Just how old do you think I am?

I'm not saying I look 19, but I probably don't really look 28 either.

I would like to think this is largely due to my super-hip-California-Cool wardrobe.
But it is probably more to do with the fact that I am surrounded by college students and I do blend in by virtue of the fact that I am not 40, or wearing a jacket with elbow patches (aka Professor wear). I could wear professional clothing and set myself apart a little more, but seriously, a pencil skirt and heels when I am clamoring around on a roof or walking around inside a chiller...?
Hello, bad idea.

Quite honestly, I am perfectly content to be mistaken for a student.
It certainly isn't ego bruising to be told you look young.
This only gets awkward when it occurs during a meeting with someone important. Or with a contractor who doesn't realize I am the someone important they are meeting.

"No, I'm not in the campus sustainability club. I am the campus Sustainability Manager. I am actually here to talk with someone about my retirement plan/buying a $50,000 piece of equipment/insert basically anything here."

Some people would be bothered by this.
Not me.
I love it.
I hope this continues. I won't be in my 20s forever, and when I am old this will just be another glorious memory to keep me smiling instead of crying over my liver spots.
Everyone needs a good ego stroking, right?

Anyway... Back to getting confused with the undergrads.

Last week I attended an on-campus lecture and struck up a conversation with the student sitting beside me. He was a very friendly first year, excited at the prospect of all that college was laying at his feet. We talked about his classes, which ones he liked, which ones he didn't, what he was planning to study, and what he wanted to do with his degree. We talked about the speaker and what an amazing opportunity it was to hear him speak, as well as how powerful his books are.

An aside: I will talk very excitedly about books with anyone.  For me, meeting an author I love makes me happier than a pigeon with a french fry at the Dairy Queen. I become as giddy as a schoolgirl during the Beatles invasion of America.

As the conversation progressed, all I could think was what a great student intern this guy would be. He is smart, engaged, interested, clearly hard-working. And he reads good books. He isn't reading solely Maxim and beat poets pretending to be introspective. He is actually reading quality books and can talk about them.

And it is here that I probably made my error. I just get too excited about books. People, men in particular, mistake this excitement about books for interest in them. As soon as the guy opened his mouth and started the sentence I wanted to stop him, but it was impossible.

"So, would you want to get together and grab a drink, alcoholic or not, and talk about something other than his books."
"That would be great, but I have a boyfriend." So I told a lie. Sue me. It seemed kinder than "Well, I thinking dating you violates some school code."

Just when I thought I was in the clear and he would never know he asked out a staff member, a professor from his department sat down behind us and said, "So David, I see you've met the campus Sustainability Manager."

Poor David turned purple.

Bull's Eye!

Last night I stopped in Target to pick up some underwear on my way home. I'm leaving for Vegas tomorrow and have had literally no time to do laundry. Having a date every night this week as really cut into my domestic chores time.

Darn.

Those of you who know me well can attest to the fact that I have about 300 pair of underwear. This is a clue as to just how long I have been putting off laundry.

Needless to say, Target's five for $20 deal was sounding pretty good.

So, there I was at Target at 9:45 at night. And I must admit, I was looking pretty good for such a late hour on a Wednesday. I had on my favorite LBD (Little Black Dress) and four inch pumps because I had been in meetings in LA all day and had a happy hour date scheduled for right after the meetings. Thank goodness for a dress that can go from professional to profoundly sexy just by taking off black pantyhose.

Anyway... I am walking towards the check-out, with a fist full of underwear, when I pass a tall black guy dressed fairly casually in basketball shorts and a t-shirt. His neck tattoo wasn't doing a great deal to class up the attire.

As I am one to do, I smiled when I passed him. We were the only two people in the aisle. What was I supposed to do? Smiling a reflex I can't really control. Now, in the South, when you smile at someone as you pass they typically smile back or say "Hello."

This is not usually how it works in California. I smile, and people react like I have spit on them. I once bumped into a girl who stopped walking right in front of me in the middle of a crowded walkway and when I said "Pardon me. I'm sorry." the response I got was, "You're right pardon you!"

I'm pretty sure "BIIII-TCH!" was in a thought balloon over her head and she was doing the finger snapping "Z" in her mind.

So, imagine my surprise when this dude smiles back.
And then winks.
Yes. Winks.

Now, I am not opposed to a good ol' fashioned wink across a crowded room. I once winked at a guy in a bar, and he came over and bought a round of drinks.
Clearly the wink works in the right setting.
But under the harsh lights of Target at 9:45 at night while I am holding five pair of underwear?
The wink just isn't working for me.
Sorry dude.
I don't acknowledge the wink and just get into the shortest line I can find.

Only two customers in front of me. Sweet!
Wrong. One of the ladies forgot her wallet and ran out to her car to get it and the other had trouble with her credit card. By this time I have read all the headlines on People and US Weekly, and have given up actually getting to leave the store before midnight. The thought of having to live inside Target like that girl who lived in Wal-Mart and named her baby Americus flashed through my mind briefly.

