Oh, hello there. I almost didn't see you, as I was so engrossed just now in reliving my fun-yet-stressful Saturday-morning beginning-knitter experience at Sweater Babe studio in ye olde Hollywoode Hills. Yessirree, approximately three years after the knitting craze took off here in Southern California among the young, hip, and handy, I've finally bought myself a ticket and climbed aboard.
So, on Saturday morning, after an interesting and unusual night spent dog- and house-sitting for JP over on Braddock Drive, I hurried over to adorably pregnant E's house to pick her up and snake our way through the canyon to Sweater Babe studio. I should add here that I was in such a hurry and so busy with doggie duties that I neglected to 1) drink any water before leaving for the knitting class, 2) eat any breakfast before leaving for the knitting class, or 3) ingest any caffeine before leaving for the knitting class. The latter is cause for alarm, I can assure you. Mornings aren't my thing, particularly mornings during which I'm awoken at 6 to pour "lamb flavored" dogfood pellets into the bowl of a frenzied, barking canine and refresh a guinea pig's bowl of lettuce. (Not only was I dog- and house-sitting, I was rodent-sitting as well. Shudder.) Catering to demanding animals at 6 a.m. on a Saturday should only be attempted after downing a strong cup of coffee, I've since learned. Same goes for attempting to fashion a small, pink blob of knitted yarn from a couple of unwieldy wooden sticks four hours later: In both cases, caffeine is strongly recommended.
Alas, I entered Sweater Babe's Architectural Digest-worthy home studio that morning dehydrated, unfed, and with nary a molecule of caffeine in my system. Not good; not good at all. However, the Sweater Babe herself had kindly set out a platter with a few small pastries on it, and a couple bowls of pretzels, so I was able to at least eat enough to pump some sugar into my bloodstream. She set out water, too, thank goodness. No coffee, though. Sigh. So please understand that I undertook this new endeavor with a dull brain and lethargic mental reflexes; I like to think that's part of the reason why I was the worst student in the class.
Sweater Babe was a very patient teacher. She never once seemed even slightly exasperated by anyone's cries of "Help!" or "I don't get it!" I appreciated this, since most of the cries of confusion were mine. She had a cool way of demonstrating for us, too. We eight students were seated in a U-shape on various sofas and armchairs, and Sweater Babe sat in the center, her back toward us, arms raised and knitting needles held high in the air. The idea was that everyone could get a good view this way; and, generally speaking, we did. We just weren't able to get an up-close and personal view of the individual stitches this way, which is why it was great that Sweater Babe always followed-up her demos by walking around to each student individually to show her again, one on one.
We started by "casting on," a process that begins with the knitter making a slipknot with the yarn. The slipknot caused me problems until Sweater Babe saw that I was wrapping my yarn around my hand in the wrong direction (back to front instead of front to back. Oops). After sliding the slipknot loop onto the knitting needle, we then cast on nine more loops through a needle-hand-yarn maneuver that reminded me of braiding hair. It looks complicated as you're doing it, but it feels strangely intuitive, so it becomes routine and fairly easy pretty quickly. So far, so good.
After we casted on, Sweater Babe introduced us to the knit stitch, the primary stitch of knitting. One can do nothing but the knit stitch and wind up with a very respectable-looking scarf. (I think straight knit-stitching is referred to as the Garter stitch, but I'll need to refer to my helpful Sweater Babe handout to be sure.) Anyway, I was OK with the through-the-loop and the wrap-around, but when it came time to pull the right-hand needle out through the newly formed loop, all hell broke loose. It was damn near impossible for me to determine which "loop" was the new one, and how to pull the right-hand needle through it. Sweater Babe helped me, though, by repositioning my needles in my hands and showing me what to do in slow-motion. She also gave me some helpful tips about keeping the needles upright and maintaining "yarn tension." At this same time, I was quickly learning that both E and I are "tight knitters;" that is, we feel compelled to tighten every stitch as we make it, which is a really bad idea and makes it very difficult to stab a needle through the stitch later. I wondered if my tendency to want to tighten the stitches beyond all reason was in any way related to my compulsion to brush my teeth much too vigorously (I've snapped two toothbrushes in half) and double-knot all shoelaces and drawstrings. Anyway, knitting more loosely is something I need to continually work on.
