later this evening and I'll wander over then to figure out the parking hullaballoo in less crowded circumstances. Hopefully by Tuesday I'll have some sort of plan. In the meantime, Martha is stoked.


Check out that tail-wagging action.

IDK, my non-BFF, BB?

I was halfway through my sandwich and Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius when I noticed a red light flashing through the pocket of my canvas tote. My phone had a message. Egad, had Bartender-Boy texted me back? So fulfilled was I by a cup of coffee and a plate full of tater tots that I’d momentarily forgotten my irritation along with the hasty message I sent him.

I decided to let the phone stay where it was and continue to enjoy my meal. Besides, it was fun to sit and wonder what he might have replied. My intent when I wrote the message was to say something offbeat enough to where he wouldn’t respond, but not so completely over the edge to where I never entered the bar again. The hope was that the next day I’d feel embarrassed by my words, just enough to spurn my desire to hop over to the bar every third day, thus allowing my intensity to subside. After a few weeks I could return, my objectivity in check.

I sat comparing BB the person to BB the written character. Though I rarely described BB’s personality or gave him much dialogue in my writing, I still relied on a basic sketch when I wrote him. One of the reasons that I never develop any of my characters beyond Ana on the blog is because the original inspiration for a character almost always comes from a real person. They say something or they do something, and I run with it. But that’s the thing. People get upset when I ‘run with it.’ In fact they often call, email, or otherwise communicate that: they didn’t say that; they didn’t do that; that’s not what they meant; etc, etc, etc.

My internal response to them is usually, “No sh*t, Sherlock. I wasn’t talking about you.”

Once a character hits the page, they are a separate and distinct entity from the person who gave them life. The characters have their own personalities, and they live in an alternate universe, the playthings of my imagination.

How had I constructed BB? I started out with Peter Pan. BB was slightly older than me, but still making a living in a world most of us leave by the age of twenty-five. (Hmm, hereinafter I think I shall refer to the poodle as Tinkerbell.) I tried to visualize parents and came up with something relatively generic: strict, structured father/quiet, encouraging mother. I imagined that he rebelled against the structure, but not completely as it was so ingrained throughout his life that it felt somewhat inherent. This guy was still polite to little old ladies. Years later, his character was still in conflict – not wanting to settle down until other things were in place (the structure side) and yet – afraid of losing some piece of himself by having those other things settled (the rebellion). Needing to live in a more creative bohemian part of town (rebellion), but drawing stability from the routine of work and living in the same area for several years (structure). He waffled on major life decisions because just as time was catching up with him, he found he enjoyed each year of his life a little more than the last. If he just held out a little longer… And I gave him a good heart, utmost loyalty to friends, the kind of guy you love to hang out with, but would never set your best friend up with because he was still a little lost and lacking in direction.

What I actually know about the bartender who works around the corner from me: Where he grew up.

Do we now all understand the upside and downside of having an over-active imagination?

Eyeing the flashing light, I wondered how yet again another fictional creation had run away from me to become all-consuming. Nobody else I knew ever seemed to have these problems, and it was not the kind of thing you could discuss with friends.

“Hey friend, do you ever so entwine fantasy with reality that you can’t differentiate between the two?”

And talking to someone else about it? Well, where my friends might just find it strange, a medical professional would want to administer shock therapy. I slumped down in my booth depressed and cursing my mother for all those tea parties we had on the ceiling when I was a kid, all the times she encouraged me to explore wardrobes because you never knew when you might find Narnia, only to be pulled aside just before I left for college and have explained to me her purpose in reading me Alice in Wonderland. The real world was going to be bizarre she had told me, but most of the time I would get pegged as the crazy one. She also made me promise to throw her in front of a bus if she ever ceased to have the ability to function within the confines of reality, but that's a different story.

After a few weeks of exposure to the outside world, I decided my mother was certifiably cuckoo. Only ten years later did I realize that she was right. People were strange, and the best thing I could do in life was to believe in myself and just keep going.

It was then that I realized the solution to my problem. I was lamenting my imagination when I should have been embracing it. If I had written myself into this mess, then it to stood to reason that I could simply write myself out of it. So simple and yet so genius.

I flipped open the phone...

Oh wait, I forgot to tell you what Ana wrote. Hrm, I can’t exactly remember now. Let me check… (I’m having so much fun with this. Who is writing? Ana, the narrator, or the writer of the narrator?)

To: BB (number redacted)
From: Ana

Are u afraid of me? I’m prone to moments of delusion so don’t judge me too much if I’m off. Also, Martha just lost her fave playdate? How does Tinkerbell’s social card look?

I’m sorry. That was unfair of me to just spill it out like that. Let me explain how Ana’s brain operates…

Are u afraid of me?

Translation: This situation is making me crazy. I think I may need a little break. In the alternative, I think you might actually be afraid of me, Mr. Big Stuff Bartender Boy. I dare you to bring it.

