Category Archives: At the Bar with Courtney


My friend the bartender, of previous “inappropriate weeknight drinking” blog-lore, recently left her position at my go-to bar and posted up at a restaurant/bar inside Grand Rapids’ notorious “tourist building”. At first notification of this transition I got angry and blamed her for effectively ruining my social life and putting a halt to all things blog-worthy. You can feel free to momentarily blame her for my absence as well, but I think you’ll change your tune once you read on.



Last week I finally gave in and ventured into what I assumed was an area sanctioned only for those with bedazzled jeans, afraid that I would instantly be infected with Nickelback fandom and a sudden urge to pound a Jager-bomb. I just couldn’t leave my dear friend all alone in there to fend for herself (And I was honestly at a loss for where else to go by myself) so I gave it a go.

Tonight, since I had already familiarized myself with the terrain and I knew that I needed to get my mouth around those bacon-wrapped scallops again, I decided to go ahead and pop in to visit my friend once more, on a Monday night. I sort of liked that there were no 22-year-olds shouting at each other. There were only real live grownups, drinking real live grownup drinks and minding their own business. Minding one’s own business isn’t great for blog fodder, however, so I obviously tuned into a few of the patrons.

Gilly's. Classy without an uncomfortable amount of class.

Gilly’s. Classy without an uncomfortable amount of class.

One man, who sat proudly next to his hard-hat while he alternately drank both his bottle of Corona and his tall Long Island Iced Tea, told Courtney to put my next drink on his tab. I was much obliged and a little surprised considering my greasy hair and general Am-ish (sort of Amish…) outfit, but I accepted nonetheless. I was drinking a Grey Goose martini, after all, and those aren’t cheap. Once I thanked the small man and went back to my sumptuous scallops, it became clear to me that I was betrothed to conversation with him for the duration of his stay. He asked me the requisite “getting to know a stranger” questions and I answered as sincerely as I could (which we all know is terribly difficult for me). I told him that I was a writer but that I spent my time as a customer service rep to pay the bills. He seemed intrigued with my writing and axed (yep) a million more questions about the blog, so I gave him a card. That may have been a mistake since I’m currently writing about him. Oh well.

This man would sit quietly, drowning in his dual-fists of alcohol until I put a giant bite of food into my mouth, at which point he would ask me a question that required much more than a simple “yes or no”. I would put up the “effing WAIT a minute!” finger and answer to the best of my ability. He asked me what I ordered and I told him they were scallops, as innocently as one answers a food-related question. He then said, “Oh, so you like seafood, then”, in such a lecherous manner that I felt instantly naked. As if my affirmative answer was somehow payment to him for that $12 dirty martini he naively purchased for me. Luckily, after several more minutes of attempted conversation, the small man moved on with his life, taking my business card with him.

The absence of yet another tiny suitor left me to observe my friend the bartender. She’s a magical creature with powers I’ll never understand. She had three middle-aged men on the opposite side of the bar metaphorically bending to kiss her feet. This became especially relevant when they began to woo her with tales of their self-importance. I sat, smugly watching from afar as they promised her a free pair of Timberland non-slip shoes. They were, after all, very important men at the company. They commended her on how nice she was, before she even knew how important they were. And then they said something that will remain in my nightmares forever, “See? You were meant to wear us!” (Confusing and gross). And, as a side note, nobody who shows up in poorly pressed plaid button-downs and white athletic shoes can be that important. I glanced away from the threesome and looked back just in time to see them take a group selfie and discard the first attempt after a brief veto from the double chin police. I had to stifle a snort. Or maybe it would have been a chortle. We’ll never know.

The Timberland crew at rapt attention.

The Timberland crew at rapt attention.

As I prepared to leave, the bar began filling up with even more middle to old-aged men. I was hesitant to leave such a goldmine but contented with what my bartending friend left me. She has a way of sidling up to any group of men and by simply remembering their drink order, making them hear, “Oh yes, big daddy. Do me! Do me for as long as your little blue pill will allow! There’s no pressure here!”

