Has Anyone Seen My Pants? (12 page)

“Seriously, this place has a real problem with order,” Jen noted.

At around noon, I decided I’d better call the Four Seasons to reserve a table for our nonlesbian New Year’s Eve celebration. As you can imagine, since New Year’s was that night, they were all booked.

“Oh, no,” I said as I hung up the phone, “they’re full. They said we can’t even get a seat at the bar, it’s going to be so busy.”

“Call that sushi place the concierge told us about,” Jen suggested, “that’s fine with me.”

I called them, along with about ten other restaurants, only to get the same answer.

“Everything is booked,” I sighed, defeated.

Jen looked up from her computer, where she was drafting a complaint e-mail to the guest services division of the Grand Wailea about their horrible lack of rule enforcement at the adult pool. “What are we going to do? I guess we can just eat here?”

Later that evening, we got all gussied up, both of us silently doing our best to not look like lesbians (it was New Year’s Eve, after all), and headed down to the restaurant at
the Grand Wailea, where we were told we would be given preferential treatment for dinner seating since we were staying there. When we walked in, we were blindsided by the amount of children in the restaurant. Again, I don’t have a beef with children, so don’t get all pissy with me here, but guess what? Two single ladies on the town on New Year’s Eve aren’t looking to spend it with families of six. Should two single ladies know better than to vacation in Maui during what is clearly a family holiday? Maybe. But that page on TripAdvisor never popped up and now we were there and we wanted to get hammered without the possibility of a baby seeing it all go down.

“Come on,” I said, determined.

“Where are we going?” Jen asked.

“Just follow me.”

We walked the pathway to the Four Seasons. When we arrived, it was like arriving at the gates of heaven. It was quiet, serene; the only real noise I heard was waves crashing and glasses clinking together to toast the New Year.

“But we don’t have a reservation,” Jen exclaimed as I headed up the walkway in my wedges, almost twisting my ankle at every turn.

“
Shhhhhhh.
Just follow me.”

When we approached the entrance, there was a man standing there, decked out in a suit and tie, a clipboard in his hand.

“Do you have a reservation?” he asked.

“We do,” I lied. “It’s under Sarah Colonna.”

He studied his clipboard and I looked over my shoulder at Jen, who gave me a “what the fuck” look before I turned back to the gentleman holding the future of our evening in his hands. “Sorry, I don’t see it on here,” he said, a tone of finality in his voice.

“You don’t see it on there?” I asked, incredulous. “I made the reservation weeks ago.”

“Spell your name for me again?”

“C-O-L-O-N-N-A,” I sighed. “Seriously, I called like three weeks ago. It’s New Year’s Eve . . . so obviously I called way in advance.”

He looked at his clipboard, back at us, back at his clipboard, then back at us for what seemed like twenty minutes but was probably twenty seconds.

“Well?” I asked impatiently as I looked over his shoulder at all the people in the restaurant who were totally our age and who seemed to be having a wonderful time.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have your name on here . . . I just don’t have a table for you . . .”

My lower lip started to quiver; I’m not sure whether it was on purpose or by accident.

“. . . so if you wouldn’t mind sitting at the bar for dinner, we can seat you right away. Those seats are supposed to be reserved as well, but clearly this is our mistake,” he offered.

“Clearly it is,” I said with a smile. “But I appreciate you figuring it out for us.”

“I appreciate it, too!” Jen yelled over my shoulder.

“No problem, happy New Year, ladies,” he said as he pulled the velvet rope aside and let us into paradise.

“He thinks we’re lesbians, too,” Jen whispered.

“But we’re lesbians with a nice place to eat on New Year’s Eve,” I noted.

“True. That was really impressive work out there. I can’t believe you got us in.”

“I know! I feel very proud.”

“It’s like we got into the adults-only pool when we weren’t supposed to!” Jen observed.

“It is! But with steak.”

We enjoyed a lovely evening of wine, appetizers, champagne, entrées, and more champagne. We noted that a couple of seats stayed empty all night, so we didn’t even feel the guilt of possibly taking someone else’s seats with our dirty lies. All in all, it was a successful evening.

