Last week, I left work to go on assignment for the magazine. My assignment: interview a local furniture shop owner. According to David, or Jesus Belt, this particular furniture shop was new, hip, with creative, bad ass stuff.
I was flattered to accept the assignment, and determined to kick ass. So I pulled up to the place, glanced into its glass storefront, and saw some pretty cool stuff—neutral colors, clean lines, modern light fixtures…
But once I got inside the store, I saw something I didn’t expect.
The store owner, Mitchell, was hot as hell.
I swear, a replica of Adrian Grenier. I still cannot get over their resemblance. God damn, I say God damn!!!
So I introduce myself, although he already knows my name, as we’d been conversing via e-mail the last couple of days. Here I was, thinking I was about to meet some old stuck up pretentious artist asshole, when it’s THIS guy, fucking Hotter-than-hell Mitchell, Furniture designer extraordinaire. FUCK!
So we’re standing there, chatting about our surroundings, when Oh! Here comes the co-owner of the store…his mom.
Now, Gizzy calls this a red flag, as he could be a mama’s boy. While I see her point, I wasn’t getting that vibe. Not only did I meet the parent in the first 5 minutes of our relationship, but you can tell a lot by a man from how he treats his mom.
Anyway, there I was, trying to conduct a professional interview so I can do a kick ass job on this assignment and show Jesus Belt who’s boss, while at the same time, trying not to look like such a geek.
But, of course, I was rocking a sweater vest.
Gizzy thinks it’s comical that I adore a nice sweater vest. Buttons, on the other hand, agrees with me. They are a classic piece of fashion, and they belong in every professional’s wardrobe. I’m also a fan and owner of several argyle sweaters, square-rimmed tortie glasses, and faux croc loafers. That’s just how I roll.
Who knows if Mitchell finds the writer-librarian-word-geek look hot. I’m guessing no, since he’s artsy and trendy and, well…fine as sin.
Sigh. But now, I’m just crossing my fingers he shoots me a lil e-mail asking me for a glass of wine.
A girl can dream, right?
After all, my reality is this: Rapher is coming in town this week/weekend, and I agreed to go to dinner with him—not alone, rather, with Nicole and her fiance. My mind, and my heart, have pretty much kicked ole Ralphie to the curb, especially after an annoying string of text messages occurred a few weeks back.
For New Year’s, Ralphie kept telling me he wanted to take me on a date. I told him I would go, so he told me to think of something. Hrmm…here’s my thought: No. The guy does the planning. I cannot stress this enough. So that’s what I told him.
“You’re the guy, you plan it.”
“Lucky, I live four hours away, it’s a little hard for me to plan something.”
Well you know what? I don’t give a flying fuck. Plan it, or don’t take me out. So finally, he did what I wanted and simply said, “I’m coming in town next weekend, we should do dinner.”
FINALLY! A set of balls on this mother fucker. I was beginning to think he’d ralphed them up. So since he finally did something right (after the ralphing incident), I agreed to go. But we all know what’s going to happen—it’s going to be real awkward. Don’t worry, my detox will be over by then, so there WILL be alcohol involved.
Which, makes me more nervous, because he might puke on me. Ugh, I hate my life! Guess I should just wear a poncho or a slicker to dinner.