Wednesday, June 6, 2007

Kibbles and Bits

Just as I was filling in the details on how I wanted my bohemian romance to play out in my mind - the street performer actually called. It could have all been so exciting - except for one thing..he called from a cell phone - actually worse, a cell phone with a "310" area code. I thought he was destitute...and from New Orleans? I guess the non-animated, non-canine version of "Lady and the Tramp" won't be happening....spaghetti kissing scene and all. It appears what I might have on my hands here is an out-of-work actor from L.A. doing a stint as a twinkle toed gypsy man for the himself a break from the usual ho-hum of his normal life of waiting tables and rushing to casting calls in a smelly, old Dodge Pinto that reeks of jockstraps. Ugh - his sex appeal is wearing off by the minute...yet - needless to say....he did ask me out after he finishes dancing in the park tomorrow and I, of course, replied "yes." Normally, I might have acted busy and had him work a little harder for it - but who are we kidding here? I am going out with a man whose monthly salary gets paid into a hat instead of into a bank account. At the very least, this should be interesting!

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of Washington Square Park is where my Yorkie, Edith Piaf's, social club is located - otherwise known as the dog run. We spend quite a bit of time there and one might think it could be a good place to meet men - however, this is both true and not true. It is definitely true if you are in the regular dog run...yet due to Ms. Piaf's small stature, we are confined to an eternity in the small dog run - a place for chihuahuas, malteses, dachshunds and the like to run amok with creatures 25-pounds and under. Our run is a perfect square where all the dog parents sit on benches around the periphery watching, cooing, breaking up little tussles, and admiring each other's latest canine accessories from tiny cashmere sweaters to dog bags with crocodile trim. As you can imagine from the description - the average small dog owner is a woman (young or old), a gay man, or some woman's dutiful husband. The idea of actually picking someone up there is a joke akin to that of cruising for men at a baby shower - it just isn't happening!

Today - however...something different happened. It occurred almost like a was all so fast that I didn't realize that it had taken place until it was over. I got asked out. In the small dog run.....and not by a women, a gay man, or some other woman's husband! An actual straight, single God - if word got out that this happened - I could be a legend, but I will back up and fill you in on how the unthinkable happened.

So there I am...looking reasonably cute - because I had just intentionally walked past my not-so-private dancer and needing to keep his interest piqued - my skirt was admittedly shorter than usual. I did my wave, smile, dropped a dollar in the hat and sat my wickedly under dressed self down on a bench to do my 30-minute, mother-daughter time, with Edith at her club. Minutes later - in strolls what appears to be yet another West Village gay fashion victim in jeans that were almost painted on, a pink shirt, a white sweater tied around his neck, copious amount of hair gel slicking back his brown hair, and loafers. He sat next to me because I am a bit of a fag hag and I felt he probably sensed it.

We inevitably start talking...he wanted to know if I minded that he smoked. Truthfully, I don't quite appreciate it when people smoke next to me while I am trapped in the run - except for one thing....he sounded exactly like Hugh Grant. Uh-oh.....Hugh - my weak spot. Actually, I'd say "yes" to anything Hugh Grant asked, but this wasn't Hugh Grant, but get the picture. A devastatingly cute British accent - it does the trick, every time. So, smoke away, sailor!

Long story short...we ended up talking for an hour and a half (a record for me in Urine Town)...I mistook the fact that he is European for being gay (common mistake, I know)....and he was completely and utterly charming to boot. An MBA student at Columbia - here for another year, the small dog belongs to his ex-girlfriend (I know....I'm seeing the red flag too!), and he asked for my number and wants to take me and my short skirt out! issue though - I made him laugh and he revealed a complete set of classic "British teeth"......yes, the small, dark kind which have never seen braces, a retainer, or even a tooth brush. In fact, one of those pearly browns shot out of his mouth at such a horizontal angle that I could have hung my dog's leash off the end of it if he kept his mouth open long enough.

Maybe I just need to go to dark places with this one....where there is little chance that I can focus on his snaggle tooth and concentrate more on the fact that if I keep my eyes closed - that I am essentially out with Hugh Grant...Hugh Grant - without the looks, fame, or money - but if I have is certainly an imagination. Thankfully - that has served me well in this town where I can now feel that getting asked out by a man in skin tight jeans and grey teeth is a score.
Sound pathetic? Well, at least it is one step up from a street performer.....and if all goes well a trip to the dentist could always be arranged, right?

Trying to stay positive......two dates lined up for the week - so far, so good!

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