Once I got the general hang of performing the knit stitch, everyone else had graduated to the purl stitch. Purling is funny: on one hand, it's super mind-melting because it's the exact opposite of the knit stitch; on the other hand, it's intuitive because it's performed on the reverse side of the fabric (when you're switching stitches at each row, as you would for a sweater). So it feels correct to be doing the knit stitch in reverse. I find I have to concentrate especially hard when I'm purling; but otherwise, it's OK.
Changing colors was fun. We learned the easiest way possible to switch yarns: tie a strand of the new to the strand of the old, and resume your knitting, being careful to use the new yarn strand. My knitted fuschia blob (i.e., "swatch") ended up featuring a natty pale-pink stripe in its center, which I liked.
After purling and changing yarns, everybody else moved on to "ribbing," which involves switching from purling to knitting on the same row (to add stretch to the fabric---good for sleeves and waistbands). I, however, needed much more practice doing the basic stitches, so I missed the whole thing. After teaching us (well, everyone else) ribbing, Sweater Babe gave us a quick tutorial on "decreasing" (fairly simple) and "increasing" (an impossible nightmare). Finally, with literally two minutes left on the clock, Sweater Babe taught us "binding off," which, oddly enough, I picked up right away. Again, it just feels right, even if you don't understand how it works.
I left class with a nice little self-contained fuschia rectangle, complete with a thick, pale pink horizontal stripe. I've been marveling at how it looks just like a small piece of sweater---part of a rollneck I might buy at J. Crew, for instance. It's been pleasantly surprising to learn that my hands are capable of turning yarn into fabric and to wonder about the possibilities as my knitting improves. I've set a goal to knit two scarves by Christmas: one for my mom, and one for my mother-in-law. Here's hoping I succeed!
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
I'll Pass on the Scuba Diving, Thanks
Last night I saw Open Water with S and our friend M, whom I will call WYD for "Who's Your Daddy?" (That's what it said in fuzzy brown letters on his tee-shirt, hee. Plus, he's going to be a first-time dad---woo!---next month.)
So, have you seen Open Water? The shoestring-budget Sundance winner that's now in limited release in major theaters across the country? (In case you haven't, here's a link to its Rotten Tomatoes page: http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/open_water/.) It's an independent film made inexpensively with unknown actors, a haunting score (to use a tired but accurate cliché), and plenty of lingering, mood-building, wide-angle ocean and sky shots. It's not, as the trailers suggest, a Jaws-type movie, although sharks do play a prominent role. It's not really a survival movie, either. It's more of a look at what happens to a relationship under extreme, nearly hopeless conditions. Except that it's a pretty superficial look at that relationship, which was my only complaint coming out of the thing. The screenwriter thought a little bit about how a couple stranded in the middle of a vast, threatening ocean might behave and interact with each other, but I think he could have given those things even more thought. We get glimpses and snippets of how they're first in denial, then a bit alarmed, then accusatory, then angry, then reconciliatory, then hopeful, then desperate, then resigned to their respective fates. I liked that progression, and I imagine it's fairly accurate. But I wish the writer and actors had explored it further. For instance, there didn't seem to be enough demonstration of sheer panic by these two, considering the dire situation. And we only saw one moment during which they tried to amuse themselves to pass the time---the scene in which they played Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, which was a warm, touching, bittersweet moment. (Bittersweet in that they're giving themselves a laugh during what are surely the most horrible hours of their lives.)
Regardless, I liked the film. I like stories that beg the question, "How would I fare in this situation?" Except that, in the event that I find myself stranded in the middle of shark-infested waters, miles from shore, with nothing but a wetsuit on my back and a cumbersome oxygen tank strapped to my shoulders, I fear I'll not fare well. It's not like being stranded on a deserted island with only a volleyball for company (ahhh...good ol' Wilson!), where you can at least build shelter and forage for food and rub a couple of sticks together in an attempt to make fire. Watching Open Water, one quickly realizes that two scuba divers left at sea are in what is essentially a hopeless situation. They could be the smartest, most resourceful people in the world, but it doesn't matter. If the sharks don't get them, the dehydration, starvation, or hypothermia will.
