By the end of the night, Bird realized that the Hardy shirt had been misleading. Robert, in fact, was a Nevadan cowboy. He grew up on a ranch 15 miles outside of Las Vegas near the California border. He was no secret agent or up and coming casino mogul, which is what boys who pay $150 for a t-shirt usually hope to suggest.
"Poser," said Ullah as she fished for something in her purse.
"Any. WAY," said Bird. "He seemed sweet. I thought, well, why the hell not?"
Turns out, there were several reasons why the hell not.
Bird gave Robert her number and before she even made it home that night, he texted her:
IT REALLY WAS A PLEASURE TO MEET U. LUNCH TOMORROW? YOU SAID IT WAS YOUR DAY OFF, RIGHT?"
At this point, Bird was flattered. It had been her experience that most men wait the standard three days before calling. Usually eight in Vegas. She ended up meeting him at Roadrunner the next day, and the two of them had a very civilized conversation.
"He was nice. Seemed fun. I liked his company," explained Bird.
"She's the kind of girl that likes company alright" said Ullah before the waxer beckoned for her to go to the back room.
After lunch, which Robert insisted on paying for, Bird drove back to her condo off Blue Diamond to nap before heading out to her moonlighting gig as an ambiance model at Tryst. (Yes, such a position exists in Vegas and it is exactly what it sounds like--gorgeous people are paid $30/hour to make it look like gorgeous people fill the clubs for the totally fair $30 cover).
Before Bird pulled in the driveway her cell rang. It was Robert.
"So it's Robert, and he calls me Birdy! I was like, 'Birdy?' and then he wants to know if he can call me that. I was like 'Ummm, OK.'"
Robert went on to tell her what a nice time he had at lunch with her and that he might swing by Tryst later on if that would be OK. Bird tried to politely explain that she would be busy and would feel bad because she wouldn't be able to talk to him much, which of course was a total lie--all ambiance models do is look gorgeous and talk. But Bird was starting to feel just the tiniest bit smothered.
"I mean, I've known this guy for like 18 hours and he's down my throat, but he's so damn nice so I tell him to come by."
Which he did.
"At 9 pm--a time that anyone who has ever been to a club in Vegas knows is the time that only the employees, the losers who don't want to pay a cover or concierges' neices from Idaho show up," explains Bird and her eyes get really big as she says this. "I mean, duh."
According to Bird Robert stuck by her side until nearly 4 in the morning. Her boss, who thought she should have been mingling with other guests, gave her dirty looks all night. But--Robert was nice. And Robert, unlike all the other guests, was not getting on plane in a few hours.
"OMG," said Ullah, back from her bikini wax. "Are you still freaking telling this story? Let me finish."
Ullah's eyebrows were red. She sprang for the works. "I'll just retouch them on photobucket.com if we take any pictures tonight."
"So anyway," said Ullah. "Robert called Bird like 25 times in the next day and a half. Wednesday night he called her again and asked her to come to his place for dinner. And Bird...I'm sorry, Bird, but it is the freaking truth...and Bird being the naive one accepts his invitation."
"So what?" interjects Bird. "It was nice. It was freaking nice for him to invite me over for dinner."
"Um, yeah," said Ullah as she licks her finger and smooths over her brows while looking in the mirror. "Yeah, it was real nice that you show up Thursday night at his place, which happens to be his parents' place and then you go on to meet not only his parents, but his two sisters, little brother, his aunt and uncle and his freaking dog."
"It was his cat."
"Same difference. Yeah, Elle, do you freaking believe that?"
I barely do.
"What did you do, Bird?"
"I ate and then of course on my way home he called me to tell me what a nice time he had and would I mind meeting him for breakfast in the morning?"
Ick.
Bird couldn't come up with any valid excuse, so she told him she would meet him at the Pancake House at Green Valley at noon. Robert was obviously happy to hear this, but then he wanted to talk on the phone some more.
"I couldn't take it. So, I told him I needed some space. I mean J freaking Christ. I couldn't breath at that point."
"What did he say?"
"He started to cry. OMG! He started to cry. He said he didn't understand why I was acting this way. I was like 'What way?' He said he was just so used to me being there for him. That I was always there."
And this is when Bird said flatly making eye contact with me in the mirror: Since when is four days "always?"
Monday, June 22, 2009
four days is not "always" part one
In relationships, persistant women are called "clingy," "desperate," "needy," or "high-maintainence." Persistant men are called "stalkers."
At first glance, this may seem one of the few instances when men end up with the shorter end of the stick when it comes to double standards. And yet, a stalker at least has the privilege of flying his freak flag, which in many ways makes him easy to dismiss as simply "crazy," rather than catagorizing him as someone who is otherwise sane and, well, quite frankly, wants too much for herself, as we often do with women.