Gos bless you, miss Courtney. What would I do without you and your legions of suitors? In all seriousness, Courtney is an amazing bartender and I will follow her to the ends of Mcfadden’s if I have to. Ok…so that’s going a bit far. I may burst into flames if I enter Mc’Frat-ens. Gilly’s at the BOB, however, isn’t so bad. It’s sort of good, actually. I stand corrected.

Is This Crease Taken?

Last night brought me back to my usual watering hole in search of a cold beer and some air-conditioning. At this bar, they need to prepare for high-capacity so they jam as many bar stools (with backs) across the bar as they can. This does not allow for any space between seats. If you don’t know your neighbor, you will after you unpeel your thigh from theirs. Fast friends. The closeness of the stools also makes it difficult to get in or out of your seat. Any time I have to use the bathroom, put a song on the juke or just air out my underknees it turns into an Olympic sport. Sliding the stool out without disrupting the lives of those around you is an undertaking. I generally start by shoving my knees against the bar and slightly dislodging my stool from the kerfuffle. Then, I stop for a moment and meditate on my choice to say “kerfuffle”. Once I have jiggled free, I push the stool out from the line, completely blocking the flow of walking traffic. Then, I unstick my thighs from the shellacked wood and hope to the Gos that my skirt hasn’t tucked into my underwear.

Really pack ’em in there!

Apart from the physicality of getting in and out of the seat, the vicinity of the stools to one another also makes it extremely difficult for those who weren’t fortunate enough to get a seat at the bar. Not difficult to order, mind you. The bartenders are consummate professionals and they can take an order from a mile away with Journey blaring into their ears. They’re that good. The difficulty comes in gathering the drinks you purchased. Last night, a very blonde man whispered in my ear while basically rubbing his five-o-clock shadow on my shoulder in an attempt to grab his Coors. What he said was something along the lines of, “I’m not trying to be weird, I just need my beer”. I probably could have just handed it to him.

With a sudden urge to empty my bladder I embarked on another “get off this stool” journey and headed to the bathroom. My hand instinctively fluttered to my backside to be sure there was no cottage cheese on the menu for the other patrons. I was intact. My skirt was still pointing in the right direction. I successfully peed (yes!) and headed back up the stairs with my friend the bartender at my rear. I wish she wouldn’t have been since she decided the best way to handle that situation was to lift my skirt up and giggle. A few times. This is all in good fun until someone realizes I’m wearing granny panties and makes sure to throw that into conversation at least once every ten minutes or so. It’s true. I was wearing granny panties. Although, I think they’re just regular panties that are in a size most fit for someone’s grandmother. All I know is that when I struggle to climb down and around one of the bar stools, if my skirt gets caught up in the fight at least my bum is covered.

Mine do NOT extend above sea level.

So, that was 500 words on the state of the bar stools at my favorite bar. This is what it has come to. This wouldn’t be happening if someone agreed to send me to London.


Natural Habitats and Mean-Spirited Observations

We all have places in which we feel at home. Comfortable enough to be ourselves and laugh at others who aren’t. Or, others who are themselves, but their selves are such a caricature of a personality that it’s just hilarious. I was fortunate enough to find myself in my own natural habitat, observing many out-of-towners who were not. Unfortunately, I was alone and without someone to bounce my witticisms off of. (I hate that previous sentence but I’m too lazy to figure out a different way of saying it.) So I texted myself little reminders and smirked like a cocky idiot all evening. You’re welcome.

Yesterday was a long work day and as is my usual coping method, I headed to my favorite bar after work. I did not realize that there was a concert at the local arena (Pink Floyd). If I had known, I would have avoided the entire downtown area at all costs. However, since I was already there and had already found parking I decided to stay. I quickly scanned the floor to see if any of my kindred regulars were in attendance but I was alone. Alone among the “pre-concert-goers”. Given the projected fan base of Pink Floyd, you can imagine the age group I was dealing with. Sure, there were a few twenty-something stragglers with hippie sandals and red, squinty eyes but the majority of the crowd was 40+. This is not typical of this particular bar. It was not their natural habitat.