I’m prone to moments of delusion so don’t judge me too much if I’m off.

Translation: But I’m not full-blown crazy. Rather, the moments are temporary. I should return to normal soon, granted, not the normal person’s version of normal, but what Wine-Time-Girl calls a fully-functioning normal.

Also, Martha just lost her fave playdate? How does Tinkerbell’s social card look?

Translation: Do you remember that day at the park? Can we do that again? Also, I’m so sorry I yelled at you that night when you said we should get together with dogs and I told you to get out of my face.

I realize that this is a lot for anyone to handle and most would just take it at face value, but I have great faith in the men-I'm-attracted-to's ability to read subtext.

I read his reply and began to laugh hysterically.

To: Ana
From: BB

Yes. I am afraid of you. You are mean to me and hurt my feelings. I’m a very sensitive man.

My first thought was, “Oh thank you god, he can spell.”

For some reason, Icantspell is a disease that crosses all lines of education, socioeconomics, and ethnicities. Most people are immune to it, but for a former back-to-back middle school spelling bee champion, it’s kind of a deal breaker. BB’s stock had just risen.

Reading his words, I realized just how ridiculous I’d been. Gah, it was so easy for me to get caught up and carried away. BB of all people had brought me back to reality. And he’d done it in kind, witty way. Poor guy. I put the phone back into my tote, finally contented. Silly, silly little Ana.

Six tater tots later, my phone buzzed again. Who was bothering me now?

To: Ana
From: BB

You know I’m just kidding?

What’s this? Was someone concerned with my reaction? Ha-ha, BB! I knew you loved me. I checked the time of the message: 9:52 pm. Oh, he wasn’t at the bar yet. His superpowers hadn’t kicked in.

As many odd looks as one gets for eating alone, they are multiplied when one bursts into laughter for seemingly no reason. My sincerest apologies, kiddo.

9:54 pm – Where are you eating alone?

Ah yes, Ana, the great apostle of solitude. Why did everyone find it so intriguing?

BB and I continued to text back and forth. I could scarcely answer before he sent another; sometimes a second message came before I could reply to the first. Perhaps text-messaging was the answer to communication with BB? Or maybe, he’d just been waiting for me to make a move. With each new beep, the story came back to life. I felt giddy, excited. My head began to enlarge. I was attractive, alluring, in control of the world.

And now I’m thinking of coming back to PG. If there’s anything I need right now, it’s cheap liquor and cheap entertainment. Not that you’re personally cheap, per se.

As I hit send, I smiled at my prowess only to look up and realize that I was sitting alone in a run-down 24-hour diner on a Sunday night, text-messaging my bartender, a man who only knew my last name as the result of handling my credit card. A Spanish-speaking family from across the aisle looked at me as if to say, “Sure you want us to think you’re involved in a conversation, but we all know you’re playing solitaire.”

Heading towards the cash register I stopped at their table and said, “You and the rest of the world may pity me, but don’t. I’m living my dream.”

As I walked out the door BB texted, “Classy. What’s next?”

Oops, I guess I’d gone a little too far in referencing BB as a form of entertainment. It was perfectly fine for him to draw the dividing line between bartender and patron, but cruel for me to do so. BB and his wonderful world of the double-standard. Everything was a casual flirtation – except I wasn’t really allowed to treat it as such. If I brought another guy, any guy, into the bar BB would openly ignore me, refuse to wait on me, make me stand there, bills in hand as he washed glasses until another bartender finally took pity on me and asked my order. In retrospect perhaps I should have replied with, “You know I’m just kidding?”

Back at the house, I began to return his note when my phone interrupted me.

Now I’m getting hungry? Do you deliver?

There I go again, exploiting your sensitive nature 4 my personal enjoyment. Surely my lack of sophistication is obvious by now. I’ve left, but you’re welcome to the contents of my take home box. So r u there? We can text spar from across the bar.

And then, the messages stopped. Thirty minutes went by, and I texted again.

Um, was it something I typed? Weird, but ok.

Sitting at my patio table smoking a cigarette I thought about our discussion from the evening. BB had carefully omitted responses regarding a get-together with the dogs or stopping by the bar. His messages were relatively neutral giving no indication of interest, yet he kept texting. This guy was so good at covering his ass I wondered if he had missed his calling as an attorney. At least he had intelligence going for him, but what exactly was BB after? I wondered what he was thinking as he stood at the bar a few thousand feet away. Was this purely for fun or was he blatantly toying with me? Was he just glad to know he was dominating my thoughts? Did he think this was the only way he could assert any sense of power in the situation? His actions aroused my curiosity, but drained my attraction for him. The boy at the park wouldn’t do this to me. Then again, maybe things just got busy at the bar.

A little while later came the message:
Text spar? You will lose.

I answered, If so it’s only because after a couple of rounds you will become angered by my greatness and refuse to take part any longer.

I think you might be confused about the meaning of lose.