When we got back to the Grand Wailea, most people were in bed. There was a fireworks show happening that neither of us gave a shit about, so we decided to go back to our room, order champagne, and ring in the New Year from our hotel balcony. When Jen called to order our cocktails, they immediately asked if she was “Ms. Colonna.”

“No, I am her lover,” Jen said, deadpan. “A bottle of chilled champagne and two glasses, please.”

Blind-Drunk Date

A
fter I took a pretty long hiatus from dating, one of my friends, Renee, suggested I go out with one of her boyfriend’s coworkers. His name was Mike—he and I had actually gone out a couple of times a few years prior, during one of the “breaks” Ryan and I took before moving in together. I kind of wondered, now that I was single, what Mike was up to, but I never bothered to text him or anything, just assuming he had a girlfriend by now. Plus, that whole “recycle” thing hadn’t really worked out for me last time. But Mike was cute, had a good job and a nice house, and he liked to cook. I’m reasonably good-looking, have a good job, enjoy nice houses, and love to eat. Why not give this a shot?

Renee suggested that before committing to another date with Mike—she reminded me that the first time we tried to date, he got a little weird about my not having enough free
time for him—I should go with her to his birthday party at his house.

“This way, there are a bunch of other people around, including me, so if you aren’t feeling interested in him anymore, we can just leave early and you’ll save yourself a Friday night down the road,” she explained.

“Good call,” I agreed. “I forget, how old is he? It’s probably like his forty-fi—”

“It’s his fiftieth,” she interrupted.

“Fiftieth? Oh . . .”

“What, is that too old? I mean, I know he’s older than the guys you usually date, but who cares?”

“No, it’s not too old,” I said, unsure if I meant it. Age doesn’t usually matter a ton to me, but fifty just sounded older than I was used to. But then I remembered that I’ve met a lot of childish fortysomething-year-olds, so maybe the only way to date a man who has his shit together is to date someone with more than a decade on me.

The night of the party, Renee, her boyfriend, and I all went out for pre-party cocktails. By the time we got to the party, Renee was pretty lit up, which is par for the course for her. She’s one of those people who likes to “test” strangers when she is out drinking. She has a tendency to go on the attack and if someone is able to spar with her and keep up, she deems them worthy of a conversation. However, if her loud, sometimes offensive antics annoy the person, Renee dubs them an asshole.

When I first met her, I sort of marveled at the way she had the balls to say anything, regardless of who might be insulted. Renee was a tough girl from Brooklyn and I was a not-so-tough girl from Arkansas. But the older we got, the more I realized that the people who were unamused by her weren’t the assholes. Not everyone goes to a bar wanting the person next to them to say things like, “So do you like to take it in the ass?” before they even ask you your name.

But Renee had been a friend for a long time and I had a hard time figuring out how to tell her when she was embarrassing me. The few times I tried, she got very angry and defensive, asking me why I was so concerned what other people think.

“I’m not,” I told her, “I just think there’s a line between trying to start up conversation at a bar and attacking people for no reason.”

That led to her not talking to me for a few days, then one day calling me to tell me she wasn’t mad at me anymore. I’m not sure what kind of apology that was, but I accepted it. Like I said, we’d been friends for a really long time. I knew her well and I knew that she was a good person. I decided to forget trying to get her to stop acting that way when we went out, and to just start going out with her less.

Anyway, we showed up to Mike’s house about an hour after the party started, which I feel is the perfect time to show up at a party when you don’t know too many people there. That way, you aren’t one of the first few guests standing around like an asshole making awkward small talk with people you barely
know, but you’re also not there so late that everyone is hammered. Mike looked cute and paid just the right amount of attention to me so that I knew he was glad I was there, but also played polite host to the rest of his guests. At one point, he was talking to Renee and me, and out of nowhere she started talking about how many sexual partners I’d had.

“Just take a guess!” She clapped joyfully.

“Um, no, don’t take a guess. . . ,” I interrupted, wondering what the fuck she was thinking.

“Oh, don’t be a party pooper!” she snapped.

“I don’t really need to know—” Mike started to respond.

