Beware of bar lighting.

So, I know we here at Get Some While You Can are reeeeeally slacking off on our duties to inform you of all of the mundane happenings of our lives. I, believe me, am the most upset because this means it is just going to take longer for my life to revolve our anonymous blogging and making my billions by making a "SIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNGGGLLLLLEEEEEE!!!!" t-shirt and selling it on the interwebs to support my lifestyle of drinking whisky and watching re-runs of Roseanne.

However, I've got to tell you, that while my biting sarcasm amuses the masses on a day-to-day level, by the time I get home and boot up the ol' HP, all of the funny has run out of me and all I can think about talking about is the fact that I was too tired to make dinner (again) so I ate Wheaties (again). Every once in a while, I'll think of something during the day that, in my opinion, would be hilarious blogging fodder, but once I get home and start a typing away, I realize I don't know funny and that I must have been inhaling paint fumes when I thought it was funny earlier in the day.

Instead, today I'm going to give you a life lesson blog. I'm sure you've heard of the phrase "don't shit where you eat" (I wonder if that would pop up if you typed in "shit" to the cliche finder web site I found for you guys last week). Well, that phrase couldn't be TRUER.

A couple of weekends ago, a friend and I went up to our local Houlihan's to partake in some mild debauchery. The weather was beautiful and we sat out on the patio and listened to the Dave's (two old guys with the same name who play covers for the drunken 20-somethings on Saturdays) playing classic rock after classic rock song. Near closing time, we struck up a conversation with a group of guys, who, after 3 long islands + 3 margaritas + 1 whisky&coke, were mighty attractive. I ended up giving my phone number to one of them thinking, as all women do, what does it matter? Men never call.

Now, perhaps I'm used to watching movies from the 80s where women bitch and moan about how a guy never calls because in 2010, a guy no longer HAS to call. Ah, the invention of the text message. Do you ever wonder if the guy who invented text messaging was some really shy, nerdy guy who could never work up the courage to call a girl? This was his savior. He no longer had to deal with one-on-one rejection. He could read it and assume she said it in the nicest way possible instead of hearing the humor in her voice as she dashed his hopes, dreams and self-esteem.

But, I digress. Homeboy texted me. I texted back. Mild flirtations ensued (because remember, in my mind, he was hunky). And we set up a date for the following week.

The date was lame. Way lame. In fact, the most entertaining part of the night was when, while sitting at the bar getting some post-dinner drinks, one of my "ex-boyfriends" (I use the term "boyfriend" very, very loosely) sat down next to us. As if a first date isn't awkward enough. *Sigh*

Maybe the signs of disinterest weren't strong enough. I understand that the majority of the male population needs things written in neon lights, but I feel that by his age (by the way, he's 6 years older than I am) he should understand that if HE is the one reaching out and making the most physical contact, I'm bored and am already wondering how my crops are doing on Farmville.

Basically, the date sucked and I have no interest of ever seeing him again.

Ha.

Too bad I didn't realize that if you ever meet a guy at a "bar," you will continuously run into him EVERY SINGLE TIME YOU GO BACK. And each time I run into him, he ALWAYS asks "so, I guess this place is turning into your new favorite place, huh?" Yeah, it could be my new favorite place or he could realize we live in the shittiest city in America and the place only has a handful of decent "bars" to frequent.

Now, I have to deal with the fact that a "bar" that I actually do enjoy is infested with him and his cronies and I can no longer go there. Unless, perhaps, I could go with a DIFFERENT guy and homeboy will finally get the picture and quit talking to me? Eh? Too mean? Even for me? Eh, fuck you.

So, moral of the story: don't go on a date with a guy that frequents somewhere you enjoy. I guess this means I can never date a guy who constantly watches Roseanne from my couch.

Call me, miss me, love.