No dummy, I was not confused about the meaning of lose. The message was alluding to more than a text spar. Whenever things with BB heightened, he backed away whether because of a (legitimate?) girlfriend, psychological problems, lack of interest, or (the most plausible situation as far as my mental health was concerned) the overwhelming sense of intimidation that I created. If he walked away, I lost, lost the chance to get to know him, lost the chance to find out if there was anything more between us.

Growing tired, I punted, then crawled into bed.

No, that was my attempt to cater to the male ego and say I lost when there was a technical forfeit. Oops, my bad. What I meant to say was, “You are so right and I am clearly dumb. You win!”

For the bazillionth time that evening, my phone buzzed, this time in darkness. The clock told me it was 12:30 am. We’d been playing this game for three hours and in three hours, I didn’t know any more information and the situation hadn’t progressed any further.

Now you’re catching on.

Perhaps there was some hidden meaning in BB’s message. Perhaps he was trying to tell me that certain aspects of my personality did give him pause, and I needed to soften in order to help even the playing field. Perhaps he just wanted to get in my pants, but couldn't muster the courage to be bold. I don't know; I didn't even stop to think about it. All I knew was that this was going nowhere and I'd be damned if he started thinking of me as some type of groupie, or worse yet, a Lost Boy. I closed my phone just like Wendy closed her window and silently bid adieu to Bartender-Boy. With it came the calmness and clarity I'd been seeking for so long. The bartender had been the reality the whole time; it was the nice boy from the park who had been fiction.

Sorry readers, the story was getting old (and boring). We'll start up a new one here pretty soon.

Classic Lines from WTG...

Ana and WTG at a social event.

WTG: Seriously, people. Think more. Talk less.
Ana: I think I'm going to make a t-shirt that says that.

Later...

WTG: You know, I wouldn't have to drink so much if people weren't so stupid.

A group of people from law school are meeting up at a bar tonight.

I should probably go as I need to remove myself from the fictional world and interact with real people. However, I'm feeling kind of stingy right now with my cash.

As such, I'm sitting at my desk trying to figure out the most nonchalant way to smuggle in a thermos of wine.

Wherein BB invites Ana to a party...

[Ok, I know I've been absent for awhile, and I feel like you guys deserve a Bartender-Boy story. Problem is, I haven't seen him that much recently. Though laced with fiction, my stories usually derive from a brief conversation that is extrapolated. I do know a guy who bartends down the street and we occasionally chat. I don't really know anything about him; that's why he makes for a fun character. Of course, I run the risk of him seeing it and becoming offended by the representation. If that happens, all I can say is, HELLO, HAVE YOU NOT READ THE DISCLAIMER SAYING THIS IS FICTION? PS- Please still give me wine. Thanks. Kisses. You're awesome. ]

As much as I wanted to discount the psychic, her words kept running through my head, even days later. Did she actually have a cosmic connection to the universe or simply my own head? Had she told me I’d waited too long to respond to BB because I’d wondered that myself?

I dug through my papers looking for Bartender-Boy’s number. It was easy to find, written on an index card. That’s how my bar keeps track of your tab. Every patron gets an index card with their name on the top. Each time you get a drink, they write it down. Additional drinks of the same nature get a hash mark. At the end of the night, they hand you the card with your receipt. I held the little card in my hands. Why had he given me his number? I couldn’t remember. Bits and pieces of the conversation came back to me, but the end was blank. I never ask a guy for his number, so that was out. We didn’t yet have our dogs.

The only part I could vaguely muster was that I remembered feeling bad as he wrote it down. I thought we were just flirting, the way a bartender does with a patron, and suddenly he was scrawling his name and number. I remembered that because I felt bad, I made Wine-Time-Girl give him a bigger tip – as I had already closed out my tab, and she had received several free drinks. I remembered the sense of dread I felt as I pulled the number out of my purse the next day. I knew I wasn’t interested. The feelings of guilt only subsided when after several months, he still seemed sullen with my appearance at the bar.

Staring at BB’s name and number, I tried to remember how long ago he’d given me the card. I pulled up out my calendar and began the process of elimination. It was before my last crush but, after the beginning of spring semester. I continued to narrow down the facts and circumstances until I finally came up with a date: February 16, 2007, quite a long time ago. To complicate matters, for reasons completely unrelated and unknown to him, I stopped attending my bar for awhile immediately after that night.

Digging again, I found a second index card, this one torn in half. BB ripped it into two pieces so that I could give him my number when he gave me his. I remembered that time. He stopped to chat with me one summer night at the bar and I said, “Hey, we should really get together with the dogs.”

The suggestion had been my way of allowing him to even the score. I’d give him my number, and this time he could reject me. Things would return to normal; I’d be able to drink in peace. As he handed me his number, still uninterested I said, “I’m really bad about calling people. Even my friends get mad at me. I almost never use the phone.”

