The countdown to the next swap meet seemed to take forever. In between crafting seizures I answered job advertisements and went on interviews. I actually picked up a short-term thing helping this grouchy old woman organize her closets. She lived a mere 3 miles from me so I walked to and from her house. Might as well get a little exercise, right?
By this time I'd really dialed-in the being poor routine. There's quite an art to it. Thrift and resale stores are ok but yard sales are really where it's at for keeping the wardrobe in decent repair. My best score so far is a perfect Alaia lbd (little black dress) for $10 that fits like a dream. It had a broken zipper but Mark fixed that. Never underestimate the power of a killer lbd. If it's simple enough you can wear it date after date and no one will even notice that you only seem to own one dress.
I know I make it sound like no one ever asks me out but that's not true. It's more that my invitations are often so dismal I simply can't face the evening. I've honed my prospective-date-vetting skills to a sharp edge. Within five minutes of detecting that a reasonably attractive man has caught my scent, I know his general willingness to take me to dinner, the type of restaurant we'll likely visit, and his ability to pay. I'm fairly certain of his marital status, his fatherhood status, and whether or not I'll be expected to put out a little sumpin'-sumpin' in exchange for a second round of sushi at Nobu. Not that I would...unless he looked like George Clooney (well, a slightly younger George Clooney) but that has yet to happen.
It's not that I'm selfish, or a bad date or anything. I really try and make sure that the guy with the credit card gets his money's worth. I ask lots of questions about his job, stay current on general sports topics, and lean forward while hanging on his every word and shoveling expensive food into my mouth, all the while sprinkling the evening with my charmingly throaty laugh. If we're walking in public and I happen to be a little taller than he is, I'll hold myself very erect and glance down at him adoringly so that the other males who see us realize that short, slightly balding Barry-the-optometrist has a hot chick on his arm who maybe, just maybe, might rock his world later on tonight.
Usually Barry (or Ron-short-for-Myron, or whoever) gets a kiss and a free boob graze before being left at the door by the exhausted girl who must be up early tomorrow morning.
I sometimes, usually in fact, recieve another invitation from the besotted Barry but it's my policy to decline then make up a recently-returned-to-my-life ex-boyfriend if he calls a third time. It's not fair to lead men on, even if I am dying to try that new East Indian place up on Melrose.
Oh shoot, I've spent today's blogging time yammering on about my dating strategy instead of telling you about the awful thing that changed everything. Ok, next post. I promise.