Missed Connection:
It was a Thursday night and I was hosting trivia at a terrible bar full of terrible people. Except for you, that is. After a long Wednesday night of drinking and a long Thursday of recovery, I mustered enough energy to entertain the 10-15 people that were in the bar. I didn't want to be there. They didn't want to be there. The night was a clever and quiet battle of wills, and I refused to back down. I grabbed the microphone to begin my standard introduction. However, before I made it all the way through, you made your move. Sweeter than the song of the sirens, you YELLED: "WHY DO YOU LOOK SO ASIAN?!?" The room fell silent. And I fell in love. "What a great question," is all I could think. Why DO I look so Asian? Was it my dark hair? I quickly contemplated whether my life was all a lie and my true ancestors were residing among Harajuku girls and the panty vending machines of Japan. Maybe that's why I have such a penchant for Asian foods. I mistakenly and completely ignored you and quickly regained my composure, sure I was to speak to you soon, in private. Sadly, before I had the chance to you made your way to the bathroom and when you came back out, your pants were down. "This is not the time, my dear!-" I started to say, until I realized you were drunk. Not just on our love, (though sometimes I still tell myself that was it!), but on the liquid vice that has claimed me as its own on so many a night. When the waitress walked by you and told you to "put your dick back in your pants," you did just that. As I watched you fall asleep on the bar table before my very eyes, I couldn't help but wonder again and again; why DO I look so Asian??? So, if you'd like to get Shabu Shabu, sushi, or even just Chinese food, I just have one thing to say:
Sincerely,
The Girl That Looks SO Asian
Friday, April 17, 2015
Sunday, February 22, 2015
1/20/15
Missed Connection:
You know those moments you see someone from across the room and you instantly know there is going to be something between you? Me neither. But this was pretty close to that. It was a Tuesday night. I had ordered my drink and was chatting with my friends when a lull in the conversation caused me to turn my head…toward you. You had just come back from the bathroom. How had I not seen you earlier?? Your leather jacket and slicked back hair that screamed "I really don't want to be from Orange County, but I really, really am" were a powerful aphrodisiac. You walked towards the bar; you wanted a drink. It was then that we made eye contact. Everyone froze. Spotlights enveloped us both. The music stopped playing whatever crappy bar music was on and Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time" seeped through the speakers like fog. ...There's a solid chance that didn't actually happen, but I prefer to keep my memory of you pristine. I turned away almost as quickly as I had met your gaze. Partly because I hate when you accidentally look at someone you didn't mean to, but mostly because I knew that you were soon to be mine forever. Was I ready for this? Did I have what it takes to be someone's forever?? As I pondered these questions, you turned to your friend and loudly said (no doubt to throw me off! I love it when boys play hard to get!) "Dude…there are like, no cute chicks here." My heart momentarily shattered. But it was then I realized that to you, I was not a "chick;" oh no. I was far more than that! I was a woman who was about to become your wife, and maybe you needed a minute to digest that. And so in the moment I thought my best play was to play it cool, laugh at your little joke and never look back. Because I knew that when I turned around again you would be there on bended knee, having made an engagement ring out of the cherry stem from your drink. But when I turned around, you were gone. I know you are trying to add to the suspense, but darling I am ready! Let me know when you want to get this thing started.
Sincerely,
Not A Cute Chick
You know those moments you see someone from across the room and you instantly know there is going to be something between you? Me neither. But this was pretty close to that. It was a Tuesday night. I had ordered my drink and was chatting with my friends when a lull in the conversation caused me to turn my head…toward you. You had just come back from the bathroom. How had I not seen you earlier?? Your leather jacket and slicked back hair that screamed "I really don't want to be from Orange County, but I really, really am" were a powerful aphrodisiac. You walked towards the bar; you wanted a drink. It was then that we made eye contact. Everyone froze. Spotlights enveloped us both. The music stopped playing whatever crappy bar music was on and Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time" seeped through the speakers like fog. ...There's a solid chance that didn't actually happen, but I prefer to keep my memory of you pristine. I turned away almost as quickly as I had met your gaze. Partly because I hate when you accidentally look at someone you didn't mean to, but mostly because I knew that you were soon to be mine forever. Was I ready for this? Did I have what it takes to be someone's forever?? As I pondered these questions, you turned to your friend and loudly said (no doubt to throw me off! I love it when boys play hard to get!) "Dude…there are like, no cute chicks here." My heart momentarily shattered. But it was then I realized that to you, I was not a "chick;" oh no. I was far more than that! I was a woman who was about to become your wife, and maybe you needed a minute to digest that. And so in the moment I thought my best play was to play it cool, laugh at your little joke and never look back. Because I knew that when I turned around again you would be there on bended knee, having made an engagement ring out of the cherry stem from your drink. But when I turned around, you were gone. I know you are trying to add to the suspense, but darling I am ready! Let me know when you want to get this thing started.
