Charming, but single

I may be the only person who does this, but when I’m in mixed company and I have no interest in the men there, I totally chat up their female friends. We giggle and dish and – dare I say – flirt! I caught myself doing it on Friday night. I knew I wasn’t even remotely interested in any of the three guys at my table and so I spent a bit of the night talking with one of the other women there. We bonded over an Elton John song and hit all of the important topics:

• Being a closet American Idol fan at age 26
• Falling off of the treadmill at the gym
• Her pretty sparkly earrings
• How green just didn’t work with my outfit that night
• Subtly slutty “going out” shirts versus overtly slutty tops

Two rounds an a few Apple Pucker shots later (it was St. Paddy’s Day after all!) we were old friends, bonded over a shared love of bling and an inability to resist the almost obscene sex look of one Constantine Maroulis. Saturday I did some day parading with a pal before we got fancy pimento cheese sandwiches for lunch and shoe shopped at our favorite boutique. (I didn’t buy any this time. But oh was I tempted.) I watched basketball in the afternoon to early evening. Cursed CBS for flipping from game to game and almost sending me into an epileptic fit trying to figure out what game I was watching and who to cheer for and what city they were in and what team was what color. I want to watch a game and I want to watch the entire thing, not 5 minutes of this game and then 45 seconds of another and then 20 minutes of a third. Are we, as a people, really so ADD that we can’t watch an ENTIRE basketball game? Hmmph. Met Southern Belle and SB’s Boyfriend out that evening, spilt a glass of $8 wine on SB’s jeans and almost broke a wine glass in the process. Not cool. At all. Met B and six of his guy friends at another bar. Danced around like a moron in my three-inch heels, flirting with all of the boys. It is fun to flirt with boys when you know it is all in jest. Two of the guys were married, one was in a serious relationship and three are pals. Then there’s B. Whatever. One of the newly-married guys slipped his ring off to let B see if wearing a ring would get him a different kind of attention in the bar. It didn’t seem to. B’s roomie repeatedly tried to balance his drink in my cleavage. It was cold and uncomfortable, to say the least. I was play flirting with one of the Married Men who made a joke about taking me home. “I couldn’t sleep with you! You are married!” I exclaimed. “Married men cheat all of the time. Come on,” he joked. “No, that would make you an asshole,” I said. I paused. “And in that case, I could totally go for it, because I apparently exclusively sleep with assholes.” We devolved into laughter. “Well, I only sleep with bitches,” he said. “F-ck you!” I yelled, waving my hand playfully in his face. He laughed. “Let’s go!” It was a pretty rambunctiously fun all around. B announced an after party at his place, so I left and waited for a good 15 minutes at his house (literally seconds from the bar) and when the crew of boys never showed up, I slipped “Don’t Bother” by Shakira into the CD player and returned chez moi. I toasted a whole-wheat waffle and snacked on it while I watched the opening scenes of a random episode of “Grey’s Anatomy.” At 2:45 a.m. B texted to find out where I was. I sent back, “In bed.”