I'm quite afraid of situations that seem destined for disaster, over which I have no control. Extreme turbulence on a plane, for instance, really takes a toll on me. I can't help but think that very dramatic, nausea-inducing turbulence signals a problem, and that in the event that the plane stops functioning correctly, we passengers are utterly doomed. When the plane loses an engine and goes plummeting down to Earth, there really isn't a damn thing any of us can do about it---even the smartest among us---and death is inescapable. I prefer a disaster that offers even the slightest, slimmest chance of individual survival. A big earthquake, say. Or a hurricane. Even being abandoned deep in the woods somewhere, in the dark, with a hungry bear hot on my heels. At least I'd have the opportunity to strategize and possibly survive using my wits.
Also, I wondered during the movie about S and me and how our relationship would hold up under extreme duress. Not well, I'm afraid. We've both been known to freak out in stressful situations: kicking and swearing (S), crying and screaming (me). Were we stuck in the middle of the Pacific feeling helpless and pretty sure we were going to die, I imagine we'd each mentally deteriorate very quickly. And previous experience tells me we'd go through our share of finger-pointing before finally clinging to each other and declaring our never-ending love as the sharks close in.
Note: I think I've got this thing set up now so that anyone (not just Blogger members) can post comments. Will someone give it a try? Thanks!
So, have you seen Open Water? The shoestring-budget Sundance winner that's now in limited release in major theaters across the country? (In case you haven't, here's a link to its Rotten Tomatoes page: http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/open_water/.) It's an independent film made inexpensively with unknown actors, a haunting score (to use a tired but accurate cliché), and plenty of lingering, mood-building, wide-angle ocean and sky shots. It's not, as the trailers suggest, a Jaws-type movie, although sharks do play a prominent role. It's not really a survival movie, either. It's more of a look at what happens to a relationship under extreme, nearly hopeless conditions. Except that it's a pretty superficial look at that relationship, which was my only complaint coming out of the thing. The screenwriter thought a little bit about how a couple stranded in the middle of a vast, threatening ocean might behave and interact with each other, but I think he could have given those things even more thought. We get glimpses and snippets of how they're first in denial, then a bit alarmed, then accusatory, then angry, then reconciliatory, then hopeful, then desperate, then resigned to their respective fates. I liked that progression, and I imagine it's fairly accurate. But I wish the writer and actors had explored it further. For instance, there didn't seem to be enough demonstration of sheer panic by these two, considering the dire situation. And we only saw one moment during which they tried to amuse themselves to pass the time---the scene in which they played Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, which was a warm, touching, bittersweet moment. (Bittersweet in that they're giving themselves a laugh during what are surely the most horrible hours of their lives.)
Regardless, I liked the film. I like stories that beg the question, "How would I fare in this situation?" Except that, in the event that I find myself stranded in the middle of shark-infested waters, miles from shore, with nothing but a wetsuit on my back and a cumbersome oxygen tank strapped to my shoulders, I fear I'll not fare well. It's not like being stranded on a deserted island with only a volleyball for company (ahhh...good ol' Wilson!), where you can at least build shelter and forage for food and rub a couple of sticks together in an attempt to make fire. Watching Open Water, one quickly realizes that two scuba divers left at sea are in what is essentially a hopeless situation. They could be the smartest, most resourceful people in the world, but it doesn't matter. If the sharks don't get them, the dehydration, starvation, or hypothermia will.
I'm quite afraid of situations that seem destined for disaster, over which I have no control. Extreme turbulence on a plane, for instance, really takes a toll on me. I can't help but think that very dramatic, nausea-inducing turbulence signals a problem, and that in the event that the plane stops functioning correctly, we passengers are utterly doomed. When the plane loses an engine and goes plummeting down to Earth, there really isn't a damn thing any of us can do about it---even the smartest among us---and death is inescapable. I prefer a disaster that offers even the slightest, slimmest chance of individual survival. A big earthquake, say. Or a hurricane. Even being abandoned deep in the woods somewhere, in the dark, with a hungry bear hot on my heels. At least I'd have the opportunity to strategize and possibly survive using my wits.
