Charming, but single

A journal in dates and drinks


Just shoot me

These things are starting to not be funny anymore. You would think after all of the breast baring and the office flashing, you would think I would have had my fill of obnoxious, bad-chick-flick embarrassing moments. But no. Saturday night, my father invited me to dinner at a restaurant I love. We don't get to hang out alone very much, which is a shame, because now that I'm grown up and past the phase in my life where being seen with my parents is terribly embarrassing, I have a lot fun with my dad. We have a lot in common and a lot to talk about it. (I feel like I'm describing a date or something. Ew.) (Not that I even remember what being on a date is like.) Anyway, I wore some of my favorite sitting shoes, cute black slingbacks with a pretty thin heel. (Have I explained what sitting shoes are? I don't remember. Just in case I didn't, sitting shoes are shoes I love to wear, but only to places where I don't have to stand, as they are terribly uncomfortable and difficult to walk in. I probably noticed this when I bought them, but was too in love with them to care. A common usage of this term is, "We can't go out dancing tonight! I'm wearing my sitting shoes.") Back to dinner: We went to a restaurant that isn't niiiice, but also isn't really cheap and family-like either. It's casual nice, I suppose. It looks like a huge old house someone converted into a restaurant and it has the gorgeous old hardwood floors, which are kind of worn-looking, but it a good way. It was pretty crowded, so we had to wait in the bar. My poor dad could NOT get the bartender's attention and no one would let him close enough to bar to really get noticed. After a few minutes of waiting, I surveyed the bar, asked him what he wanted and headed over to the end where a group of three guys my age was sitting, having a beer while they waited for their table. It took them less than 15 seconds to move over and make room for me to get to the bar and apologize for causing me any inconvenience. You boys are sooooo easy sometimes. After a few drinks, we got a table and had a nice dinner. I ordered coffee after dinner and went to the bathroom while I waited for it to come. I freshened up, checked my hair and admired my favorite shoes in the full-length mirror. I looked cute and felt good. I only drank two glasses of wine, so I was in no way drunk. Just having a good time. I walked from the bathroom and back to my table. And then it happened. Remember the pretty wood floors I described earlier? I got to inspect them in detail, as I faceplanted in front of the entire damn restaurant, in a skirt, just feet from my table. I was mortified. Time slowed as I felt my foot slide on a slick spot on the floor and come out from underneath me as I tumbled forward and tried quite unsuccessfully to stop my falling with a nearby table. I made a huge thud as I hit the ground, as this restaurant, in the style of many old houses, is raised off of the ground. There was an audible gasp throughout the restaurant as people looked at me with pained, pitiful expressions. I don't know how, but I hopped up unassisted before my father could get to me. I straightend my skirt, checked my shoes and smoothed my hair in one quick motion and returned to my table. My server apologized and I tried to play it off, but it was tres embarrassing. I don't know if the entire restaurant saw my blue panties. I hope not. I could feel eyes on me as I walked out, slowly and carefully, later. Someone pointed out that I was the "woman who fell earlier" and someone else commented on my three-inch-sort-of-spiked heels as the reason I fell. I find blaming the shoes to be terribly unnecessary. This was clearly the floor's fault.



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Charming, but single is 25 26 27(!), lives in the Southern part of the U.S.A. and likes both her drinks and her boys tall. E-mail (listed below) her and she may respond. You can also IM her in AIM/AOL. (If she ever remembers to sign on.)
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Former taglines of this blog: "A Journal in Dates and Drinks" and "A Dateless Journal of Drinking."




Those Particulars
Some Backstory
Memories of the Way We Were
Updates and Towel Snapping
One Year Wrap-Up
Just As She Is
An Open Letter to Myself
After 26 years, she HAS learned something
An Open Letter to the Men Who Message Me Through Match
Sharing a smoke



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