My technique, of course, worked like a charm. After that evening BB was only too happy to stop me to chat or inquire after Martha, even as my friends sat in waiting at the other end of the bar. So proud of myself was I, eyeing his little grin of victory.

I sighed, and picked up yet a third index card, this one containing no numbers. On the same night I visited the psychic, BB had walked to the back of the bar to retrieve this card, then walked over to where I was sitting and handed it to me. Looking at the card, the song “Three is a Magic Number” from School*house Rocks floated through my head. The card was an invitation to the bar’s 3rd anniversary party.

“It starts kinda early,” he told me as he made his best attempt at a casual pass off.

“But there’ll be Cajun food and a band and stuff,” he continued looking uneasy, “so come if you want or whatever.”

The card said the party started at 5 pm on a Sunday, no doubt designed to accommodate families and fashioned at a time when only those who knew of the party’s existence would show. Still studying the words, I pondered BB’s intent behind handing me the invite. I hadn’t seen him give the card to anyone else that night, not even Devon, the friend who accompanied me. In the past week I hadn’t seen any member of the staff hand out the notification to anyone else.

Should I go? Twice he passed a card across the bar, and twice I’d done nothing in response. Was this my last chance? But yet again, did I really like Bartender-Boy? Was I being fair to him? Did I hold an affection for him or was he nothing more than a muse? Over the past few weeks, I’d written fiction only to go back and reread it as fact. Was my crush on BB influenced by my character’s crush on her BB? Or had I liked him subconsciously all along and that’s why I wrote her little crush? I couldn’t discern fantasy from reality anymore.

If I truly liked BB, there must have been a moment when I realized it. I scanned through the writing searching for a clue.

The park. Ana had fallen for him at the park. For me, it had been that day at the park, but it wasn’t his glasses. What was it? What changed my mind?

In darkness, BB often appeared as a disaffected and bored malcontent, relegated to the task of providing drinks for young stupid scenesters, or worse yet, people trying to be scenesters, or even occasionally, people so tragically unhip that they attempted to be hipsters, unaware that the movement became grossly uncool the moment Paris H*lton donned a trucker hat. The rest of the crowd was musicians, musician meaning they might play somewhere a handful of times a year. BB was superior to all of us and drew his superhero strength from what I’ve always called the ‘magic of the bar.’ Whoever is behind the bar has the power: power to give you drinks, power to cut you off, power to flirt without consequence, power to be as rude as they wish because, heck, it’s like a cool bar and whoever you are, you’re lucky to be here and even if you choose not to tip, there’s fifteen slightly drunk girls standing behind you in tight jeans (no flaring at the ankles!) and ballet-slipper-like Vans who are more than happy to tip as well as take ten minutes to fawn all over the bartender protesting another patron’s rudeness.

I had an odd status, if I had any, at my bar. I didn’t go there to seen, as was evident from my regular ensemble of jeans, flip-flops, and natural-colored hair. Nope, I went there because the place was within walking distance and I didn’t give a crap who spoke with me as long as I held a glass of red wine in my fat little hands. When Wine-Time-Girl and I first began visiting the bar, people would stop and ask, “Why are you drinking wine at a place like this?”

Jerk that I am, I would smile and say, “It’s ironic,” and the followers would nod and grin.

(By the way, irony went out with the hipsters.)

For a long time I was the only person who drank wine in the bar. More recently it seems to be a popular item. No one could ever quite peg WTG and I, though several random patrons have tried to squeeze me into the sub-culture category of ‘craftster’ as I make most of my own jewelry.

My relationship with BB was non-existent, he didn’t condescend to me, but he didn’t find me cool either. For about six months we had the same conversation every time I stood in the bar:

Ana: Red wine, please.
BB: Five Dollars.

Oh, the good old days. I never paid much attention to him except to note that he looked like he was trying to be cool or thought he was cool behind the bar in his superhero uniform of t-shirt (possibly purchased at threadless) and jeans ripped just so.

But that day at the park BB stopped to give the poodle some water. Though early in the day, it was already hot, and he worried about her condition. He didn’t have a bowl and found a plastic bag that he filled, carefully setting it down on the ground for her. While monitoring the dog, he spoke to me about his attempts to train the dog properly, right down to choosing her name. He was so earnest in his effort to the right thing for the dog, so gentle. He wasn’t behind the bar, wasn’t wearing his uniform, and he looked almost vulnerable, just a little geeky red-haired boy with his dog. For the first time he wasn’t a caricature, he was real.

And I hadn’t been playing Ana, the flirtatious, assertive, independent woman exuding confidence with a healthy side portion of compulsiveness. I was just a girl with her dog, standing in my pj’s, frizzy hair falling in my face.

That’s why I asked him if he wanted to hang out outside of the bar. I wanted to see the boy from that day again.

Wait a second, this party was designed to be a small get-together of friends and family? Oh my god, he told me he had a girlfriend. Would she be there? Had he invited me because he wanted me to be present or was this simply an entrée to my comeuppance? Was the invitation his way of telling me, “Hey, it’s great that you come to bar every other day and stare at me and stuff, but let me introduce you to reality.”

