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27 june 2001

new review!

mingling

So, Friend Q calls me up the other week and states that we are going out on Sunday the 24th. We are going out, she says. I bought the tickets. I will explain in the car. Dress nice. Bye now!

Note to self: remove that I'm up for anything tattoo from my forehead. Like, tonight.

I know very little about this event, but what I do know is that A) it is a "singles mixer" and B) Friend Q doesn't want to go alone. She told me this so that I could warn and reassure Friend X that my role in this endeavor was as official hand-holder, and not willing participant. He, of course, was most accommodating, or trusting, or something. You're too cynical to enjoy something like that. I trust you, he says.

Uuuh...thanks, I think.

Alright, Sunday evening comes, and I'm dressed appropriately. Meaning, I'm not wearing hippie shoes and I'm in a skirt. I even ironed it, and smeared some lipstick on my face. Okay, Friend Q! Ready to mingle!

On the way over, she explains to me that she was sort of dragged, or nagged, into doing this herself. Since her divorce a couple of years ago, she's dated a nice enough guy, but he lives kind of far away from here. Not only that, she's raising two kids, and doesn't get much going-out time. In a nutshell, she needed some practice just hanging out and being single. After nearly twenty years of marriage, I'd say that's a pretty smart thing to do. And there was beer.

So we end up at this big, nice hotel in one of the big, nice conference rooms. Like bees to honey, we followed the other singles to the extremely loud beach music. This was fine with me. I figured if I couldn't hear anyone speaking to me, then I wouldn't have to speak back to them. Right on! Now, to the beer.

Hold on. Some earnest, dorky guy wants to stamp my hand and give me a name tag. I don't want to wear name tag. I'm not supposed to be here in the first place. He shoves pen into my hand.

I proceed into party under false name. Hi, I'm Dorothy. As in, not in Kansas anymore. I'll take one Bud Light, please.

Friend Q and I look for a quiet place to sit and scope, but that isn't possible because Ned and His Beachin' Bartunes ARE PLAYING WAY TOO LOUD. WHAT??? I SAID, THE BAND IS TOO LOUD! AND THEY SUCK! NOTE THE LEAD SINGER'S WHITE MAN OVERBITE NECK DANCE! EEEEW!

There are a lot of people at this gathering. The women seem pretty cool. We can see ourselves hanging out with some of them. Others, not so much. Like the ones wearing white silk blouses and no bras. Or, the ones whose pumps match their sequined headband. Actually, anyone in sequins and rhinestones.

The men...well, the men! They were as subtle as a jackhammer in your eye. They were shopping , strolling around with their beer, their roving eyes, and a pocket filled with breath mints. Someone who looked a lot like Kenny Rogers stood near us for most of the evening.

That is, until Friendly Dude approached me to chat.

You sure are tall! I'd say you're the tallest woman here. Oh, wow! You're not even wearing high heels! Aah, the night is young, and already I've snagged a winner.

Dorothy, right? (I almost blow my cover, having momentarily forgotten my name. Oh, yeah! Dorothy! That's me!)It's so hard to meet people here, don't you think? (Not really. Leaving the house helps a great deal.) You want to dance? Eh, why not. He turns out to be a not-too-bad dancer, if a bit eager.

Friend Q promises she'll get out and boogie after four more cocktails.

I figure that dancing is a good way to spend the evening, so that's what I do. I dance. I'm happier to dance when the band stops and the DJ takes over. Another fellow wants to take a spin. Mm-kay, no problem.

Oop, problem. My new dance partner spent last night marinating in a bowl of aftershave. He shoves his hand in his pocket and whips out three packages of gum. Bubble, spearmint, or Juicy Fruit? I'm looking frantically around for my seventh grade gym teacher to implement the six-inch rule of decency. Most especially because Stinky Dancer has too much gum in his pocket IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN EW! I wonder if it would be rude for me to pass out right here, but then he might try mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

Song is over. He wants to dance again. Dorothy clicks together her heels and disappears to the hotel bar on the other side of the building.

So Friend Q and I are sitting there enjoying our beer. Our suspicions have been confirmed. Anything billed as a "singles" event or "singles" club is a recipe for disaster. Too many expectations, too many unknowns, too much aftershave. The reality is, all you have in common with these people is that everyone is single. After that, it's a crapshoot. Friend Q promises never to drag me to something like this again. I promise to take her to our friendly local pub where the low-key, nice single guys hang out. We consider dancing a little bit more.

While all this is happening, though, we notice the married couple at the table next to us. We figure they're hotel guests having a little quibble. That is, until she punches him smack in the mouth and tosses her drink on him. Cool! We're in a movie!

Erp...no movie. Real-live domestic violence.

So we're hunkered down in our seats while these two proceed to slap and punch the living poo out of one another, and the rest of the people in the bar do absolutely nothing. Friend Q and I quietly slide out of our chairs, she gives the bartender a subtle heads-up, and I guess someone calls security. I don't know. All I do know is that in the course of two hours, I have seen the dark side of singledom, the darker side of coupledom, and there is now a room filled with rhinestone-encrusted single people doing the electric slide.

There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home.