Also, I wondered during the movie about S and me and how our relationship would hold up under extreme duress. Not well, I'm afraid. We've both been known to freak out in stressful situations: kicking and swearing (S), crying and screaming (me). Were we stuck in the middle of the Pacific feeling helpless and pretty sure we were going to die, I imagine we'd each mentally deteriorate very quickly. And previous experience tells me we'd go through our share of finger-pointing before finally clinging to each other and declaring our never-ending love as the sharks close in.
Note: I think I've got this thing set up now so that anyone (not just Blogger members) can post comments. Will someone give it a try? Thanks!
Friday, August 06, 2004
Mind-Boggling
Last night I learned many new things. For starters, I learned several new three- and four-letter words, including aga, haw, and frag. (Frag is the most interesting: "To intentionally kill a higher-ranking member of one's military unit during wartime, usually with a hand grenade.") I learned that when my friend CL's homemade brownies are cut into bite-size pieces, I am less able to exercise good judgment regarding when to stop eating them. Most importantly (and to my chagrin), I learned that, when competing against writers and grad students studying English, I'm not the Boggle champion I thought I was. In fact, I'm barely in the game.
This revelation notwithstanding, Boggle Night at CL's was a fun way to spend a Wednesday evening. Who wouldn't want to pass four hours scanning randomly selected letter cubes for words like pea, peas, egg, eggy, moon, moony, and, in smarty-pants JD's case, plural? I would guess most people, actually; but fortunately, those people weren't at CL's last night (with the exception of her friend S, who looked like he'd rather be standing in line at the post office two days before Christmas, poor guy).
I love Boggle. It's a simple, challenging game. There's no fake money to be acquired; no stupid, shiny, plastic game pieces to be moved monotonously about a flimsy gameboard; and no complex system of oppressive rules. In fact, the only rules of Boggle that I can think of are Don't look at someone else's word list and Don't keep writing once time's up. There are some limits, of course, on the types of words that can earn points. Initialisms, acronyms, and proper nouns, for instance, won't get you anywhere. Neither will two-letter words or words that don't appear in any of the major dictionaries. (You'd be surprised how generous most dictionaries are, though. We found dost and naw and gat in there last night, to name just a few.) Other than that, it's all about staring silently at the Boggle pieces until a word pops out at you. When it does, you write it down. Except that it's a little more active than that (for me, anyway). It's less waiting for a word to appear than forcing hundreds of combinations of letters together in one's brain until one such combination yields a useable English word. (It's so frustrating to spot chien or hola and not be able to get credit for it!)
Boggle offers nerds, English majors, and other like-minded word-lovers a chance to openly revere the language. As I said to S later that night, after the fierce Boggle competition was over and we were sleepily tucking ourselves into bed, Boggle is a celebration of words. Even ordinary words! In Boggle, the word often isn't just a lowly adverb, it's a valuable two-point earner! I like how, as each game player reads off her word list, those listening "oooh" and "ahhh" at some of the better finds. JeK's two-point agony earned some praise last night, as did my one-point (but hard-to-find) urge.
Which brings me to another point: Boggle is fun, yet so civilized! What other game can you think of that involves (and requires) absolute silence for three straight minutes? The noisy rattle of the letter cubes inside the Boggle box contrasts nicely with the intense silence that follows. Afterward, everybody's congratulating everybody else on finding unique, long, or hard-to-find words. It's a big lovefest, really. Just the kind of game a nonconfrontational sort like me is most fond of!
At this point you're thinking, "My god, M. You couldn't sound like more of an enormous dork right now. Honestly, stop writing, before you implode into a big, sludgy, geeky mass." But here's the thing: There are so many others like me! Today at work, some of S's coworkers expressed disappointment and a smidge of hurt feelings because they hadn't been invited to the Big Boggle Bash. And these people work in television, for chrissakes! They're cool! Hip! Young! With it! Furthermore, one of my twentysomething coworkers, A, has told me she participates in Boggle Nights with her friends as well. And my mom recently snagged her mom's (ancient) Boggle set for herself. So you see, there's a quiet little Boggle Movement going on behind the scenes. Nerds, dorks, geeks, writers, grad students, English majors, and all other manner of word lovers: Unite, and play Boggle!