Worse yet, what if for some reason in addition to such he’d found the blog? What if everyone at the bar knew of it? Would my appearance at the party be akin to Scarlett O’Hara’s attendance of Ashley Wilkes’ birthday party? Damn, should I wear red?

“You’re being completely neurotic,” Wine-Time-Girl told me over the phone. “He has no idea about the blog.”

“Okay, maybe not,” I conceded, “but I am getting a little delusional.”

“Delusional?” she said. “Criminy, you’re holding two index cards in your hands with his phone number on them. There’s no way you’re totally off-base, but we’re going on Sunday. We’ll see the girl and we’ll have a better idea of what’s going on.”

“She won’t be there,” I insisted. “He wouldn’t have invited me otherwise. Besides, I’m convinced the girlfriend is just a metaphor, a symbol of something greater, his own personal obstacle, whether it be fear of commitment, fear of being hurt, fear of loss, fear of being out-classed, fear of abandonment, or a run-of-the-mill Oedipal complex. If he’s dating someone, it’s not in the true ‘girlfriend’ sense.”

“You think?” Wine-Time-Girl asked.

“Either that,” I answered, “or he’s married with kids.”

So Sunday came around and WTG showed up at my door dressed to kill. For a moment I considered forgetting my heterosexuality and asking her upstairs, but instead we meandered over to PG. The bar itself was empty, but as I looked down the dark red corridor, I could see a crowd on the outside patio and hear music playing. WTG and I ordered a glass of wine, but once it was received, I couldn’t bring myself to tread any further.


[I stole this picture.]

“I’m so sorry I dragged you out,” I told her as we sat at a small table, my back to the patio. “We came here to see him and now I can’t do it.”

“It’s okay,” she told me as I maintained a death grip on my wine. “Heck, we don’t even know if he’s here. Oh wait, I see him. He’s here.”

I was already deep into my second glass when WTG touched my shoulder and said, “Ok, it’s time.”

Though the outside was chock full of bar-goers, there were relatively few people there, maybe fifty at most. The normal scenester crowd was absent, and instead stood a group of normal-clad everyday people. Small children ran across the gravel, occasionally running into the arms of women whose only betrayal of deviance from the norm was a random piercing coupled with an Audrey Hepburn haircut. My eyes focused on the brass band, once refugees but now citizens of Big City. A few horns, and a couple drums, that was really all you needed. For a moment I lost myself in the music and recalled the days when I’d been a singer. Before I had the courage to express my sentiments in written word, before I even knew the words that contained my feelings, my life had been song. I stopped to enjoy the reverence and purity of the moment before WTG leaned towards me to whisper into my ear.


[Yep, stole this one, too]

“Um, I’m trying to keep a lookout for you,” she said. “Problem is, every time I try to casually glance in his direction, he’s already looking over here.”

I laughed. That was what BB and I did. For over six months we’d looked, watching each other’s movements, facial expressions, and mannerisms, but scarcely said a word. Sometimes we communicated through our gestures, appearing to say one thing to another person while really speaking to each other.

“Hello.”

The sound came from behind me and I turned around. There he was, not in his superhero costume, but rather in a plaid short-sleeved button down and shorts, coke-bottle glasses, red hair unkempt and curling in all directions from the humidity. He looked like a cross between Charlie Brown and Kermit the Frog, and I say that with the utmost ardor.

Then, with his brief greeting, he headed towards the keg. Was that it? WTG and I found a set of chairs and sat down. As the music neared an end she said, “Are you ready to leave in about fifteen?

“Sure, I replied.

Why stay?

As WTG and I headed out we passed BB. I waved goodbye and he responded with a head nod, not the normal nice to see you nod but, the nod where you lift your chin up, squint your eyes, and beckon towards the sky.

What the hell was that?

As soon as WTG and I were out of earshot I sighed, “WHAT A DOUCHE BAG! Here I was, worried about how he felt, painstakingly analyzing my every move, and he gives me the ‘I’m so cool, I’m a bartender bullshit?’ Oh, and by the way, where exactly was the girl? I sure as hell didn’t see one. Augh! What a fake! What a phony! Gross! I can’t believe I fell for that! Ugh!”

Sure, in BB’s mind he invited me to the party, I came, and he said hello, BUT someone apparently forgot to inform Bartender-Boy that I had a blog to write. Granted for him this was an occasional casual encounter during which we exchanged approximately ten to fifty words, but come on! Dude, read the blog, we’ve got a popular series going on here. The man was interfering with my artistic expression. And not only that, I maybe kinda sorta might just have liked him a little bit. Oh, the humanity!


[I am now officially a photograph stealing whore.]

“Ana, calm down,” WTG said as we reached the exit.

“Who the hell does he think he is? What the heck does he want? This is so dumb. SO DUMB! Bleh. I need to be ill…and I’m hungry.”