I had a great vantage point from the end of the bar and was able to shroud myself in “don’t talk to me” vibes while I observed. The group of men nearest me looked to be in their early 40s and were excited about life. They ordered drink after drink and attempted to make small talk with me. I shot them “the eyebrow” and buried my attention once again in my phone. I wasn’t even doing anything with it. I was just arbitrarily dragging my finger across the screen. Don’t act like you’ve never done it. Two of the men appeared to be twins, although one was definitely “the fat one”. Each of them stared at me unabashedly. Right in the eyes. Even when I was clearly looking back at them, once again using the eyebrow to indicate impatience. Stared right at me. For long periods of time. Both of them. I heard one of them say that he was happily married about seven times, and then I watched him sidle over to the middle of the bar and pounce on two small town cougars. It was at this point in the early evening when I stopped trying to conceal my amusement.

I noticed these women immediately when they came in and knew they would offer some form of entertainment before the night was through. They were dressed to the nines for their special night out to see Pink Floyd. “Nines” meaning extremely low-cut halter tops, too much makeup and honest-to-god glitter. Glitter. I didn’t realize you could even buy glitter anymore, unless it came in a roll-on tube with her teenage daughter’s Taylor Swift CD. They were both sunburned and had used too much face powder to try to deny it. They were a mess but weren’t letting that stop them from throwing out the giggle-vibes to the enthusiastic-twins. Taking a cue from the creepy brothers, I was now openly staring at the debacle unfolding before my eyes. They were whispering, giggling, leaning in and flipping their crispy-blonde hair. All of their best moves were showcased and I almost felt privileged to see it. During one of the lean-ins I caught a glimpse of Tammy’s upper arm. (There’s an 85% chance that her name was actually Tammy.) There, etched into her doughy flesh was a tribal arm-band tattoo. With a butterfly as the centerpiece. Tell me her name isn’t Tammy. I scoffed, of course, but chalked it up to a white-trash 90s mistake. After all, I have tragedy-comedy masks on my hipbone (where a bone presumably is) from 2003. Then I noticed that it was glistening. Not glittering like her browbones, but glistening. As if it had a sheen of Bacitracin to protect it from infection in its infancy. It was a NEW butterfly-tribal-armband tattoo. NEW. I can forgive the Nick Lachey’s of the world for their ridiculous tribal armbands because they were slaves to the aesthetic trends of the 90s. I cannot and will not forgive a modern choice to tattoo that on one’s body. I just can’t. It wasn’t even done ironically. Not unless she was living her entire life ironically. If that was the case then she’s the best hipster I’ve ever seen. Ever.

Guess which one is Tammy

Growing bored with Tammy and company (and a little nervous one of them might try to fight me, trailer park-style) I turned my attention to two gentlemen who had been standing on my left. One looked normal enough, although he was wearing a Pink Floyd T-shirt to a Pink Floyd concert, which is an obvious indicator of dorkdom. The other was an older man, probably in his 50s, with an overgrown bowl-cut sitting underneath his dirty trucker hat. He had 80s-style glasses, a pedo-stache and the biggest pot-belly I’ve ever seen. I’m pretty sure he was wearing Wranglers. I said a quick hello and put a napkin over my wine to indicate that I would be back to my seat after I went to the bathroom. The molestache man leaned over to me and said, “Don’t worry hun, I’ll watch your drink for you” in a soft, breathy voice. I’m sure the irony was lost on him.

I should have cut my losses and gone home after that, but then people I know and like started trickling in and I lost my will to make good decisions. People I like rarely make good blog-fodder so I’ll leave you with only the early portion of my evening.