(unite = two points)
This revelation notwithstanding, Boggle Night at CL's was a fun way to spend a Wednesday evening. Who wouldn't want to pass four hours scanning randomly selected letter cubes for words like pea, peas, egg, eggy, moon, moony, and, in smarty-pants JD's case, plural? I would guess most people, actually; but fortunately, those people weren't at CL's last night (with the exception of her friend S, who looked like he'd rather be standing in line at the post office two days before Christmas, poor guy).
I love Boggle. It's a simple, challenging game. There's no fake money to be acquired; no stupid, shiny, plastic game pieces to be moved monotonously about a flimsy gameboard; and no complex system of oppressive rules. In fact, the only rules of Boggle that I can think of are Don't look at someone else's word list and Don't keep writing once time's up. There are some limits, of course, on the types of words that can earn points. Initialisms, acronyms, and proper nouns, for instance, won't get you anywhere. Neither will two-letter words or words that don't appear in any of the major dictionaries. (You'd be surprised how generous most dictionaries are, though. We found dost and naw and gat in there last night, to name just a few.) Other than that, it's all about staring silently at the Boggle pieces until a word pops out at you. When it does, you write it down. Except that it's a little more active than that (for me, anyway). It's less waiting for a word to appear than forcing hundreds of combinations of letters together in one's brain until one such combination yields a useable English word. (It's so frustrating to spot chien or hola and not be able to get credit for it!)
Boggle offers nerds, English majors, and other like-minded word-lovers a chance to openly revere the language. As I said to S later that night, after the fierce Boggle competition was over and we were sleepily tucking ourselves into bed, Boggle is a celebration of words. Even ordinary words! In Boggle, the word often isn't just a lowly adverb, it's a valuable two-point earner! I like how, as each game player reads off her word list, those listening "oooh" and "ahhh" at some of the better finds. JeK's two-point agony earned some praise last night, as did my one-point (but hard-to-find) urge.
Which brings me to another point: Boggle is fun, yet so civilized! What other game can you think of that involves (and requires) absolute silence for three straight minutes? The noisy rattle of the letter cubes inside the Boggle box contrasts nicely with the intense silence that follows. Afterward, everybody's congratulating everybody else on finding unique, long, or hard-to-find words. It's a big lovefest, really. Just the kind of game a nonconfrontational sort like me is most fond of!
At this point you're thinking, "My god, M. You couldn't sound like more of an enormous dork right now. Honestly, stop writing, before you implode into a big, sludgy, geeky mass." But here's the thing: There are so many others like me! Today at work, some of S's coworkers expressed disappointment and a smidge of hurt feelings because they hadn't been invited to the Big Boggle Bash. And these people work in television, for chrissakes! They're cool! Hip! Young! With it! Furthermore, one of my twentysomething coworkers, A, has told me she participates in Boggle Nights with her friends as well. And my mom recently snagged her mom's (ancient) Boggle set for herself. So you see, there's a quiet little Boggle Movement going on behind the scenes. Nerds, dorks, geeks, writers, grad students, English majors, and all other manner of word lovers: Unite, and play Boggle!
(unite = two points)
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
Well Hello There, Ladies
(Inspired by a recent night out at Casa del Mar in Santa Monica)
There's nothing quite like watching older, balding, unfashionably dressed, shamelessly self-absorbed men try to pick up young, pretty women in bars. It's a terribly amusing and utterly depressing spectacle. It always seems to play out in the same general way:
1. A pair of men wearing very unhip loafers and tweed sportcoats spot shiny lip gloss, long hair, low-rise jeans, and bare midriffs across the room. Hypnotized by these trappings of youthful womanhood, the men approach, swaggering a bit. Each man is clutching a scotch on the rocks in one hand while resting the other hand in his pants pocket.
2. The targeted women, also a pair, see the men walking toward them and exchange looks of panic. But there isn't time to bolt as the men, smirking in an "I'm devilishly handsome and cocksure, aren't I?" type of way, steadily advance.
3. "Well hello there, ladies!" begins the more outgoing and self-confident of the two men upon their arrival at the women's place at the bar.
4. "Hi!" the women chirp brightly, forcing wide smiles. (Those who don't believe that American women are socialized to be friendly and warm and polite, no matter how alarming or distasteful the social situation, should go out drinking more often.)