By the time we got back to my house, I was fired up beyond belief.

“Why don’t you come with me and the boyfriend to sushi?” WTG said.

Screw that. Screw being the third wheel, even if WTG and her BF always made me feel as if it wasn’t so. I was a freakin’ disaster, a failure, doomed to wander the earth muttering inanities. I sprawled myself out across my patio table in full dramatic gesture. Okay, maybe it was just that I hated sushi.

“No, I need to finish this,” I told her. “You must go.”

“What are you going to do?” WTG asked.

“Don’t bother with it,” I said. “The bridge must be burned. I’ve gotten caught up in my own story line, lost my sense of perspective and objectivity. This is only going to get worse. I have to cut it off.”

“Well,” she said before she walked away, “don’t do anything stupid.”

“Stupid?” I replied. “He and I live in the most eccentric neighborhood of a major metropolitan city and on top of that, he’s a bartender. I’ve got a wide range of discretion here. There’s almost nothing I could do to phase this guy.”

As Wine-Time-Girl walked away, I flipped open my phone to compose a text message. Ana was about to come out to play.

Sorry...

Hey Blog Readers,
I feel like Ana has gone a little MIA. I want to write and I actually have stuff I want to write about...unfortunately, I've got this little thing called law school going on and I'm trying to figure out when I'm going to write in between obligations related to reading, class attendance, part-time job, journal duties, (my somewhat imaginary) social life, and spending quality time with the dog. I'll figure it out here soon.

The nice thing about being a 3L...

Every so often, as you're doing your reading you come across a ten page case and realize you already read it for a different class last year. Yay for small joys in life.

PS-If you read the Getting Laid post yesterday or early this morning, it has been substantially updated since then.

Women Get Laid...

Every so often Ana gets a piece of mail, and while she usually responds to it privately, she received a note the other day that she thought might be well-served by a public response where others can benefit…

Hi. I stumbled on your blog while researching law schools …

…Oh, and by the way, you used the phrase "getting laid" in one of your recent posts - women don't get laid, men get laid. Women put out. Sex and the City isn't reality.

[name redacted]

Dear Gentle Reader,

Thanks for the nice things you said in the email. That last part really bugged me though.

To me, the belief the women only put out implies that men are always willing to engage in sex and women hold all the decision-making reins. Men are the getters and women are the givers.

This is simply not true. Just as I have turned down the opportunity for sex, so have I, as cute, smart, witty, and humble as I am, had men deny me when I broached the subject. It's a two-way street. Sex should only ever occur when both participants actively and mutually agree to engage in it. (Why do I suddenly feel an urge to bust out with a lecture on Contracts?)

I will not even bother delving into the issue of dissecting 'putting out' when only two men or two women are involved.

Also if 'putting out' suggests that women make the ultimate decision in sex then it follows that women are additionally charged with the burden of moral gatekeepers. This is not only unfair to women, but also insulting to men in general. I know many men who are able to make intelligent, reasoned decisions with regard to their libido. Men are not an inferior sex that deserve to be reduced to salivating animals. Men are my equals.

And now I’ve said ‘moral,’ a relative term if there ever was one. While there are many situations in which sex involves a moral decision (whatever 'moral' may mean to you), sex in and of itself is as neutral and innate to the human experience as eating, sleeping, and going to the bathroom. Too many in this country subscribe to the view that sex is evil and only in limited contexts is it even kinda-sorta ok. Thank the Puritans for that one.

Perhaps my best argument against “women put out" is the fact that during periods of celibacy, whether self-imposed or otherwise, when I feel a little, uh, itch, never once has the thought come to mind, “Gee, I should really fix this and go put out.”

No, it is usually, “Man, I need to get laid.”

I’m going to let you in on a little secret: WOMEN LIKE SEX, TOO. We don’t always admit it, because well, there’s still a large contingency out there that seems to think that makes us whorish. Why those of us who know better didn’t call BS on this earlier is beyond me. Maybe it was because until recently women couldn’t vote or work and stuff and needed to rely on men in some capacity. Believe me, if women didn’t enjoy sex, humans would have reached extinction a long time ago. Brawn doesn't count for everything.

I'm sort of flying off the handle here and jumping to conclusions, but here's the real reason why I find putting out so off-putting.

Putting out? Like I'm a coke machine, you drop in a quarter, and I put out. Are you kidding me? If this is how men are viewing sex, then it's no wonder I can't get laid. [Ana shivers.]

'Putting out' sounds like a job.

"Okay, ladies. Once everybody puts out you can all go home."

Ick. That's no fun. Putting out doesn't even sound charitable. I can't even write it off on my taxes.

'Getting laid' does sound fun (to me at least). Laid makes me think of lying down, lying in bed, taking a break. The get implies I'm receiving something...like presents! So yeah, presents in bed! I'd rather associate sex with Christmas morning than performing a task.