Bar Stories and My Alter Ego


This week has been thrown out of whack. I stumbled into Monday, not really believing that it could be Monday and sleeping through 2 out of 3 of my alarms. That resulted in a seriously scrubby Bettie rolling into the hair salon after nine hours of disgruntled work. When the first words out of your mouth at a hair appointment are, “you might have to wash it twice”, you know you’re not having a good day. Tuesday was a scary, lonely day due to my failing memory and my phone’s place on my bed rather than in my purse at work. I skipped out on my usual Tuesday martini-fueled socializing night in favor of watching Glee and New Girl, only to have my shoddy TV antennae setup fail on me. By Wednesday morning, I had worn slippers to work. Twice.

Feeling entitled to an after-work martini halfway through my strange adventure of a week, I decided to stop into the bar I had neglected the night before. My lovely lady-friend bartender was at her usual post and so were a few others I was delighted to see. Rather than one extra-dirty martini and some dinner as I had originally planned, I ended up making a marathon night out of it. 90s music was pumping from the juke (courtesy of some leftover credits and a great partner in crime) and I was at rapt attention to a stirring, albeit slightly TMI conversation I was having with a friend about his boyfriend, and well…what he loves about him… As you all well know, the combination of 90s music and vodka makes me a very happy girl and more apt to say yes to more vodka. This happened. I was feeling great, chatting with everyone and making new friends. One of these new friends gestured to a dude standing near us at the bar, and I responded by giving him a knowing look about the guy’s apparel. I made no outward indication of these thoughts. At least not purposely.

Mr. Tap Out was wearing a white Ed Hardy (or similar) zip-up hoodie with NO SHIRT on underneath. It was unzipped halfway revealing a disturbingly tan and hairless chest. His hair was doing something Elvis would have been ashamed of and he had large aviator sunglasses on. Indoors. At night. His powers of perception weren’t harmed by his cloud of douche and he noticed my raised eyebrow of amusement at his outfit. He didn’t like it. He took that as a cue to start screaming at me from three feet away. He yelled things about how I was poor, fat, ugly and hopeless. He also felt the need to tell me that his outfit was $300 and I was mad at him because I was wearing an old T-Shirt. In his defense, I was wearing an old T-Shirt. It had Eric Clapton’s face on it and I had cut it up so that my cleavage would hopefully distract from the fact that I had cut it up. I was also wearing a delicious scarf and some fierce 5-inch stilettos. So…I think you can imagine my shock at his mockery.

Picture this guy, but douchier.

In all honesty, I don’t remember much of what I yelled back at him. I do know that I was trying to make the situation less embarrassing for myself and everyone around me, and that it was no doubt much wittier and more hilarious than anything he was saying. I may have suggested we take a bar-wide poll to address this “who wore it better” situation. He didn’t go for it. He did attempt to hit on my friend almost immediately after his murderous tirade on my self-esteem. She replied by suggesting he be nicer to people. He said, “tell someone who cares” in a random Boston accent that only existed for that statement. I’m still running that one through my mind. My friend did indeed tell someone who cares, and got the lovely bartender to come and address the overload of doucheness in the area. She asked him if there was a problem and he responded by hurling his full glass of beer at her feet. It shattered everywhere and he was being escorted out of the bar by two giant security guys, yelling about how we’ll be sorry because his family is famous around town…or something equally “do you even know who my father is?”  As he was turning away, and after I threatened him with physical violence more times than I’m proud of, I noticed he had the logo for “Tap Out” tattooed on the back of his neck. That was THE single douchiest tattoo I’ve ever seen, and that includes the guy who proudly showed me his Monster energy drink ink.

Mr. Tap Out wasn’t going down so easily, and waited in all his Jager-bomb rage outside the bar. I was chomping at the bit to let out my inner J-Woww (in a repeat of the incident in Eastown last fall when I punched someone while wearing my bridesmaid’s dress) and desperate to get outside to continue our confrontation and let this guy know he can’t go around calling girls fat and ugly. Even if it’s most likely as a result of his jealousy over my conversation with a new friend. He had a confusing outburst of, “he’ll never sleep with you, he looks like an Abercrombie model!” The guy I was talking to was attractive, but I was definitely not trying to sleep with him. If at some point during your conversation you stand back-to-back to prove you’re taller than a man without your shoes on, you are not trying to see him naked. At least I’m not. At any rate, I deduced that he was probably angry at the world because his homo-erotic feelings didn’t mesh with his MMA persona, and had perhaps gotten him punched in the face once or twice (hence his picking on a girl). I wanted to remind him what getting punched feels like. Keep in mind that I don’t fight. I don’t know how and I’ve never been in a real fight to find out. For some reason, when I’m drinking I think I’m the toughest bitch in town and I don’t let my lack of skills stop me from mean-mugging the best of them.