“But just
guess
!”
she said insistently. Luckily, Mike was smart enough to act like he needed to fill a bowl of spinach dip that had clearly just been filled and excused himself.

“What are you doing?” I asked Renee, humiliated.

“What? I’m just having fun,” she said nonchalantly.

“This isn’t fun, Renee. Seriously, are you wasted or what?”

“Oh, like you’ve never been drunk before?”

“What?”

“Look, your last boyfriend wasn’t comfortable with you and your past. And that was awful. So I think you should make sure the next guy you go out with likes you for who you are.”

I actually believe that Renee thought she was coming from a good place when she did things like this (it’s possible I believe this too often about people). And she was right; my ex-boyfriend hadn’t accepted me for who I was. But I got out of that relationship and vowed never to be with someone like that again.
When I was in my twenties, I was a little bit slutty, that’s true. In my defense, I grew up in a small town, so when I moved to Los Angeles I was just excited to have so many options. I mean, I could have sex with people I didn’t go to high school with? Jackpot! And if anyone I date wants to have a conversation with me about it, they’re welcome to, but it certainly doesn’t need to take place at a party with a friend mediating.

Plus, there are some things you grow up and grow out of, and at a certain point in your life you realize what those things are. Yes, I like to drink and have a good time, but things that were funny when I was in my twenties, like falling asleep at bars, lost their charm when I hit my thirties.

I’m not pretending that in my thirties I haven’t had some evenings that could technically keep me out of heaven if God is a real stickler for
everything
in the Bible, but the older I’ve gotten, I’ve had many, many fewer of those nights.

I knew that arguing with Renee when she had convinced herself that she was being helpful was useless, so I changed the subject and cut the evening short in order to avoid an argument.

The next day, Mike texted me and asked me out on a date for the following weekend.

Well, Renee didn’t scare him off, so if nothing else, he’s a durable man,
I thought.

Our date plan was that he would pick me up after a friend’s three-year-old’s birthday party (I appreciated that he didn’t try to get me to attend that event with him) and we would meet Renee and her boyfriend, John, for an early din
ner. Hanging out with Renee again might seem like it was a bad idea, but she and I had since talked and I felt like I at least got her to understand that bringing up my sex life was pretty fucking rude, in any situation, but
especially
when I’m with a date.

So around four in the afternoon, Mike knocked on my door. When I opened the door, I could tell that he was either really drunk or had just had a lobotomy. I hoped for the latter.

“Are you okay?” I asked as I watched him sway from side to side, grinning.

“Yeah, I’m great. You ready to go?” He grinned as he twirled his keys in his hand.

“You
drove
here?”

“Duh, yeah. Why?”

“Well, you seem like you’ve had a few drinks,” I said, stating the obvious.

“Well, yeah, I mean how else can you have fun at a kid’s birthday party?”

That’s when I realized that not only had he shown up to my house hammered, he’d
driven
to my house hammered after attending a child’s birthday party.

“Okay, well, I’m not getting in the car with you, so there’s that,” I said flatly.

“I’m fiiiiine,” he slurred.

Famous last words of a fool.

“Hang on,” I said, shutting the door in his face so I could call Renee and ask her what I should do.

“Just take a cab here to meet us,” she suggested. “We’re at the restaurant now.”

“Well, obviously we’re taking a cab, but I don’t know if I should even go. I mean, what could possibly go right if this is how it’s starting off ?”

“Probably nothing, but it will be a really funny story for you to tell later.”

She had a point. I mean, I do love a good story . . . and now I’m telling it.

I opened the door and explained to Mike, who was now sweating in addition to swaying, that I would go with him to the restaurant only if we took a cab and if when we got there he drank nothing but water.

“Whatever, fine,” he said, his defenses dwindling in the sun.

When we got to the restaurant, Renee and John were prepped and ready for Mike’s condition. He did seem to start to get his shit together in the cab, at least briefly, so I hoped maybe the night wouldn’t be a total waste. And if nothing else, it would be an early night and I could check hanging out with Renee off my list. A part of me felt guilty that I’d been spending less time with her—probably the same part that had been listening to her give me a hard time about spending less time with her.