I am sure that there are plenty of men and women out there who feel as you do: Men get laid. Women put out. For the sake of their sex lives, I beg them to reconsider their viewpoints on sex, their bodies, and even how they view themselves. The prospect of great sex is one of few things that allows me to get out of bed in the morning. And this is coming from a die-hard romantic.

Sorry dude.

It's my blog and I'll get laid if I want to.

I remain affectionately yours,
Ana

Memories from 1L...

Prof asks a question generally directed at entire class.

Ana, sitting in the back row, mutters something under her breath.

Random kid sitting next to Ana, raises hand and waves it wildly.

When the prof calls on kid, they repeat Ana’s sentiment verbatim.

Prof tells kid how insightful they are.

Ana starts to chuckle, tries to stifle it, and ends up snorting rather loudly.

Everyone in class looks up and makes a mental note regarding the rude girl in the back row.

To all the new 1L's - Have fun and remember not to take things too seriously.

And don't worry, the very next week I made sure to mutter something completely idiotic. the prof was so disappointed in the kid's answer.

The Cultural Exposure that Friends Provide...

Alex: Hey Ana, whatcha doin'?
Ana: Reading Borges. Why?
Alex: Well, we bought a bottle of Double Chocolate Stout and we just found a half gallon of vanilla ice cream. We were thinking of doing some experimenting and making ice cream floats.
Ana: Yeah, I might be up for that.

It was, um, interesting. Really chocolatey at first with quite the stout after kick. Who wants to try pouring red wine over chocolate cake?

Paranoia and the Paranormal...

I spent my early evening sitting at the café discussing politics, socioeconomics, religion, and women’s rights with a group of friends. At times the conversation became heated, I intent on expressing my viewpoint no matter how disfavored as another girl quieted and waited for a less controversial topic. After two bottles of wine, a shared pack of cigarettes, and a slice of chocolate cake, I motioned to my friend Devon that it was time to make our exit.

You see, we had plans. Super-duper top secret plans. A few weeks earlier my friend Eff and I were driving to dinner and he pointed out a small sign.

“Em and I went there,” he said. “It was freaky. You should try it.”

Devon and I traveled on foot down the sidewalk until we came to an old brick apartment building. In the window of the first floor flat was a neon sign that read, “Psychic and Card Reader.” Sure, it was a waste of money, but where else would we spend it besides at the bar? It was our last year of law school and Devon and I both felt as if we were at a crossroads. Maybe the stars had something to say about it.

The two of us walked through the entrance and buzzed the apartment. A few minutes later, a hulk of a woman appeared at the door, dressed in a nightgown and house slippers. Her blue eyes bulged and wavy red hair encompassed her head like a halo.

“Come in,” she said with an accent that betrayed an eastern European origin. “I was just on the phone with my husband. Can you believe, my whole life I live in New York City, and then one day, a man stops to ask me for directions to Shea Stadium? He is crazy, we fall in love, and now, I live here, in Big City.”

Devon and I sat down at a small table lined in plastic.

“OH!” said the psychic before I could even reach for my wallet, “What are you doing with your life? You were supposed to be a therapist! You sense emotional pain in others and you help them deal with it. You’re a healer.”

As I dug through my canvas bag, I paused. Did I really want to fork over my hard-loaned cash, due with compounding interest, for an evening where someone told me everything that was wrong with my life? Sure, why not?

The old lady asked for an object of mine to hold. On second thought, she wanted my watch because I was obsessed lately with time.

“SO MANY MEN!” she said as she ran the band through her fingers.

Great. Here we go again.

“Lady, I haven’t had a date since I can’t remember when,” I told her.

“Don’t be so coy,” she said. “There is something about you that many men find attractive, but,” she continued, “to be specific, the brown-haired man who travels to LA for business, he thinks about you and wonders if you might be the one. Another man on the west coast, dark hair, golden brown eyes, his father abandoned his mother – he thinks of you as well."

The second guy is my first serious boyfriend after college. He’s always categorized me as ‘the one that got away.’ Because of this, his wife no longer allows him to speak to me.

“And I don’t like this macho guy,” she continued. “He was born outside of the country, possibly an Arab. He likes to think himself progressive, but he will return to his traditions and that will be bad for you. In fact, if you end up with him, he will try to make you return with him to his home country. Very bad.”

Um, that might be my most recent long-term boyfriend from Turkey who was in town last week.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “you haven’t met your soulmate yet. He’ll come along in 2-3 years, and though you tend to favor boys with dark hair, this man is a sandy blond with ties to Connecticut.”

Connecticut? Could she name a more boring state? I tend to think of Connecticut as the great union of wonder bread and milquetoast.

“He’s also a doctor,” she added, “or maybe a vet because I see him holding a rabbit.”

I didn’t bother to ask whether said soulmate was healing the rabbit or performing experiments on it.