It’s a good thing I have friends around me who force me out the back door and remind me that I most likely could not, in fact, kick the ass of a big douche-face guy. Thanks pals! My alter ego goes un-proven wrong yet again!

Yes, Officer?

Earlier this morning I lamented about a lack of blog-worthy events in my life. Soon after, I was assured by a good friend, who happens to be a bartender at my favorite bar, that I would have a plethora of material after coming to visit her at work this evening. She was wrong. As you may have seen, I blogged about some shoes I bought earlier today. And now I shall write about the series of thoughts that occurred while I drove home from the bar. Yes, this is really all I have going on at present.

I have been doing my best to leave at a respectable hour and not consume frat-quality amounts of alcohol on Tuesdays. Having only had one dirty martini and one glass of red wine in a span of three hours tonight, I’d say I succeeded. I wasn’t even feeling buzzed (which is probably why I saw fit to leave before last call) when I decided to call it a night and make the 4-odd block trek to my car. For those who know my usual Tuesday night tales, this is a sure sign of an ever-growing “responsible side” that is tailgating the legion of gray hairs appearing on my head.

Feeling good about not having been sexually assaulted on my cold, lonely walk to my car, I confidently started the short drive home.

*Short break to respond to a knock I just heard at this absurd hour which prompted me to wonder if this apartment door has a peephole. It doesn’t. The knock will go unanswered as I have already removed my pants for the night. If it was you, I apologize. Call first!*

Back to the story:

As I said, I had consumed only one martini and one glass of wine in a three-hour period and felt beyond fine to make the short drive home. However, I didn’t count on encountering two GR Police cars parked in their “chat position” at a four-way stop I needed to go through. I knew I was fine, but I couldn’t help feeling panicked at the possibility that all of those M-Dot signs were right, “Buzzed driving IS drunk driving”. What would my friends and family think? How would I talk my way out of this shame? It’s funny how intense feelings of guilt can surface without any real merit. “Rich world problems”?

While I scoured my brain for any back catalog of driver’s training manuals I might be able to reference, the two police cars noticed my headlights approaching and moved on. Oh…so I guess they’ll just move. That seems much easier than the scenarios fast-forwarding in my mind at the time. As you can imagine, I traveled the remainder of my journey home uneventfully. I did have to circle the block and stalk someone to a parking spot, but that’s to be expected when you return home during prime bar hours in my particular location. Also to be expected is the necessity to wade through a sea of shivering, smoke-stack hipsters who look alarmingly similar to me.

After all of this second guessing and self-doubt, I should note that as I was walking up the steps to my apartment, I noticed my shadow and thought: “hey shadow, you’re looking svelte!” Of course, that mirage of self-admiration was quickly dissipated as soon as I clicked the deadbolt on my door and reintroduced myself to “end-of-the-night-take-off-your-bra-and-pants” Bettie.

I’ll leave you with that image.

A Character Study and My Inability to be Concise

I spent yet another night warming a stool at my favorite GR bar this week and as usual, it provided an endless stream of interesting characters to entertain me.

