“Last night was incredible. Call me.” —This was the note that a very cute, very normal boy left on my bedside table on Sunday morning. I would be doing the “Go me” dance if it weren’t for the fact that I was not the first person to discover his lovely little message. No, tragically, that honor goes to the only two people in this world who I would prefer to think I’m still a virgin: My mother and father. Allow me to tell this harrowing tale from the beginning.
As I said in my last post, the girls and I had big plans to go out and celebrate my newly single status. My best friend, Ashley, made a reservation at this amazing restaurant that serves champagne at the entrance to the bathroom. Champagne. At the entrance to the bathroom. Genius, I tell you! I was doing some serious justice to this little leather mini—an impulse buy, which at the time was a size too small, from one of those flash sale sites. But because I’ve been too depressed to abuse Dominoes two times a week like I used to, it fits for the first time since…ever. So there I was, looking hot, with four of my closest friends, and refreshingly, having too much fun to think about Eric/The Break-Up. After we paid our bill, we decided to check out this bar downtown. But there was some fierce competition on 7th Avenue to catch a cab, and because we were a party of five, we needed two taxis to fit all of us. When we finally flagged one down, Ashley and I gave it to the rest of the group and told them we would meet them there. We were waiting for a second cab when two guys approached us.
“Are you two going downtown?” One of them asked.
Ashley and I nodded.
“Want to share a cab?”
I would have said yes even if they were completely busted, because four people hustling for a cab is better than two, but as an added bonus, they were far from unfortunate looking. Their names were Ben and Mark, and Ashley, being the amazing wing-woman that she is, convinced them to blow off the party they were headed to and come have a drink with us. They were both cute, but Mark was more of the “look” I go for—tall, dark hair, and scruffy facial hair. Extra credit: He had light eyes. Light eyes and dark hair are my Achilles heel.
When we got to the bar, Mark asked me what I was drinking, and I just KNEW it was on. Even though he seemed normal, I still stood by his side and watched him like a paranoid freak as he ordered my drink, to ensure he didn’t drop anything in there. After he passed the not-a-rapist test, we ended up talking for almost two hours in a cozy corner of the bar. He has a pretty sweet job—he’s an Agent-In-Training at a Talent Agency, AKA a mini Ari Gold—and he had plenty of good stories about actors and actresses who are legit off their rockers. I deal with my fair share of crazy as a research assistant to a very famous, very neurotic author who shall remain nameless, so it was nice to swap war stories. And, he kept doing this thing that gave me the uh-oh feeling in my stomach: Whenever someone would try to squeeze behind me to order a drink, he would put his hand on my hip, and gently scooch me aside. Around 1 AM, Mark said the magical words that all tall, dark and handsome guys say to women in every rom com I’ve ever seen:
“Want to get out of here?”
We ended up back at my place, where we had an intense, almost completely naked make out sesh that lasted all night. Every time we took a break and started drifting off, we’d just start making out again. He’s the first person I’ve hooked up with other than Eric in five years, and thank god it was as awesome as it was, otherwise I don’t think my achy breaky heart could have handled it.
But when I woke up in the morning, Mark was nowhere to be found. Ouch doesn’t begin to cover how I felt. I didn’t have time to wallow though, because my parents were coming into town (they’re only a half hour train ride from NYC) to spend the day with me and see a play that evening. Since the show wouldn’t be over until later, the plan was for them to spend the night at my place, and I would sleep over Ashley’s. So I forced myself to change my sheets and quickly shower before dashing out the door to meet my parents, and spent the whole day wondering why the hell Mark ditched out on me. I am not one of those crazy girls who thinks she has some special connection to every guy she meets, but damnit, we had a connection!
And this is where sh*t gets weird. I didn’t return to my apartment until after work on Monday evening, and when I walked into my bedroom, I discovered The Note, which had been very purposed placed in the center of bed: “Last night was incredible. Call Me.” (He left his number too). My giddiness lasted about a nanosecond until reality kicked in…I had changed my sheets on Sunday morning, that note wasn’t there when I left, so someone must have found it and Oh.My.God.
Clearly what happened was this: My parents got back here Sunday night, stumbled upon the evidence of my harpie ways (Maybe it was on my bedside table? Or it fell on the floor when I changed my sheets that morning? Will I ever know??), and left it in a very obvious spot for me to find. The worst part is, I didn’t even have sex with him! But my parents probably assume I did, and there is no way for me to let them know the truth without engaging in a conversation that will surely scar us all for life. As embarrassed as I am, I can’t lie—I’m too excited about the fact that Mark thinks my make-out skills are “incredible” (what-what) and that he wants me to call him. I’m back in the game, baby.
What’s the most awkward moment you’ve ever had with your parents?
From Cosmopolitan.com. Visit Amazon Beauty Center here
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Although self-proclaimed feminists like Amy Poehler, the meteoric rise of Lena Dunham as well as books like Caitlin Moran's How To Be a Woman have gone a long way to change the dialogue about feminism (e.g. feminism and "Feminazis" aren't the same thing, if you're a woman who votes, you're inherently a feminist, etc.). Unfortunately, the word still has an intensely negative, intimidating connotation for, say, that creep Vlad from the marketing team who has entire conversations with your tits at the office party. In other words: Ass clowns at work.