Though this is a Super Target so at least there is food... And they do have a Hello Kitty microwave. That might make the stay worth it.

Breaking into my day dream about sleeping in a tent in Target is a really low, "How you doing, baby?"

Is Jennifer Grey/Francis Houseman here?

I look up and see Mr. Winky himself standing behind me in line.

"I'm fine."  Dang it! Why did I have to pick the line full of people who don't understand how shopping works? You pick out your items. The cashier rings them up. You pay for them. Then you leave. It isn't a foreign concept! Now, I am tapped talking to this guy. "Umm... How are you?"
"I'm pretty good. You got a boyfriend?"
"Are these yours?" The clerk asks me, holding up a value pack of Trojan condoms.
"Nope. Those aren't mine."
"Those are mine." Winky says raising his hand as if there might be some confusion as to who those condoms belonged to. We were the only two people in line at this point.
"So, you got a man?"
Looks like ignoring the question won't work. "Yeah, I sort of have a boyfriend. It is new." I said very awkwardly.


What am I supposed to say here? No, I don't have a boyfriend, I have lots of boyfriends. I'll add you to the list. Let me give you my number and we'll go out, after you've gone to see whoever you're buying those condoms for. Though, I am pleased to see you're wrapping it up. STDs are a bitch from what I hear. 

"Well, good luck with that."
"Ummm... yeah... thanks. I guess we'll see."

Meeting the parents...

I know what you are thinking.
It goes something like, "Why, oh, why Crigger would you meet some poor guys parents? They will fall in love with you and that is it for every girl he ever dates after you. That is sticky territory!"

So maybe I'm indulging in a bit of narcissistic melodrama, but yes, you are correct. It is sticky territory. Especially since parents love me and usually want their sons to marry me.

And just like that, the narcissism is back.

Okay, maybe not me, but at least someone like me: Smart. Ambitious. Able to talk about things other than the Bachelorette, eye shadow, or the Twilight books. Though I do like the Bachelorette (Stop judging me! Everyone needs a guilty pleasure!) and eye shadow. Twilight, however, should go drown itself in a river. I don't share a resemblance with Gollum from Lord of the Rings or a gold-digging whore. And I won't be crazy, mean, or crazy-mean to their sons.

But I didn't plan to meet Shane's parents. They came to the NCAA Championship game watch party. What was I supposed to say when he said "Do you want to meet my parents?"

"No, I would prefer not to."
I'm not Bartleby the Scrivener!

Plus, they are from Kentucky! And I never meet anyone's parents out here in LA, so I really did want to meet them.

They were as lovely as you would imagine. They would have to be, right? After all, they raised a seemly great son. They can't be completely wacko, right? They reminded me of my parents. Easy going, super involved and interested in their children, but not in an overly pushy way. Phil and Nora are sweet, funny, and kind. In meeting them you can see why Shane is the kind of person he is.

And is is always interesting to get a glimpse at who someone will become.

As we chatted about Kentucky, figured out mutual friends, yelled for the Wildcats, and heard funny stories about Shane, the idea of getting together for dinner before they left town was floated.

It is hard for me to tell a friend "No". It is impossible for me to tell their mother "No".

And that's how I ended up at an Italian restaurant in West LA with Shane, his parents, and Emily.

Now mind you, this is someone who I have talked to twice in a bar, and one of those times he was so drunk I don't think he remembers it, have been to one party he hosted, kissed him on a balcony, and had brunch with him once.

We haven't even been on a real date! But now his parents are buying my dinner, asking me about my job, and telling funny family vacation stories...


I might be in over my head with this one.

Wildcatting Around

Do you remember back during the NCAA tournament when I met two very drunk young men, Greenie and Shane? They were the ones who had been indulging in Irish/Catholic car bombs.

All.
Day.
Long.

I honestly never expected to see either of them again. But, low and behold, they showed up at the next UK game. We chatted again, this time they were more likely to remember it since they hadn't consumed their weight in car bombs, nor eaten all the fruit from the moonshine. We exchanged numbers since they live close to my friend Em and I promised I would try to get them some moonshine the next time I went home.

And once again that was that. I figured they would fade into the recesses of "the people I've met in bars" part of my brain that is always a little cloudy.

But that was not to be.

Em called just before the epic Louisville vs. UK game to tell me we had been invited to a post-game party.

"Awesome! Where? Will there be cute guys there?"
"Greenie and Shane. Super close to my house. We'll head over after the game."
"Perfect. They are cute. They've probably got some cute friends."

So post the UK victory, we headed over to Greenie and Shane's where the crowd was predominately Kentuckians and the only non-Kentuckians were non-LA natives that came from amazing places like Pittsburgh and Cleveland. Everyone was rocking UK gear. I didn't have to explain what it meant when I said "Even a blind pig finds an acorn."  No one asked me say words with lots of vowels in them. We played Kings and Ride the Bus. There was plenty of bourbon and some Coors Light. No one wanted to go to a club or was wearing sequins.