First to settle in was a marginally attractive man who looked to be about my age. His eyes lit up with that familiar glimmer of lechery the second he set eyes on my lovely friend the bartender and I knew I was in for a treat. Admittedly, I was impressed with him during the first few minutes of our chat. He struck up a conversation that conveniently led to him announcing his recent move to GR from New York City. He spouted some pretty convincing drivel about wanting to get in on the ground floor of GR, seeing as how it was one of the fastest growing cities in the country. Evidently, according to Mr. New York, GR has the highest percentage of “young professionals” and he certainly wasn’t going to miss out. He explained that he was a chef, but not the kind that cooks (?) and seemed to know a lot about the local bar scene for someone who had just moved to town. We commiserated about the scarce availability of decent downtown apartments and I watched him take far too much advantage of the drink specials. As his beers and accompanying shots of Patron disappeared, he revealed himself layer by douchey layer.

Not only did he continue to shamelessly hit on the bartender (who was exchanging texts with me about his level of creepiness), but he began to tell me things that were unnecessary and rude. Such as his complete disinterest in me, romantically, and how he likes girls who look like my friend MUCH better. I think he confused my blank stare with hurt feelings and continued to let me down gently (from what, I still have no idea) by explaining that Miss Bartender seemed like a real girl, not like those models he was so used to dating in New York. Apparently, Mr. New York was SO sick of dating models and he just longed for a normal girl. One who is extraordinarily pretty and clearly not interested. I felt it was my duty to tell Mr. New York that what he had just uttered was the douchiest thing anyone has ever said. Ever. That is, until he began complaining about a girl he likes and how she just wants to use him for his deep pockets (not from being a chef who doesn’t cook, but from his “rich family”) and doesn’t let him surprise her with private jets since she expects that sort of treatment. He then attempted to secure my company for the rest of our lives when he asked me to be his best friend and promised endless drinks and rewards. I said no.

As if summoned by some sort of douche-mating call, a bouncer from the most annoying bar on the street suddenly appeared to warn us ladies of a sexually predatory rapscallion who had been causing trouble all over “bar row”. I would have been swooning at his knight-in-shining-armor presence, had he not been wearing a ridiculous snowflake sweater at the time. Intimidating.

Next up at bat was a rather peculiar fellow who wandered in carrying an odd-shaped bag as if it contained a live organ (which I sort of thought it might). He sat down on the stool next to mine, despite an entire bar full of empty seats. I was instantly irritated and made it clear by ignoring him with all my might. He ruined that strategy by asking me several questions about my life and career and staring at me (intently) while I drank my wine. He went the opposite route as Mr. New York and threw himself at me full force. I let him down gently by telling him that I didn’t like boys (my go-to) and he got very upset, revealing that I was the third girl to tell him that in a week. Sounds like someone has a type. After planting a big sloppy kiss on my hand, Creepo left the building. I thought I was safe in my solitude and Pinot until he returned 15 minutes later seeking some water. He tried chatting me up once more and then retired to what we assumed was the bathroom.

When the ladies of the bar (as there were only 4 of us there at the time) realized he hadn’t returned for his iced liver, heart or lung-bag in over 20 minutes, we grew concerned. I paired up with the manager and we set off to investigate his whereabouts, exaggerated cop movie style. Once we reached the top of the stairs, we noticed an all-consuming stench. My first thought was that he had died and his body was rapidly decaying. The manager put a stop to that train of thought when she suggested that he probably passed out on the toilet, after destroying it with a powerful bowel movement. That seemed more plausible albeit less “crime drama-y”. I was full of bravado thanks to a few glasses of wine and the fact that there was literally nobody else in the bar to take care of the situation, so I knocked on the men’s room door and opened it gingerly, not knowing what I would find. What I did find was a large pile of feces on the floor and immobile feet under the stall door. I yelled for him to come out and got no response. Not knowing what else to do, and giggling in disbelief, the manager and I ran (well…as much as I “run”) upstairs to tell the other girls. Suggestions flew as to how to handle the situation and it was decided that we should just call the police to come retrieve him. No sooner had that thought floated through the air then did our party pooper appear at the top of the stairs. We all quickly asked him to leave and handed him his creepy bag (I had checked it for live animals and black market organs while he was in the bathroom). Then, my brave bartending friend ventured to the basement bathroom to quench her curiosity, only to find that the extent of the damage was not a pile on the floor, but rather a festive display of smeared nasty all over the walls. Who does that?! And why?