5. Outgoing Man A introduces himself and his grinning, somewhat self-concious buddy, Man B. Man A prattles on about what he and Man B are doing in this part of town, where they were earlier in the night, and where they plan to go later. Both men absentmindedly swirl the ice in their glasses while occasionally stealing quick glances at the women's breasts. The men think their glances are surreptitious. They aren't.
6. The women, who hadn't planned on getting to know a couple of lecherous old men tonight, each fold their arms over their chests, cross one leg over the other, and lean back a bit, smiling deliberately all the while. Their self-protective body language is apparent to other women in the bar. It goes utterly undetected by Man A and Man B.
7. The men continue talking, smirking, swirling (ice), and stealing (glances). Man A feels particularly satisfied with himself because he is clearly taking the lead in the conversation. He also has a bit more hair than his partner.
8. The women, fake smiles firmly affixed to their faces, nod at what the men say. They infrequently chime in or answer direct questions. Every now and then one woman shoots a look at the other. Sometimes the look says, "Jennifer, what should we do right now?" Sometimes it says, "Kyra, I can't take another minute of this. Think of an escape plan." Often it says, "I told you we shouldn't have come here."
9. The men, encouraged by the women's smiles and oblivious to their furtive nonverbal communiqués, turn to locate a couple of empty barstools. They grab the stools and drag them over, so that they can sit with the women. The women use this brief respite to whisper quickly to one another. They are devising a game plan, a course of action. By this time, other bar patrons are watching this little comedy with bemusement and a bit of sympathy for the women. (Although some of the female patrons, envious of how cute the women look in their teeny designer jeans and satiny sleeveless tops, are enjoying watching the cuties squirm.)
10. The men rejoin the women, sitting across from them in a tight huddle. The women, still smiling, begin drinking faster. Under normal circumstances, they prefer to leisurely sip their Bellinis and Mojitos and Margaritas, but when the situation is dire, gulping is key. The faster the drinks are drunk, the quicker the bill will arrive, and the sooner the women can get the hell out of there.
11. The men, delighted to be seated with such glimmering eye candy and emboldened by their success thus far, test the limits of their charm. Man A places his hand on the corner of one of the women's bar stools as he talks. In response, the woman deftly retracts from his hand and repositions herself at an angle on the stool. She smiles tightly, with closed lips. Man B moves in a bit closer to the second woman. She, in turn, brings a hand up to her neck, leans back a bit farther, and quickly surveys the room for younger, cooler, hipper men who might come to her and her friend's rescue. She succeeds in locking eyes with the apparent leader of a small pack of twenty-something men who are hanging out several feet away. Her eyes are pleading, and they offer a bit of desperate flirtation. The leader and his pack approach, tentatively. The woman's eyes scream, "Thank you! Thank you! You won't regret this! Don't wuss out!" The leader and his pack get within speaking distance of the women, quickly assess the situation (specifically the unbridled enthusiasm and tenacity of the older men), and...retreat. As the pack slinks away, the leader offers the women a little shoulder shrug of apology. It's too much work for the twenty-somethings. They're out to have fun. They're not out to wrestle a couple of cute women away from men who look like their own fathers.
12. Disappointed, but not totally defeated, the women pretend to listen to the men talk about their very important high-paying jobs, all the while keeping an eye out for the cocktail waitress. Eureka! They've found her. One of the women throws her hand up into the air and waves the waitress over.
13. "We're ready for the check," cry the women, in unison, as soon as the waitress is in earshot. In their excitement, they've interrupted the men.
14. Man A, thinking it makes him seem very generous and in-control and take-charge, insists on paying the tab. Man B hastens to pull a few bills out of his wallet as well, not wanting to be shown up by his buddy.
15. The women flash big, sparkly smiles, tilt their heads a bit to one side, and say to the men, "Thank you so much; that wasn't necessary." Except that it was necessary, because the women have endured these two irksome, slightly creepy, self-centered, horribly uncool men for the better part of an hour. Their drinks most certainly should be paid for. Damn straight, is what they're thinking.
16. As the men settle the tab, the women consider this wasted outing. Who knows what other (younger, cuter, cooler, better dressed, more thoughtful, sexier) men might have happened by their barstools and struck up conversation had Man A and Man B not shown up. The women also consider the dozen or so people nearby who have been watching all along and snickering at the sight of the two old men hitting on the two young women. The women grimace; one flips her hair back in frustration, the other sighs.