It is true that women make some of the most formidable stalkers, oftentimes adding a feminine finesse that is otherwise lacking. And it is also true that otherwise sane men are sometimes "clingy," "desperate," "needy," or "high-maintainence"--even by the second date. Take Bird's story.
Bird is a normal girl living in Las Vegas. She is 22, a native of Tallahassee, and a talented colorist who has a knack for doing exactly what her clients ask her to do, unless she thinks they are wrong. And in this case, she simply does something better.
I have a standing appointment for highlights, a trim and a blow out with her every five weeks. I don't need a gossip magazine while she works--J.Lo, LiLo, or JoJo has nothing on her. Bird's escapades across the slippery landscape of Sin City are second to no one's and yet somehow defiantly typical of the women who live here.
Friday's story was especially entertaining since Ullah, Bird's roommate, was sitting nearby waiting to have a Brazilian done. It went something like this:
Bird met Robert at Blue Martini on the previous Sunday night. She was out with Ullah and a few other single friends. Any relationship-minded girl in Vegas knows that Blue Martini is one of a handful of places where at least 50% of the males will NOT be boarding a plane back to Sacramento or Buffalo, broke and hungover, on Monday morning. Women in big cities all over the country can whine about the dismal prospects of any given night out, with many of the hazards unique to the particular location--entitled egos on Wall Street, early morning football practice in Dallas, stringent religious rules in Salt Lake--but Vegas women, more so than women in any other city, can complain about the fact that their city's tourism department has made it the official slogan that what happens or WHO HAPPENS here should stay here. Ouch.
So Bird and the girls knew they had a 50/50 shot at finding local boys. Of those, at least half would be at least semi-employed--otherwise the $20 drinks would be prohibitive. Not bad odds.
Within moments, Bird saw Robert across the way.
"I nudged Ullah immediately and said 'There's my man.' He was freaking beautiful."
"He was so NOT beautiful, Bird," quipped Ullah. "You liked his freaking shirt."
"I did not like his freaking shirt. I didn't even notice his freaking shirt."
Ullah raised her eyebrow. "Uh huh." She then turned to me in the mirror and said, "What. Ev. Er. She liked his freaking shirt." Ullah is from Jersey, which means she has that innate talent to make you believe that whatever she is saying is the obvious truth, morons.
"OK. So I liked his shirt. It was Hardy. Even if his face wasn't that great."
(Hardy shirts, on the west coast, possess the qualifying signals of a male's ability to provide for a woman and her offspring or at least to buy her a membership at Anthem country club, as say, a Benz or Rolex on the east coast. The shirts are actually the locus of a growing schism between west coasters--you are other all for them or they make you kind of nauseous in the same kind of way eating too much cake or cotton candy does. Trust me, Issue 8 has nothing on this.)
Anway, Bird, despite Ullah's obvious indifference, walked right up to Robert and introduced herself.
At first glance, this may seem one of the few instances when men end up with the shorter end of the stick when it comes to double standards. And yet, a stalker at least has the privilege of flying his freak flag, which in many ways makes him easy to dismiss as simply "crazy," rather than catagorizing him as someone who is otherwise sane and, well, quite frankly, wants too much for herself, as we often do with women.
It is true that women make some of the most formidable stalkers, oftentimes adding a feminine finesse that is otherwise lacking. And it is also true that otherwise sane men are sometimes "clingy," "desperate," "needy," or "high-maintainence"--even by the second date. Take Bird's story.
Bird is a normal girl living in Las Vegas. She is 22, a native of Tallahassee, and a talented colorist who has a knack for doing exactly what her clients ask her to do, unless she thinks they are wrong. And in this case, she simply does something better.
I have a standing appointment for highlights, a trim and a blow out with her every five weeks. I don't need a gossip magazine while she works--J.Lo, LiLo, or JoJo has nothing on her. Bird's escapades across the slippery landscape of Sin City are second to no one's and yet somehow defiantly typical of the women who live here.
Friday's story was especially entertaining since Ullah, Bird's roommate, was sitting nearby waiting to have a Brazilian done. It went something like this:
Bird met Robert at Blue Martini on the previous Sunday night. She was out with Ullah and a few other single friends. Any relationship-minded girl in Vegas knows that Blue Martini is one of a handful of places where at least 50% of the males will NOT be boarding a plane back to Sacramento or Buffalo, broke and hungover, on Monday morning. Women in big cities all over the country can whine about the dismal prospects of any given night out, with many of the hazards unique to the particular location--entitled egos on Wall Street, early morning football practice in Dallas, stringent religious rules in Salt Lake--but Vegas women, more so than women in any other city, can complain about the fact that their city's tourism department has made it the official slogan that what happens or WHO HAPPENS here should stay here. Ouch.