The psychic continued on, telling me that my father was a teddy-bear when it came to me (true), that my mother was very, very strong, but had also been mean to me at times (no comment), and that my sister was the wisest of all of us, though mean to men (who knows). She was still rambling when suddenly she stopped and said, “WAIT! Who is this red-haired man?”

I only know one guy with red hair, and I’m pretty sure he’s ‘just not that into me.’

The psychic chuckled. “Ha-ha-ha. He is afraid of you, BUT,” she clutched her chest, “he loves you and he is such a good man. SUCH A GOOD MAN. A pure soul, just like you. So loyal. So devoted. He will NEVER cheat on you.”

She continued to babble energetically, “A very high IQ despite a lack of formal education. You are so good for each other, but you are suffering from a miscommunication. He watches you from afar, but he also notices the way other men watch you. He wants you to make a bold gesture so he can be certain. You should go to his house unannounced and tell him how you feel!”

“You’re nuts if you think I am going to show up at some guy’s house,” I told her.

With the small exception of a guy in high school, experience told me that boys weren’t really fond of chicks just dropping by to say hi. And how would you explain that if it wasn't well received? Sorry dude, my psychic told me to do it.

“This is true,” she said, “it is not your way. Ah, what can we do to fix things?”

I tried to veer the conversation to other avenues, but the woman kept returning to the red-haired boy.

“I swear, if you get this guy, he is a man and a half! So cute! Of Irish descent! And such a good heart, too! He sends money to someone, possibly to his mother to help pay her mortgage, or another woman in the Midwest, maybe Chicago. He likes movies. A lot. He may work behind the scenes on them at some point."

“I don’t think he likes me,” I told her.

“Because you waited to return his affection, you silly girl,” she told me. “He is angry that you took your sweet time in responding, AND in the meantime, he had to watch you and ALL THOSE MEN! So tragic!”

Tragic, indeed. I’d come for a little entertainment only to find out that I’d forked over $20 to be bitch-slapped.

“Well,” I defended myself, “the entire situation is completely moot because he has a girlfriend.”

“HA!” she cackled, “He told you that? HE LIES! He thinks you will use him and move on. He’s seen you flirt and then be fickle with men.”

Oh yeah, that’s me, the great conniving temptress. She flirts with boys and then walks away. Harlot!

“So this guy in Connecticut,” I segued.

“NO!” She pounded her fist on the table. “THE RED-HAIRED BOY! I LIKE YOU WITH THE RED-HAIRED BOY!”

And with that I got up from the table. If she was talking about the guy I was thinking about, he didn't like me, and now she was just being mean.

Devon left her reading equally dazed. We were walking out when the woman came running after us.

“Ana! Wait! Take my phone number and call me tomorrow. I’m going to pray for you and find out what to do about the red-haired boy!”

She was so persistent. Was it possible that I was wrong?

“Gee-eez,” I said to Devon as we hit the sidewalk. “What time is it? We need a drink.”

Devon and I moseyed over to the PG bar, and I’ve never been so happy to walk into a familiar place. Bartender-Boy seemed equally glad to see us, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Since the embarrassing evening, my guy-friends and I had stopped by a few times, but BB had all but ignored me. Maybe I was finally back in good graces.

After receiving our glasses of wine, a drunk blond-haired guy latched on to a conversation with Devon and myself. Thanks to the psychic, I wanted nothing more to do with men that evening and leaned so hard in the opposite direction that I practically fell off of the stool. After five minutes without success another man approached and asked if we needed a ‘cock-block.’

“Please” I acknowledged appreciatively, only to feel molested when the intended hero embraced me and began to rub himself all over me.

I screamed, “What the heck, dude? Have some respect for personal space!”

At least the blond guy wasn’t touching me.

“This isn’t normally a creepy bar,” I said to Devon after the guy left. “that’s why I come here – so men DON’T hit on me. Well, that and the whole 'within walking distance' thing.”

Devon and I drank our drinks, occasionally chatting with BB. He thought it was funny that I’d kicked a guy off a barstool so that Devon and I could sit together. I swear, BB must have eyes in the back of his head. I didn’t remember him even being near us when that happened.

“Sorry,” I said. “We’re a little goosey tonight. We just saw this psychic and it was totally messed up. What do you think of psychics?”

“I think they’ll tell you whatever you want to hear in order to make you come back and spend more money,” BB replied.

“That,” I affirmed, “is the best advice I’ve been given all night.”

Who needs psychics when you have an all-knowing bartender?

Back at my house, Devon and I lay on the bed waiting for sobriety to return as we recounted the inanity of the evening, which included a girl stealing my lighter and then fleeing to bathroom for asylum.

“You should have seen BB’s face when that guy grabbed you,” Devon laughed. “I thought he was going to be ill.”

“Yeah, he probably gets tired of watching guys blatantly hit on women,” I said as I balled up the psychic’s number and sent it sailing across the room.

As the paper landed squarely in the waste basket, I continued, “He’s a good bartender, though, and I do like his red hair.”