143. THE TOWN AND COUNTRY DATE - Part 2

Considering I have not eaten in nine hours, just drank two glasses of wine in 45 minutes and am walking around an unfamiliar part of Manhattan in 3” heels, I handle myself amazingly very well. We land up at a rustic steak house a few blocks from the bar. Because it’s night and my mind is in a fuzzy state of wine, I know, I will NEVER find this place again. Despite majoring in architecture, my buzz has softened my senses and the interior details are a blur. But it feels like we're in a bucolic lodge, dark and smoky, without actually smelling like smoke.   


We sit down and Town and Country orders a merlot for himself and a cabernet for me. I wonder if he’s an alcoholic or if becoming a businessman has taught him to drink like an aging frat boy. The wine comes, we clink glasses, and sip. Then he says, “Try mine,” and we exchange drinks. A few minutes later the waiter comes with bread (yippee, something to soak up the wine). Clearly Town and Country is a regular because EVERYONE knows him.

We order dinner, steak for him and lamb for me. He insists that we share the glazed carrots, as they are divine. Who am I to argue? Then I quietly convince myself, as soon as the food comes, my sobriety will return.

Town and Country continues chatting about himself. I had no idea an emailer/texter would also be talkative, which my inner chatty Chaaya quite likes! Our food arrives and he orders a FOURTH round. He leaves me no choice, and I FINALLY protest, “Please, no more!” “Why not?” he asks. I glare at him half incredulous, half embarrassed and say, “Uhm, because it is in REALLY bad form to get drunk on a first date and I am pretty much there.” And trust me, if there was the REMOTE chance I thought I could FAKE sober, I would have. Telling him the truth is KILLING me.

“Where do you need to go?” Town and Country asks. “Eventually I need to hail a cab home,” I reply dryly. “I can do that for you,” he insists and the fourth round is ordered. Because I am officially drunk I begin blathering in a sorority-girl-sing-song-happy-drunk-voice and babble about my writing aspirations. He then says, “Why not self-publish? I helped my cousin." Lucky cousin of Town and Country. I have rich relatives on both sides of my family, but they don’t give a crap about me. Which is fine. I am beginning to not give a crap about them.

“Ooooo, nooooo!” I finally say and drag my “o”s in the manner of a Minnesotan. “My agent says it’s not favorable in the industry and I don’t want to be gauche out of the gate,” I reply, praying I sound somewhat intelligent and my slurring is under control. He laughs and says, “You’re cute.” OKAY!!!! No one over the age of five should be described as cute. And not on a date. I want to be attractive, vivacious, alluring, and mysterious.

“Cute? Like a poodle?” I ask, a little flirty, a little displeased and pick up my wine glass. He seems amused that I don’t appreciate his compliment. “You’re sweet,” he redirects. “Sweet? Like a gumdrop? Nice,” I reply. I have suddenly developed an attitude and he appears to like it. “There is nothing wrong with cute and sweet. But I can tell, you are good,” he states before pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Sorry. I have to take this. My co-worker is in town and staying with me. And I need to let him into the house.”

We finish eating and Town and Country says, “John is waiting for me. Any interest in going back with me and letting him in? I have plum brandy at home.” Yes, because what this date needs is MORE alcohol. Since my inhibitions are on vacation, and I don’t get the serial killer vibe from him, I agree to part three of our night.