After that, we four brave souls did a “party pooper survivor shot” and continued with our night. There were a few more characters after that; a portly bald man who argued with me about Michigan being referred to as a “midwestern state” (I’m against, he’s inexplicably for), a divorced Brit who gladly discussed the state of the Euro and the fact that Wales is basically the Arkansas of the UK, and the friendly owner of the bar next door who I seem to always see at this bar that is not his own. None of these characters could compare to the self-proclaimed modelizer and my suitor the party pooper, however, so it is here that I will end this extremely long rant. If you’re still with me, I commend you on your attention span. If you’re not, then I’m just typing for my own need to slowly wind down to the end of a blog at this point.

In the Business of Homewrecking

I wasn’t going to blog this, but I haven’t had anything else even remotely interesting happen to me in the past few days, so here it is!

I haven’t been going to class as often as I should recently, so after begrudgingly dragging myself to Shakespeare class on Tuesday night I was grateful for the early dismissal brought on by bad weather. Instead of getting out at 8:50, we left at around 7:30. I was glad to have an extra hour to work on what seems like a million upcoming papers. Rather than be responsible and use that time wisely, however, I decided to go to my favorite watering hole for some dinner. I mean, what else was I supposed to do? Get groceries? Ha.

With every intention of having one drink with dinner and then hightailing it back home to gaze into my computer’s glowing face, I ordered a dirty martini and a grilled cheese sandwich. (Best grilled cheese I’ve ever had, it is called the “white cheese” sandwich and has about a zillion different white cheeses on it, including feta.) I intended to sip the martini and revel in the Grey Goose until my dinner was done, and then leave like a normal person would.

I forgot to mention that my good friend is the barkeep at this watering hole, and when she is lacking in mouths to feed (and livers to destroy) she likes to experiment with shots. And she likes me to try them. After about two hours longer than I wanted to stay, I met a nice man who happened to take the bar stool next to me. He interjected that I should not, in fact, attempt going to law school after my undergrad studies are complete. That is how I found out that he was a lawyer and now he flips houses. He was charming, funny and seemed uncommonly worldly for our given location. As someone who had all but given up on finding an interesting man to talk to, I was impressed.

We talked for what seemed like forever, drank and laughed. He then hopped down from the stool and revealed himself in all his tiny glory. He was only 5’7″. This, my friends, is what I would normally call a deal breaker. I cannot date a man who is shorter than me. I just can’t do it. I already feel like an Amazon woman and I don’t need a daily confirmation of that. However, I decided to look past the gnomeness of this gentleman, given that I was so impressed with the less shallow aspects of him. We hit it off. So did our lips.

I exchanged numbers with him at the end of the LONG night (didn’t get home until the wee hours of the morning) and left hoping to hear from him again. I didn’t have to hope for long, since he texted me promptly the next morning (a few hours later, rather). It was a simple “Hi, I really enjoyed talking”…etc. Nothing fancy. But, it was encouragement!

I was feeling pretty good despite the hangover and lack of sleep until I received a call from an unknown number. I answered, thinking nothing of it.

It was a woman who had gotten my name and phone number texted to her in the middle of the night. How curious. She asked if I had perhaps met someone named *** (Not sharing that!) the previous night, to which I of course responded, “Yesss…” tentatively. As it seems, the wonderfully charming man I had met and thrown aside my prejudice against midgets for had not stored my name and number in his contacts list, but rather accidentally texted it to his GIRLFRIEND. The girlfriend he told me he did not have when I asked him outright.

She was a completely rational and smart woman who thanked me for my honesty and assured me that she would be breaking up with him that evening. She apologized for the awkward situation and said that she wasn’t even going to mention to him that she knew about me. She was just going to break up with him cleanly and simply and leave him asking questions. She has restored my faith in young women while simultaneously crushing my hope of ever finding a normal, decent man.

If asking a man if he is attached isn’t enough, then I am out of ideas.

What a douche.