Sincerely,
Not A Cute Chick
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
1/10/15
Missed Connection:
It was a Saturday night, and I had been bed ridden with the Ebola virus for the past two weeks. I was finally feeling good enough to enjoy an early dinner and a glass of wine with a friend at a classy restaurant, complete with unusually attractive piano player at the center of the bar who should probably call me. I digress. Here's where you come in. You entered the place with a pretty woman who was probably my mother's age, which made sense since you could have easily been my father's. Feeling generous as I was seated at the now full bar and you and your lady friend were not, I offered to make way so you could order your beverages. My mistake (or was it??). It became clear to me that she was not your wife as you had previously led me to believe, (when she leaned over, asking for my help and explained that you had just met tonight) when you touched my thigh where my skirt ended and told me - in less eloquent terms - you liked the way I look. After I removed your hand and loudly let your date know that your heart was straying, you then began studying my fingers. My shy disposition (for I was certainly not trying to blatantly ignore you!) must have been your aphrodisiac as you had no intention of leaving me to enjoy the remainder of my evening. Still fixated on my fingers, you called them beautiful and perceptively noted that they were small. Attempting to keep this conversation as PG as possible as I knew you were on the brink of a downward spiral and did not wish to anger your lady, I did my best to move on from the topic; but you would have none of that! You grabbed my hand and opened my eyes with a single sentence: "Small fingers make a penis look big." How did I already not know this?? So much wasted time! Please do not misinterpret my silence and subsequent bout of laughter for anything other than curiosity! Obviously I couldn't wait to prove you right! Instead my gentleman friend (whom you had no way of knowing was just a friend, I might add; such poise!) quietly asked you to leave me alone and you finally acquiesced. But I have not stopped thinking about you. So, shall we hold hands?
It was a Saturday night, and I had been bed ridden with the Ebola virus for the past two weeks. I was finally feeling good enough to enjoy an early dinner and a glass of wine with a friend at a classy restaurant, complete with unusually attractive piano player at the center of the bar who should probably call me. I digress. Here's where you come in. You entered the place with a pretty woman who was probably my mother's age, which made sense since you could have easily been my father's. Feeling generous as I was seated at the now full bar and you and your lady friend were not, I offered to make way so you could order your beverages. My mistake (or was it??). It became clear to me that she was not your wife as you had previously led me to believe, (when she leaned over, asking for my help and explained that you had just met tonight) when you touched my thigh where my skirt ended and told me - in less eloquent terms - you liked the way I look. After I removed your hand and loudly let your date know that your heart was straying, you then began studying my fingers. My shy disposition (for I was certainly not trying to blatantly ignore you!) must have been your aphrodisiac as you had no intention of leaving me to enjoy the remainder of my evening. Still fixated on my fingers, you called them beautiful and perceptively noted that they were small. Attempting to keep this conversation as PG as possible as I knew you were on the brink of a downward spiral and did not wish to anger your lady, I did my best to move on from the topic; but you would have none of that! You grabbed my hand and opened my eyes with a single sentence: "Small fingers make a penis look big." How did I already not know this?? So much wasted time! Please do not misinterpret my silence and subsequent bout of laughter for anything other than curiosity! Obviously I couldn't wait to prove you right! Instead my gentleman friend (whom you had no way of knowing was just a friend, I might add; such poise!) quietly asked you to leave me alone and you finally acquiesced. But I have not stopped thinking about you. So, shall we hold hands?
Sincerely,
The Girl With Small Fingers
Thursday, December 11, 2014
12/10/14
Missed Connection:
It was about 11:30 on Wednesday. I had just finished a long day of work and was grabbing a drink with a friend as I am wont to do. Soon after we ordered our pitcher of beer, you came back from what I assume was either a cigarette break, or an appointment with a wedding planner after spotting us. I have to imagine it was some type of dual wedding that you had in mind, as my friend and I pretty closely resemble each other and any other woman that has long dark hair and bangs these days. As I poured my glass from the pitcher, I heard you mumble something in our direction. My friend responded, but my shyness got the best of me and I chose to conceal my burning desire for your Irish accent with apparent apathy. She introduced herself and then turned to me. You looked at me, waiting for my own introduction and I finally acquiesced; for it is not every man that can break through my icy exterior to learn my name. When I nervously (do not mistake nerves for indifference!) told you, you looked at me like I had just asked you to solve a long division problem in your head. I pictured your brain like a Rubik's Cube, looking for the combination to unlock the correct reply. You paused for a moment, and then, finally: "Is that a boy's name??? ...Or a girl's?" If I at all appeared nonplussed and disconcerted, it was only because it was in that moment I knew I loved you. That we were meant to be. And that your requited love for me was so deep, you wouldn't let something as trivial as my ambiguous gender stand in the way. I wanted to cry out, to tell you I have been waiting for you for thirty long years! To tell you that I will be everything you have ever wanted in a wife (and/or husband, if that's what you want!)...but instead, I left. And so my intended, here I am, ready to move forward with this relationship if you are. But as for your question? There is really no way of knowing.