17. The waitress has been paid and tipped. The women stand, lifting their handbags from their laps and placing them on their shoulders. They're not happy they have to leave. They love this bar, but what choice do they have? They smooth their jeans, adjust their tops, and prepare for their big exit. "It's been nice chatting with you guys," one of them says, producing yet another megawatt smile. She's already forgotten their names. "Have a great night." She sticks out her hand for a courteous shake. Her friend smiles too, and does the same.
18. Man A is crestfallen. He stands. "What? Leaving so soon?" he asks, genuinely disappointed...even more so when he steals one more lingering look at her breasts. He then takes one of the women's outstretched hands and kisses it. Man B isn't quite so brazen; he shakes the other woman's hand. "It's always a pleasure meeting such beautiful girls," he says, winking.
19. "Where are you off to next?" Man A asks the women as they turn to go, one digging around in her handbag for her cell phone. "You know, we're incredibly tired. We really need to head home," says one. It's eleven at night. "But thanks so much for the drinks!" shouts the other, as the two turn on their heels and walk as fast as they can toward the door of the bar. The woman who has got her cell phone out dials her sister. "Listen, meet us at Shutters," she says into the teeny little receiver. "We'll be there in five minutes."
20. The men, a little disoriented by their dates' rapid departure, sit back down and get quiet for a moment. Finally, Man A asks Man B, "You want another scotch on the rocks?"
There's nothing quite like watching older, balding, unfashionably dressed, shamelessly self-absorbed men try to pick up young, pretty women in bars. It's a terribly amusing and utterly depressing spectacle. It always seems to play out in the same general way:
1. A pair of men wearing very unhip loafers and tweed sportcoats spot shiny lip gloss, long hair, low-rise jeans, and bare midriffs across the room. Hypnotized by these trappings of youthful womanhood, the men approach, swaggering a bit. Each man is clutching a scotch on the rocks in one hand while resting the other hand in his pants pocket.
2. The targeted women, also a pair, see the men walking toward them and exchange looks of panic. But there isn't time to bolt as the men, smirking in an "I'm devilishly handsome and cocksure, aren't I?" type of way, steadily advance.
3. "Well hello there, ladies!" begins the more outgoing and self-confident of the two men upon their arrival at the women's place at the bar.
4. "Hi!" the women chirp brightly, forcing wide smiles. (Those who don't believe that American women are socialized to be friendly and warm and polite, no matter how alarming or distasteful the social situation, should go out drinking more often.)
5. Outgoing Man A introduces himself and his grinning, somewhat self-concious buddy, Man B. Man A prattles on about what he and Man B are doing in this part of town, where they were earlier in the night, and where they plan to go later. Both men absentmindedly swirl the ice in their glasses while occasionally stealing quick glances at the women's breasts. The men think their glances are surreptitious. They aren't.
6. The women, who hadn't planned on getting to know a couple of lecherous old men tonight, each fold their arms over their chests, cross one leg over the other, and lean back a bit, smiling deliberately all the while. Their self-protective body language is apparent to other women in the bar. It goes utterly undetected by Man A and Man B.
7. The men continue talking, smirking, swirling (ice), and stealing (glances). Man A feels particularly satisfied with himself because he is clearly taking the lead in the conversation. He also has a bit more hair than his partner.
8. The women, fake smiles firmly affixed to their faces, nod at what the men say. They infrequently chime in or answer direct questions. Every now and then one woman shoots a look at the other. Sometimes the look says, "Jennifer, what should we do right now?" Sometimes it says, "Kyra, I can't take another minute of this. Think of an escape plan." Often it says, "I told you we shouldn't have come here."
9. The men, encouraged by the women's smiles and oblivious to their furtive nonverbal communiqués, turn to locate a couple of empty barstools. They grab the stools and drag them over, so that they can sit with the women. The women use this brief respite to whisper quickly to one another. They are devising a game plan, a course of action. By this time, other bar patrons are watching this little comedy with bemusement and a bit of sympathy for the women. (Although some of the female patrons, envious of how cute the women look in their teeny designer jeans and satiny sleeveless tops, are enjoying watching the cuties squirm.)