Everyone was happy to sit and drink on a patio.
It was like being back in Lexington.
And I loved it. All that was missing was moonshine and a slice of Goodfellas pizza.

As the night wore on and the alcohol blurred the edges of the evening Em and commiserated about the quality of eligible bachelors in Southern California. She and I have pretty different taste in men, but we could agree that Shane and Greenie were pretty cute, even if they still seemed to be in frat boy mode. And honestly, I'm kind of going through a frat-girl stage of my own so who am I to judge?

"Greenie really is more my type, but I'm not sure I am his." Em said. "But Shane is pretty cute. He has nice lips, I bet he is a good kisser."
"Greenie is your type? Really? He seems like a used car salesman to me. Nice. But I'm suspicious as to why he's so nice. Shane is more my type. Tall. Sweet. Likes bourbon. I like the tall thin guys. I guess it is my hope that my children get some height from their father, because they wont get it from me." I chuckled.
"You should kiss Shane. He seems kind of into you."
"I already have so many boyfriends. I can't really add another right now."
"No one says you have to date him."
"Why don't you go kiss him." I suggest.
"Okay. Maybe I will."

And a few minutes later Em comes back reporting that she has, in fact, smooched Shane, and that, "You should too. He's a great kisser. We were right about the good lips."
"Haha. I might. Even though it will be sloppy seconds."

As the night wore on and the crowd started to thin out I found myself on the patio with Shane. Thanks to being on the losing end of Ride the Bus I was far more intoxicated than I meant to be.

"You know, you are a really smart girl. You've made the right decisions." Shane said.
"I don't know about making "the right decisions", but I have made the decisions that are right for me. And that has made all the difference."
"Well, I'm really glad I met you. You're exactly who you are. I feel like there is no pretense with you. You're the kind of girl I want to fall in love with."
"You don't know me. I could be pretending all over the place."
"Maybe. But I don't think you are."

And then we were kissing. And boy was Emily right. He does have good lips. 

I dream a little dream...

I am not a dreamer.
Now, I don't mean I don't have wishes, and hopes, and those kinds of dreams.
I have plenty of those.
But actual dreams, the ones occurring at night while I'm snuggled in, enjoying some deep REM cycles. I rarely have those. Or at least, I rarely remember having them.

But every now and then I will have one that I do remember. When this happens I am usually so confused by the fact that I actually had a dream that I can't figure out if it really happened. I've had to make a phone call or check Facebook on more than one occasion to confirm that I did NOT in fact learn that my friend's  husband was in a porno flick via Facebook chat or convince my cousin to get a face tattoo.

My most recent panicked awakening was the result of a much more terrifying nightmare.

I dreamed about my wedding.

This is startling for several reasons. Least of all because I am dating about four different people at the moment. I have never been one of those girls who "dreams" about her wedding. I wasn't draping a pillowcase over my head and playing "wedding" as a little girl. I was playing "career woman" clomping around the house in my Mom's high heels and dragging her brief case down the hall.

I tend to think of my wedding in more of a fleeting manner.
As in,  "Gee that's a pretty dress. I might like something similar to that." or "Gawd, those are tacky save the dates. Note to self... DON'T do that!" Alternatively there is, "Boy, do I love throwing a good party! My reception will be off the hooooook!" and "Hmmm... I wonder if I booked Sundy Best for an undisclosed date in the future if they would let me pay 2012 prices for a 2020 wedding...?"

Evidently, my subconscious has been doing A LOT more thinking on this issue.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Off in Dreamland~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm all alone getting dressed in my wedding dress. This should be the first clue that something is wrong because my Mom, Cournado, the Fab Four, and various others would be there helping me get dressed if this were a real life wedding. But I'm alone.

I step into the dress and it is beautiful, though not something I ever thought I would want, but have since reconsidered. The top has beautiful woven designs and there are narrow strips of red that come across the shoulder and are woven into the bodice. I start to zip the the dress and realize it is about three sizes to large.

And I panic. I am clutching the dress to me. Running around the room. Screaming for my Mom.
I run out into the hallway (I'm apparently getting married in a mansion. Interesting, I always assumed I'd get married in a church...) where I see hundreds of guests milling around drinking cocktails. Yes, hundreds of guest. I am very popular with lots of best friends.

The mother of a girl I knew from high school takes one look at me in my dress that is three sizes to be big and says, "Crigger, you are a pretty girl, but that dress is too big. And it looks like ugly Princess Diana."

To which I respond, very sarcastically, "That's really helpful! Thanks! Royal Family would never have allowed her to show her bare shoulders in the church of England!"

Then I ran down the hallway flipping her off the whole way.

I finally find my Mom back in the bridal room. I explain the situation to her and she very calmly assures me that hotel must have an emergency seamstress. So now the mansion is also a hotel? Which usually has brides freaking out needing last minute alterations. Of course.

I look at the clock and see that it says 7:31.
"But Mom the wedding is supposed to start at 7:30! Everyone will be mad that I've made them wait."
"Don't worry. We have an open bar. We'll give people some booze and they'll be fine."