Sincerely,
Morgan
It was about 11:30 on Wednesday. I had just finished a long day of work and was grabbing a drink with a friend as I am wont to do. Soon after we ordered our pitcher of beer, you came back from what I assume was either a cigarette break, or an appointment with a wedding planner after spotting us. I have to imagine it was some type of dual wedding that you had in mind, as my friend and I pretty closely resemble each other and any other woman that has long dark hair and bangs these days. As I poured my glass from the pitcher, I heard you mumble something in our direction. My friend responded, but my shyness got the best of me and I chose to conceal my burning desire for your Irish accent with apparent apathy. She introduced herself and then turned to me. You looked at me, waiting for my own introduction and I finally acquiesced; for it is not every man that can break through my icy exterior to learn my name. When I nervously (do not mistake nerves for indifference!) told you, you looked at me like I had just asked you to solve a long division problem in your head. I pictured your brain like a Rubik's Cube, looking for the combination to unlock the correct reply. You paused for a moment, and then, finally: "Is that a boy's name??? ...Or a girl's?" If I at all appeared nonplussed and disconcerted, it was only because it was in that moment I knew I loved you. That we were meant to be. And that your requited love for me was so deep, you wouldn't let something as trivial as my ambiguous gender stand in the way. I wanted to cry out, to tell you I have been waiting for you for thirty long years! To tell you that I will be everything you have ever wanted in a wife (and/or husband, if that's what you want!)...but instead, I left. And so my intended, here I am, ready to move forward with this relationship if you are. But as for your question? There is really no way of knowing.
Sincerely,
Morgan
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
9/16/14
Missed Connection:
Like most good love stories begin, I went to The Huddle last night after fleeing my regular Tuesday night bar like a desperate refugee seeking shelter from loud shitty music. I was catching up with some friends over drinks and after a few I headed to the bathroom. If I had known I was about to meet the love of my life on my way out, I probably would have fixed my makeup. There you were. Leaning against the jukebox with what I can only describe as those googly eyes that you glue onto construction paper and anything else around during arts and crafts as a kid. I'm fairly certain you were drunk, or maybe you just have lazy eyes? I can't wait to learn all these little things about you! I'd like to imagine you were selecting songs for our wedding reception. I paused by the bathroom door, trying to figure out how I was going to get around you since you were blocking my path with not only your body, but also with your raw animal magnetism. You looked at me the way a hungry lion looks at a steak and the eloquence poured from your lips much like the alcoholic vomit poured from it later I imagine: "Do you want to make out?" Is what you said, but I know that "Do you want to exclusively date me for the next year or so, get engaged, have an outdoor June wedding and honeymoon in Florence?" is what you really meant. Being as incredulous as I am and just to make sure I wasn't way off base with my romantic deduction, I asked, "What??" "Do you want to make out?" You repeated. Almost annoyed that I had not yet consented and that you had to reiterate what was probably so difficult for you to put into words! (Your love for me.) Sadly, when it comes to the game of love, I always fall far too late. For as you awaited my answer with hope in your googly eyes, you were only met with heartbreak when I told you no and walked away. But you would not give up that easily! Oh, not yet. For in retaliation just minutes later, you approached my friend with the same proposition, only THIS time you offered to show her the $12,000 in your bank account as what I can only conclude was some type of make out dowry. I am no stranger to heartbreak, and I will not pretend that this was any exception or that it did not cut me straight to my core. I guess here's what I'm really getting at: I'm just a girl, sitting in front of a computer screen, asking for another chance to make out with a drunk stranger. So, what do you say?