10. The men rejoin the women, sitting across from them in a tight huddle. The women, still smiling, begin drinking faster. Under normal circumstances, they prefer to leisurely sip their Bellinis and Mojitos and Margaritas, but when the situation is dire, gulping is key. The faster the drinks are drunk, the quicker the bill will arrive, and the sooner the women can get the hell out of there.
11. The men, delighted to be seated with such glimmering eye candy and emboldened by their success thus far, test the limits of their charm. Man A places his hand on the corner of one of the women's bar stools as he talks. In response, the woman deftly retracts from his hand and repositions herself at an angle on the stool. She smiles tightly, with closed lips. Man B moves in a bit closer to the second woman. She, in turn, brings a hand up to her neck, leans back a bit farther, and quickly surveys the room for younger, cooler, hipper men who might come to her and her friend's rescue. She succeeds in locking eyes with the apparent leader of a small pack of twenty-something men who are hanging out several feet away. Her eyes are pleading, and they offer a bit of desperate flirtation. The leader and his pack approach, tentatively. The woman's eyes scream, "Thank you! Thank you! You won't regret this! Don't wuss out!" The leader and his pack get within speaking distance of the women, quickly assess the situation (specifically the unbridled enthusiasm and tenacity of the older men), and...retreat. As the pack slinks away, the leader offers the women a little shoulder shrug of apology. It's too much work for the twenty-somethings. They're out to have fun. They're not out to wrestle a couple of cute women away from men who look like their own fathers.
12. Disappointed, but not totally defeated, the women pretend to listen to the men talk about their very important high-paying jobs, all the while keeping an eye out for the cocktail waitress. Eureka! They've found her. One of the women throws her hand up into the air and waves the waitress over.
13. "We're ready for the check," cry the women, in unison, as soon as the waitress is in earshot. In their excitement, they've interrupted the men.
14. Man A, thinking it makes him seem very generous and in-control and take-charge, insists on paying the tab. Man B hastens to pull a few bills out of his wallet as well, not wanting to be shown up by his buddy.
15. The women flash big, sparkly smiles, tilt their heads a bit to one side, and say to the men, "Thank you so much; that wasn't necessary." Except that it was necessary, because the women have endured these two irksome, slightly creepy, self-centered, horribly uncool men for the better part of an hour. Their drinks most certainly should be paid for. Damn straight, is what they're thinking.
16. As the men settle the tab, the women consider this wasted outing. Who knows what other (younger, cuter, cooler, better dressed, more thoughtful, sexier) men might have happened by their barstools and struck up conversation had Man A and Man B not shown up. The women also consider the dozen or so people nearby who have been watching all along and snickering at the sight of the two old men hitting on the two young women. The women grimace; one flips her hair back in frustration, the other sighs.
17. The waitress has been paid and tipped. The women stand, lifting their handbags from their laps and placing them on their shoulders. They're not happy they have to leave. They love this bar, but what choice do they have? They smooth their jeans, adjust their tops, and prepare for their big exit. "It's been nice chatting with you guys," one of them says, producing yet another megawatt smile. She's already forgotten their names. "Have a great night." She sticks out her hand for a courteous shake. Her friend smiles too, and does the same.
18. Man A is crestfallen. He stands. "What? Leaving so soon?" he asks, genuinely disappointed...even more so when he steals one more lingering look at her breasts. He then takes one of the women's outstretched hands and kisses it. Man B isn't quite so brazen; he shakes the other woman's hand. "It's always a pleasure meeting such beautiful girls," he says, winking.
19. "Where are you off to next?" Man A asks the women as they turn to go, one digging around in her handbag for her cell phone. "You know, we're incredibly tired. We really need to head home," says one. It's eleven at night. "But thanks so much for the drinks!" shouts the other, as the two turn on their heels and walk as fast as they can toward the door of the bar. The woman who has got her cell phone out dials her sister. "Listen, meet us at Shutters," she says into the teeny little receiver. "We'll be there in five minutes."
20. The men, a little disoriented by their dates' rapid departure, sit back down and get quiet for a moment. Finally, Man A asks Man B, "You want another scotch on the rocks?"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)