So Bird and the girls knew they had a 50/50 shot at finding local boys. Of those, at least half would be at least semi-employed--otherwise the $20 drinks would be prohibitive. Not bad odds.
Within moments, Bird saw Robert across the way.
"I nudged Ullah immediately and said 'There's my man.' He was freaking beautiful."
"He was so NOT beautiful, Bird," quipped Ullah. "You liked his freaking shirt."
"I did not like his freaking shirt. I didn't even notice his freaking shirt."
Ullah raised her eyebrow. "Uh huh." She then turned to me in the mirror and said, "What. Ev. Er. She liked his freaking shirt." Ullah is from Jersey, which means she has that innate talent to make you believe that whatever she is saying is the obvious truth, morons.
"OK. So I liked his shirt. It was Hardy. Even if his face wasn't that great."
(Hardy shirts, on the west coast, possess the qualifying signals of a male's ability to provide for a woman and her offspring or at least to buy her a membership at Anthem country club, as say, a Benz or Rolex on the east coast. The shirts are actually the locus of a growing schism between west coasters--you are other all for them or they make you kind of nauseous in the same kind of way eating too much cake or cotton candy does. Trust me, Issue 8 has nothing on this.)
Anway, Bird, despite Ullah's obvious indifference, walked right up to Robert and introduced herself.
Friday, June 12, 2009
the hangover
...the movie, not mine.
This film fits squarely in the Smut catagory and I would never ever admit to seeing it if it wasn't so hilariously, if grotesquely, funny. Per my directions for partaking in Smut, I followed my own advice and went alone. I had no intention of telling even Bliss that I was going to see it Wednesday night but gave myself away when he called afterwards, and I couldn't stop laughing. No, really, baby, Revolutionary Road is freaking hilarious. He didn't buy it. The fact that The Hangover, which is a cautionary tale about a bachelor party in Vegas gone very very wrong (or right, depending on one's degree of--made up word alert--dementedness), hit the spot might have had something to do with the fact that I see these man-children roving in blue-button-up-clad groups every single night I am out. They seem as indigenous to Sin City as dirt. What irks me most is that these man-children are utterly oblivious to their total lack of originality*. They think their predatory strut, their encounters with strippers named Cheyenne, and their tequila shot tally are all things they have come up with on their own. Not so! In the two years I have lived here I have personally driven to the ER four times after an old high school friend was found naked in one of the casinos' fountains and put on an IV drip due to (gasp) alcohol-induced dehydration. Four times I have brought these boys back to the house and allowed them to sleep it off on my couch. I've let them down easy when they awake 18 hours after their return flight has left. I've nursed them back to health with pancakes and Gatorade. I've called their fiances. I've called their mothers. As they struggle to recall WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, I've nodded my head, shook my head and gasped in disbelief, letting them believe: You are the craziest, wildest, most "off the hook" (gagging here) guy who has ever come to party in Vegas! Damn. They should write you up in Frommers.
*In the name of fairness, I must say that in NO WAY are the boa/crown/is-it-a-shirt or-a-skirt wearing bachelorette party girls less pandemic or tiresome.
This film fits squarely in the Smut catagory and I would never ever admit to seeing it if it wasn't so hilariously, if grotesquely, funny. Per my directions for partaking in Smut, I followed my own advice and went alone. I had no intention of telling even Bliss that I was going to see it Wednesday night but gave myself away when he called afterwards, and I couldn't stop laughing. No, really, baby, Revolutionary Road is freaking hilarious. He didn't buy it. The fact that The Hangover, which is a cautionary tale about a bachelor party in Vegas gone very very wrong (or right, depending on one's degree of--made up word alert--dementedness), hit the spot might have had something to do with the fact that I see these man-children roving in blue-button-up-clad groups every single night I am out. They seem as indigenous to Sin City as dirt. What irks me most is that these man-children are utterly oblivious to their total lack of originality*. They think their predatory strut, their encounters with strippers named Cheyenne, and their tequila shot tally are all things they have come up with on their own. Not so! In the two years I have lived here I have personally driven to the ER four times after an old high school friend was found naked in one of the casinos' fountains and put on an IV drip due to (gasp) alcohol-induced dehydration. Four times I have brought these boys back to the house and allowed them to sleep it off on my couch. I've let them down easy when they awake 18 hours after their return flight has left. I've nursed them back to health with pancakes and Gatorade. I've called their fiances. I've called their mothers. As they struggle to recall WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, I've nodded my head, shook my head and gasped in disbelief, letting them believe: You are the craziest, wildest, most "off the hook" (gagging here) guy who has ever come to party in Vegas! Damn. They should write you up in Frommers.
*In the name of fairness, I must say that in NO WAY are the boa/crown/is-it-a-shirt or-a-skirt wearing bachelorette party girls less pandemic or tiresome.
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