She was on her best behavior that night, or maybe it just seemed that way in comparison to the fact that I was on a date with a guy who showed up drunk from a three-year-old’s birthday party. It’s amazing how comparison can make someone look good by default.

Mike didn’t stick to the “water only” rule, and within the hour he started going downhill quickly. Renee and John made fun of him to his face, asking him what kind of game plan it was to show up to a girl’s house that way, but Mike wasn’t smart or sober enough to pick up on anything that was going on, so for the most part he just giggled when anyone spoke to him.

Maybe he did have a lobotomy toda
y
,
I thought as I watched him try—and fail—to outsmart a ketchup bottle.

After almost an hour and a half, I’d had enough. I was thirty minutes from my house with a guy whom I was definitely never going to speak to again and I had an episode of
True Blood
at home on my DVR that was calling my name. I thought about just grabbing a taxi and leaving him there, but then I felt bad that Renee and John would be stuck trying to figure out what to do with him, even though technically this was all their idea and fault. So, I bit the bullet and told him that he could share a cab to my house, then that cab would continue on to his house. That way I knew my fifty-year-old date would get home safely. Now I know how most of the guys I went out with in my twenties felt—well done, karma.

When we pulled up to my house, I opened the car door on my side, and Mike attempted—and failed—to do the same on his.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m coming in, aren’t I?”

“What? No. You’re going home.”

“Why?” he asked angrily.

“Because you’re wasted and I’m not in the mood to talk to you anymore, or probably ever again.”

“What the fuck? Why are you being such a bitch?”

I heard the taxi driver either gasp or stifle a laugh.

“Excuse me? I’m being a bitch? I was being nice by sharing a cab with you so that I could make sure he had your address and that you were awake for at least this much of the ride. I’m getting out now.”

“Well, let me walk you to the door to make sure you get in safely,” he slurred as he continued to wrestle with the door handle.

“What exactly are you going to do if someone attacks me? Annoy them to death?”

With that I exited the car, then asked the taxi driver if he had the address and apologized to him.

“Well, how am I going to get my car tomorrow?” Mike asked, desperate for a way into my house.

“You’re a grown man, I think you can figure it out.”

“Fine. Did you pay for this taxi? You need to pay for this taxi.”

“I need to pay for this taxi?” I said, my voice rising. “Are you insane?”

“Yeah, I didn’t count on paying for a taxi and you’re the one who insisted we take one.”

“Well, consider it a huge discount from a DUI. You’re welcome,” I said as I slammed the door. I handed the driver a
twenty for a tip, because I felt really bad that he had to spend the next fifteen minutes with that guy.

“That’s for you, make sure he pays the full fare for this ride,” I whispered.

“Oh, he will. Thank you. But don’t worry, I deal with this bullshit all the time,” he said as he sped away.

I watched him drive off, and my heart went out to him and every other taxi driver in the world.

After that incident, I started spending even less time with Renee. Similar to my feelings about dating guys like Mike and Patrick, who were prone to little bouts of belligerence when sauced, the last thing I wanted was to spend one of my precious evenings off with Renee in a blackout yelling at me over my taste in television shows—and yes, that actually happened.

O
ne afternoon, Renee called me and left a really nice message that basically said, “I know you’re busy and I know you’re never in town, but we can at least catch up on the phone.” Now, we all know how I feel about phone calls, but at this point I did have a one-hour daily commute to work at
Chelsea Lately
during which I either listened to Howard Stern or made obligatory phone calls (hands free, of course) to my mom and such. So the next morning, I decided to call Renee on my drive in to work, knowing she would be up getting ready for work, too. This also happened to be right around the time I found out
that Alex was married, and to be honest, I knew I could use a friend to talk to about it. Despite her negative qualities, Renee could be a pretty good listener and advice-giver at times. Plus, she’d left such a nice message—maybe our friendship deserved another shot.

“Hi!” Renee answered. “It’s eight o’clock in the morning, what are you doing up?”

“I’m driving to work, silly,” I laughed.

“Oh, that’s right, you call
that
work,” she said.