by Melody Bowen
Strip Malls, Chivalry and the Man Magnet
So I've been here in Pittsburgh for several days now, right? And I still have more than a week to go. I've unpacked my suitcases, had a couple of martinis in the hotel bar, gone to my fair share of suburban chain restaurants and had my fill of the overpriced and terrifically lousy Radisson Hotel food. I've seen every stinking strip mall within a five-mile radius (mostly because this Pittsburgh-ian suburb is nothing but wall-to-wall strip malls). I have six -- count them, six -- more action-packed days at this database conference before I can pack up my stuff and get the H-E-double-hockey-sticks outta here.
While it's been a little lonely here, in truth I can't say that it's been all bad. I've met some nice people, learned a few things I didn't know (which is always good, right?), seen a good movie, and I hit a sale at one of the aforementioned strip malls, where I picked up a couple of great skirts for $1.99 each, a pair of comfy boot-cut jeans for $8.50, and a pair of perfectly fabulous chocolatey-colored knee boots with a heel that makes me stand very nearly six feet tall. (Woohoo, and ha-cha-cha!)
I've also had some time to do a little people-watching. (Somehow traveling alone lends itself to often dining alone, which lends itself to either staring at the table twiddling one's thumbs or people-watching. The latter of the two has historically been my preference.) A few observations:
Sitting at a dark little brew pub (drinking root beer -- how sad!), I took a break from wolfing down my chicken caesar on focaccia to notice a couple in the next booth obviously engrossed in conversation. I tried not to eavesdrop (OK, go ahead and say it -- "Yeah right!"), but it quickly became obvious that these two were running down their personal resumes and were simultaneously trying to impress each other by sounding interesting, smart, fun-loving, and successful, all the while concealing the fact that they were incredibly, hopelessly nervous. My goodness, I thought, it's a first date! A first date! How dreamy, dreamy, dreamy to get to witness the spectacle of two fellow thirtysomethings on their very first date!
He was wearing a necktie. She clearly had just combed her hair (I could only see the back of her head), and I noticed that as necktie boy yammered on about his church and volunteer activities and his professional successes, I could see the woman's head bobbing slightly. She's doing the "smile and nod" thing, I thought. Keep smiling and nodding, honey, and if he doesn't let you get in a word in the next five minutes, it's time to feign stomach cramps and get him to take you home! After a while, though, it became clear that she had very little to say, and necktie boy was just trying to fill in the gaps to keep that first date moving forward! Either she was not interested at all, or she was simply... well... dull.
My first-date suspicions were confirmed when necktie boy drudged off to the men's room and the waitress stopped by their table to ask if the check was "together or separate". I couldn't hear what head-bobbing girl said, but the waitress put a hand on her shoulder and said, "Oh, a first date, huh? I'll tell you what. I'll keep everything together, but if he just stares at the check when he gets back, I'll come back and split it for you, OK?" I silently willed my thoughts to her brain: "If he doesn't pay, it's not a real date! It's the first date... the FIRST DATE!!!! Don't pick up the check or you're doomed to keep picking up checks on every date for the rest of your relationship with this man! No, no, no! Resist, resist, resist!" (Sorry, guys, not that I think you should have to pay all the time, but I firmly believe that a woman who picks up so much as the *tip* on a first date is dooming herself right away that she does not now, nor will she ever, expect any degree of chivalry from that man so long as they continue to date. Amen.) When he returned, necktie boy picked up the check, and the happy couple slowly walked out of the pub. They were both smiling, and I silently wished them well (and wished them a fabulous first-date kiss, too.)
And my next people-watching observations have been a bit more direct. This trip to Pittsburgh has also helped me to confirm my long-held suspicion that all it takes to attract the opposite sex is the appearance of a ring on the third finger of one's left hand. I mean it! This engagement ring is a *man magnet*! I could be missing a front tooth, be partially bald, have an ass like two Volkswagen wheel wells, a raging case of halitosis, have a hump, and the personality of wet lint, and I'm convinced that as long as this engagement ring was on my finger, the men would be salivating. (No, guys, I'm not man-bashing I swear! Whatever causes this anomale goes the other way too; plenty of women are only attracted to a man after they notice his wedding band. It's equally as disgusting.) I have used the words "my fiance'" in conversation more times than I can count. I've politely done the "smile and nod" thing myself innumerable times as well. All since I found myself alone in this hotel room in a strange state.
Let me run down a quick sampling for you. I've been hit on by married men, one of whom had his wedding ring in his pocket (I can spot the reddened circle on a man's ring finger at 50 paces. It's so obvious when it's been pulled off recently!) I've had a man a foot taller than I am and 10 years younger than I am sing my name to me. Yes, sing: "Melodyyyyy.... Meeeeeehhhhhhlodeeeeeeheeeheee..." I even had a beer-swilling loser in the hotel bar shamelessly hitting on me while I was talking on the cell phone. I finally looked at him, smiled, and tapped on the cell phone attached to my ear. I tapped on it with my ring finger, which I think only encouraged him more. I've been hit on by men old enough to be my father and young enough to be my... younger brothers. It's so strange! I'm convinced that if I was really single, most of these men probably wouldn't have peed on me if I was on fire.
Sigh. What a state of affairs.
Oh, well, c'est la vie. I'm happy to say I'm *not* single anymore, so I don't have to worry about it. I have a fiance' who would *happily* pee on me if I was on fire. (Wait, that didn't come out quite right...)
Note to my pugs, who are home with my Mom hundreds of miles from this hotel room: I miss you, my little snorting puglies! Be good for Grandma, and don't beg for any people food. It'll just make you fart!