Sincerely,
Miss Missed Connection
Like most good love stories begin, I went to The Huddle last night after fleeing my regular Tuesday night bar like a desperate refugee seeking shelter from loud shitty music. I was catching up with some friends over drinks and after a few I headed to the bathroom. If I had known I was about to meet the love of my life on my way out, I probably would have fixed my makeup. There you were. Leaning against the jukebox with what I can only describe as those googly eyes that you glue onto construction paper and anything else around during arts and crafts as a kid. I'm fairly certain you were drunk, or maybe you just have lazy eyes? I can't wait to learn all these little things about you! I'd like to imagine you were selecting songs for our wedding reception. I paused by the bathroom door, trying to figure out how I was going to get around you since you were blocking my path with not only your body, but also with your raw animal magnetism. You looked at me the way a hungry lion looks at a steak and the eloquence poured from your lips much like the alcoholic vomit poured from it later I imagine: "Do you want to make out?" Is what you said, but I know that "Do you want to exclusively date me for the next year or so, get engaged, have an outdoor June wedding and honeymoon in Florence?" is what you really meant. Being as incredulous as I am and just to make sure I wasn't way off base with my romantic deduction, I asked, "What??" "Do you want to make out?" You repeated. Almost annoyed that I had not yet consented and that you had to reiterate what was probably so difficult for you to put into words! (Your love for me.) Sadly, when it comes to the game of love, I always fall far too late. For as you awaited my answer with hope in your googly eyes, you were only met with heartbreak when I told you no and walked away. But you would not give up that easily! Oh, not yet. For in retaliation just minutes later, you approached my friend with the same proposition, only THIS time you offered to show her the $12,000 in your bank account as what I can only conclude was some type of make out dowry. I am no stranger to heartbreak, and I will not pretend that this was any exception or that it did not cut me straight to my core. I guess here's what I'm really getting at: I'm just a girl, sitting in front of a computer screen, asking for another chance to make out with a drunk stranger. So, what do you say?
Sincerely,
Miss Missed Connection
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
9/2/14
Missed Connection:
It was Tuesday night. Naturally, I was at a bar having a few beers after marathoning season 2 of Orphan Black (should it end up working out between us, I suggest you do the same, it's quite good). I was there for my friend's trivia night, you were there to get drunk (and win me over!). Your friend was outside puking on the sidewalk - I both saw her and heard you talking to your other friends. You were sitting at the end of the bar, laughing about it, but sympathizing with her in spirit, I'm certain. The crowd dispersed. I noticed you immediately as I took a seat at the bar, partly because it was a pretty slow night at the bar, partly because you seemed to only speak only at an 11, which you see, is one louder than 10. You were different than the rest; you did not approach me. You did not ask me if I was from Tennessee, or outer space, or if it hurt when I fell from heaven. We made eye contact a few times, but beyond that you left me alone in this world to replay the events of the evening again and again my mind. As I unknowingly sipped my drink, dreaming of being swept off my feet by the kind of man you only see in movies, Cupid shot his arrow deep into my heart. The very first thing you said that caught my attention: "When women ask you how old they are, you always have to add a few years. That way you put them in their place." Though you did not say this directly to me, I still gasped. Probably aloud! My cheeks are reddening even now at the very thought of you possibly noticing me swooning only two barstools to your left. How did you know that us women long to be "put in our place?!?" That we lie in bed each night and each morning praying to whatever belief system we acknowledge to be nothing other than put in our place! How did you know that all we really want from men are veiled insults about our appearance accompanied by your condescending tone? SISTERS: I thought these were secrets that we all agreed to tell NO man! Needless to say I was amazed at how clearly and deeply you were capable of seeing into women's hearts and souls. How I yearn to one day be loved and cared for by such an honorable man as yourself! While my initial thought was that you must have had a significant amount of personal training from VH1's Pick-Up Artist, my next thought was of course "how do I make this virtuous man who respects women my own?" And so I'll leave you with one final question, oh object of my affection: How old do you think I am?
Sincerely,
whitegirl1 (VH1 and I go way back)
It was Tuesday night. Naturally, I was at a bar having a few beers after marathoning season 2 of Orphan Black (should it end up working out between us, I suggest you do the same, it's quite good). I was there for my friend's trivia night, you were there to get drunk (and win me over!). Your friend was outside puking on the sidewalk - I both saw her and heard you talking to your other friends. You were sitting at the end of the bar, laughing about it, but sympathizing with her in spirit, I'm certain. The crowd dispersed. I noticed you immediately as I took a seat at the bar, partly because it was a pretty slow night at the bar, partly because you seemed to only speak only at an 11, which you see, is one louder than 10. You were different than the rest; you did not approach me. You did not ask me if I was from Tennessee, or outer space, or if it hurt when I fell from heaven. We made eye contact a few times, but beyond that you left me alone in this world to replay the events of the evening again and again my mind. As I unknowingly sipped my drink, dreaming of being swept off my feet by the kind of man you only see in movies, Cupid shot his arrow deep into my heart. The very first thing you said that caught my attention: "When women ask you how old they are, you always have to add a few years. That way you put them in their place." Though you did not say this directly to me, I still gasped. Probably aloud! My cheeks are reddening even now at the very thought of you possibly noticing me swooning only two barstools to your left. How did you know that us women long to be "put in our place?!?" That we lie in bed each night and each morning praying to whatever belief system we acknowledge to be nothing other than put in our place! How did you know that all we really want from men are veiled insults about our appearance accompanied by your condescending tone? SISTERS: I thought these were secrets that we all agreed to tell NO man! Needless to say I was amazed at how clearly and deeply you were capable of seeing into women's hearts and souls. How I yearn to one day be loved and cared for by such an honorable man as yourself! While my initial thought was that you must have had a significant amount of personal training from VH1's Pick-Up Artist, my next thought was of course "how do I make this virtuous man who respects women my own?" And so I'll leave you with one final question, oh object of my affection: How old do you think I am?
