Here's the story from my weekend: After absorbing all of John Keegan's dating tips on Thursday, I was feeling quite saucy--and ready to dominate the flirtation scene at three parties I'd been invited to on Saturday night. I put on my new frilly green-blue wrap dress, a little pink coat, sexy pin-striped stockings, heels and left my apartment feeling dressed to at least wound, if not exactly kill.
The first shin-dig was an engagement party full of fancy writers, at a gorgeous Tribecca loft apartment with hundred-foot-tall ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows, where all the furniture was white, all the other furnishings were black, and the floors were a gorgeous dark wood. There, I got lots of compliments on my frock, but didn't meet any boys; all the ones in attendance were engaged, married, or playing for the other team. I did, however, meet a real-life rock star: the pianist for The Magnetic Fields. She's a chick, so there's no chance we're going to make out or anything, but she was very excited to hear I am on a mission to flirt and we may get together sometime soon to hit on strange men. Yes!
'Round midnight, I left the engagement party with feet that were so sore from standing around in my heels for three hours that I kind of felt like giving up and heading home. But Ruby Finch had texted to say the second party was "nice," and since it was just a few blocks away from my first one, I felt like skipping it would be lame. Figuring I'd just pop in to say a quick hello to Ruby, I trucked on over there .... and found myself in another groovy apartment, with chalkboard walls, on which people had been scratching messages, from the mundane "More beer in the fridge!" to a reference to Cool Hand Luke: "What we have here is a failure to communicate."
Ruby and I hung out with some of her friends for a bit, though I admit I eventually became somewhat distracted by some boy in a tweed jacket and jeans standing over near the makeshift bar. In the hopes of finding an opportunity to talk to him, I went to the bathroom, sashaying in front of him as I went to and fro ... but he didn't so much as look up. I tried again, this time going over to pour myself a stiff club soda ... but again, there was no good chance to interact. Finally, I told Ruby I was gonna take off, and she said she'd come with me; could I just wait for her to retrieve her jacket from the back room and say good-bye to a few people? ... I said I would, and then took a few steps towards the door. And who was standing there but Mr. Tweed Jeans? We exchanged a few glances ... and finally, I just decided life was too short. I took a deep breath and then took the plunge, saying, "You two characters look very suspicious. Are you crashing this party?"
The friend of Mr. Tweed Jeans responded to me, but I was thrown off because he had an unexpected foreign accent. "You just spoke British," I exclaimed. "And I only understand American! Can you please repeat yourself?" They laughed at that, and we were off to a good start. (John's exhortations to be playful seemed to be paying off.) Next, I tried to guess how they knew each other; it turned out they were roommates during grad school at Harvard. Ruby returned, and while she talked to Brit Boy, I got deep into conversation with Mr. Tweed Jeans.
One of the first things he asked me was," What's your story in New York?" By which he meant, of course, What do you do for a living?
Remembering John's advice about mixing things up a little, I said: "I think you should guess."
He of the tweed played along--and in about three moves, he had the right answer. We both seemed to have fun, with that little game, and it set the mood for more light-hearted banter to come.
But then Brit Boy walked off to refill his drink, so I brought Ruby into the fold, and since she and Mr. Tweed Jeans both work in politics, they started talking shop. I sat down and examined my fingernails. Then I told Ruby I was going to leave; she said she was coming with me, though first she gave her card to Mr. Tweed Jeans (because Ruby is kind of a powerhouse and he is looking for a job). In response, Mr. Tweed Jeans spelled out his email address.
As I said my good-bye to him, he said, "It was a pleasure meeting you. What's your last name, Maura?"
And I said, "Oh, I can't tell you! I'm too Google-able!"
By which I meant, of course, that I didn't want him to find my blog. I think he thought I was bragging, though. Whatever the case may be, HE DID NOT ASK FOR MY PHONE NUMBER. And I did not offer it.
I felt quite good about having had the testicles to go up and start talking to my favorite guy at the party--and even better about the fact that I'd ridden John's advice to such a (relatively) successful interaction. Though ... of course ... it would have been nicer if Mr. Tweed Jeans had risen to the occasion and requested my digits.
What do you guys think: Should I contact him?
(this is a pic of Ruby et moi after leaving the party ... )
my darling commenters! hello, all of you!
an important note: we're trying to get to the bottom of the commenting problems, since i know some of you try to post your remarks, and they freeze or disappear, etc. i'm sorry about that, and appreciate your patience. write me on Twitter in the meantime, if you'd like.
-lady topaz: i like it when you call me Ms. Kelly. and I'm glad you're giving B-Jepp the thumbs-up. but what do you MEAN you don't like the line :"You have such great bone structure--are you a model citizen?" THAT WAS MY LINE! i made it my own self! and i was so proud of it! until ...
-brad: hi! i don't think we've ever heard from you before, have we? well, it's nice to see you. and yes, isn't John adorable?
-valerie: i'm glad you feel empowered by John's advice--i do, too, totally. as for the pixie dust: i'm harassing him to start bottling the stuff ... but in the meantime, keep reading for his tips. hopefully, i'll coerce him into hanging out with me for another few weeks, so we can learn all his secrets!