Sincerely,
whitegirl1 (VH1 and I go way back)
Thursday, August 21, 2014
8/21/14
Missed Connection:
The story I can't wait to tell our children someday started in broad daylight and without the influence of alcohol; something I cannot say for the majority of my honorable suitors. I had stepped outside of my office into our back alley to take a phone call, or, to have a proverbial cigarette if you will. As I talked while pacing around the dumpster, I heard a faint noise coming from behind me from another building. Not thinking anything of it I continued my conversation and definitely did not think that that noise was directed at me. However, I of course would not be writing this if it weren't. Still on the phone, and in the middle of explaining something, I decided to find out where the (what can only be described as a "clucking"?) sound that had been going on for at least a solid two minutes was coming from. Imagine my surprise when I turned around and discovered that you were staring directly at me and that this sound was actually your mating call! I must admit I am curious as to why you went with the clucking, though. Was this a challenge to something? An unfamiliar language? Were you mimicking a chicken as a way to ask me if I am a good cook? I do not intend to crush your dreams, but I am not. If this changes things for you, I understand, though I sincerely hope you still give me a chance. Perhaps you were inquiring as to whether or not my eggs are fertile? I cannot tell you for sure, but I would like to think so! I would be happy to confirm this for you via medical testing; maybe this can be the agenda for our first date! Or maybe you were simply calling me a chicken for reasons I may never understand, but will secretly hope that you will tell me one day when our children are grown and we are old and retired, doing the New York Times crossword in front of a gentle fire reminiscing about this very day. I digress... I stopped talking for just a second while my synapses fired away trying to make sense of it all. Fortunately, it was long enough for you to yell at me from your building that I am "hot." Thank you. I hope I did not disappoint you too much when instead of dropping my phone and leaping over the fence into your arms I yelled back an irritated, "Really?" and resumed my conversation. You'll have to forgive me, I can be quite shy.
Sincerely,
Your Hot Chicken
The story I can't wait to tell our children someday started in broad daylight and without the influence of alcohol; something I cannot say for the majority of my honorable suitors. I had stepped outside of my office into our back alley to take a phone call, or, to have a proverbial cigarette if you will. As I talked while pacing around the dumpster, I heard a faint noise coming from behind me from another building. Not thinking anything of it I continued my conversation and definitely did not think that that noise was directed at me. However, I of course would not be writing this if it weren't. Still on the phone, and in the middle of explaining something, I decided to find out where the (what can only be described as a "clucking"?) sound that had been going on for at least a solid two minutes was coming from. Imagine my surprise when I turned around and discovered that you were staring directly at me and that this sound was actually your mating call! I must admit I am curious as to why you went with the clucking, though. Was this a challenge to something? An unfamiliar language? Were you mimicking a chicken as a way to ask me if I am a good cook? I do not intend to crush your dreams, but I am not. If this changes things for you, I understand, though I sincerely hope you still give me a chance. Perhaps you were inquiring as to whether or not my eggs are fertile? I cannot tell you for sure, but I would like to think so! I would be happy to confirm this for you via medical testing; maybe this can be the agenda for our first date! Or maybe you were simply calling me a chicken for reasons I may never understand, but will secretly hope that you will tell me one day when our children are grown and we are old and retired, doing the New York Times crossword in front of a gentle fire reminiscing about this very day. I digress... I stopped talking for just a second while my synapses fired away trying to make sense of it all. Fortunately, it was long enough for you to yell at me from your building that I am "hot." Thank you. I hope I did not disappoint you too much when instead of dropping my phone and leaping over the fence into your arms I yelled back an irritated, "Really?" and resumed my conversation. You'll have to forgive me, I can be quite shy.
Sincerely,
Your Hot Chicken
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