Misery Loves Cabernet (16 page)

“None for me. I’m going to get some wine,” I say.

Jamie continues to pour. “Rule number one in trying to get a man’s attention tonight: have a beer. It implies you’re low maintenance although . . .” The thought makes Jamie burst out laughing. “I can’t imagine.”

“The ratio of men to women here is eight to one. I’ll take my chances,” I insist.

“No, you won’t,” Jamie says, sounding authoritative, as though he’s imitating some old coach talking to his players in a locker room. “Tonight you are in my house. I’m the coach. I’ve got the game plan. And you need to follow it to the letter.”

I look at him blankly.

He rolls his eyes to the ceiling, then leans in toward me and whispers, “I know how these places work. You don’t. This is my turf. You want a guy, fine, but do as I say, and don’t embarrass me.”

I nod. That seems fair.

Before Jamie can continue with his game plan, Dawn comes in, wearing a 49ers jersey and a look of contempt. She takes a seat next to me, and throws down a bridal magazine, which I immediately pick up. “In the past twenty-four hours, I have concluded that the three words, ‘maid of honor,’ are about as incongruous together as the words, ‘great Bavarian food.’ ”

“Rule number two,” Jamie instructs me sternly. “Do not read a bridal magazine in a sports bar.”

Dawn waves him off. “Look up page one hundred and forty-eight,” she says to me.

I turn the pages to 148, and see what might be the most hideous bridesmaid’s dress ever: a neon pink satin ball gown, complete with hoops.

Jamie leans over to check out the dress. “Who would wear that?”

“Scarlett O’Hara’s trailer-trash cousin,” Dawn practically spits out.

“Wow,” Jamie says, squinting his eyes, and moving his head in for a better look. “I think that might be the ugliest dress I’ve ever seen.”

“Turn to page two sixty-four,” Dawn says, pouring herself a beer.

I do.

Jamie actually shudders as his body involuntarily pulls away from the magazine. “Wait, no,
that’s
the ugliest—”

“Turn to page three twelve,” Dawn interrupts, shaking her head.

This reminds me to write in my book of advice later:

One day you will get married. There will never be a time when bubblegum pink will be a fashionable bridal color. Ever
.

“And that’s just the beginning of her whole bridal craziness,” Dawn chastises. “She demands that I read this article on guest list etiquette because her future MIL, whatever the fuck that means—”

Suddenly, Andy appears at our table, carrying a baby book in one hand, and several pregnancy and parenting magazines in the other. “What do you think of the name Dalton?” she says, throwing down her magazines.

“Addendum to Rule number two,” Jamie says. “Do not read baby magazines in a bar.”

“Oh, I love that little outfit,” Dawn says, referring to a cute little sweater set worn by the cover baby of one of the magazines. She picks up the magazine and asks Andy, “Do you think that’s Baby Gap?”

“Actually, it’s Target,” Andy tells her.

“Get out,” Dawn says.

“Apparently, they do a lot of baby stuff now,” Andy informs her. “I have been learning so much.” She turns to me proudly. “Hey, did I tell you, I figured out what age-appropriate nipples are.”

“Jesus Christ!” Jamie says, nearly choking on his beer. “Don’t say things like that in front of your little brother.”

“It’s not dirty, you moron. It has to do with baby bottles.”

“Oh,” Jamie says sheepishly. “Well, anyway, moratorium on the wedding and baby talk. We’ve only got a few minutes until kick off. I need to give you your game plan.”

Dawn looks at me for translation. I enlighten her as I continue to leaf through the wedding magazine. “Jamie has a bunch of stupid theories about how to catch a man at a sports bar, and we’re indulging him.”

Dawn shrugs. “I suppose knowledge is power.” She points to Jamie. “Go.”

“Okay, to start with, don’t spout off about hating this team or that team until you know where his team loyalties stand. Same goes with players. You might hate Reggie Bush, but if he just got traded to your guy’s team, you’ve already got a strike against you.”

“You’re implying I know or care who Reggie Bush is.”

Jamie pays no attention to my remark, and continues, “You don’t have to agree with everything your target says, but guys are sensitive if they think their allegiances are being impugned by someone they don’t know well. This would be the same if the insults came from another guy, but presumably that other guy wouldn’t be hoping to hook up later.”

“I’m sorry. Did you just say
impugned?
” I ask Jamie. “At a sports bar?”

Dawn cracks up. “You know, that would be a good test for the guys here. Don’t tell me Kobe Bryant’s stats. Just use
impugne
in a sentence.”

Jamie ignores us, and pushes on. “Next, don’t act overly flirtatious or romantic right in the middle of an important play. At best, you’ll be wasting your time, and at worst, annoying him. Make yourself known during the game, do the eye contact thing, but don’t make your move until afterward.

“It’ll be a breeze to approach him if his team has won the game. He’ll be in a good mood and everyone around him will seem like great people. If his team has lost, his mood, and your romantic prospects, won’t be as good. Unless it was a particularly devastating loss, in which case, you can console him over numerous Jägermeister shots and you’re in if you want to be.”

“Of course, if you do that, you’ll forever be associated with the guy’s miserable sports evening and corresponding hangover the next morning,” Dawn points out.

“I didn’t say my game plan was foolproof,” Jamie concedes. “Now, quiet. The game’s on!”

Dawn apparently has some interest in the game because she immediately turns around to face the TV screen.

And the game begins.

I ignore Jamie’s rule number two, and go back to the magazine.

I have to! Wedding magazines are like porn for women. Pretty dresses, shoes, and lots of pictures of Tahiti. What’s not to love?

As the center snaps the ball to the quarterback, I flip open to the magazine’s first article: “Answers to your burning questions about shoes, veils, and lingerie.”

Here’s a basic rule on lingerie: if it’s pretty, and doesn’t have holes in it (except in strategically placed areas), men love you in it. They don’t care about the color, or where you got it, or if you think it makes you look fat
.

I may sound a little like Jamie here, but come on—this is not rocket science.

I flip through to the next article. Oh, good, a quiz. Turns out that because I want to sleep with Johnny Depp, I need a really modern Baccarat crystal bowl.

Hey, if I thought that bowl would give me a shot in hell of sleeping with Johnny Depp, I’d buy a dozen.

“When do you think Smith will be back?” Dawn says to Jamie, her eyes glued to the screen as she takes a swig of beer from her glass.

“Hard to say,” Jamie concedes, eyes trained on the same screen. “I would guess they’ll keep him out at least a few more weeks.”

I read the quiz out loud to Dawn and Andy. “Who would you want more: Justin Timberlake, Johnny Depp, or Brad Pitt?”

Dawn turns to me. “To marry or sleep with?”

“Marry.”

“What moron would answer ‘Brad Pitt’ to that?”

I hold up the magazine, and show her some suggested registry pieces. “A woman who needs flatware that looks like bamboo shoots with tines.”

“Did you know the name Brad came from some World War I general?” Andy asks while reading her baby book.

Jamie leans into the table and quietly admonishes, “Ssh!”

Jamie then sternly informs us that we are only allowed to talk during commercials, unless it’s about football.

I find out about a minute later that asking if Jamie knows if the cute quarterback is married does not count as talking about football.

The moment a commercial begins, my face lights up as I rest my chin in my hands and cheerfully ask Dawn, “So, has the whole maid-of-honor thing been horrible?”

Dawn glares at me, “Do you know that little heifer called me last night, while I was on a date, mind you, to talk about possible wedding favors. Like anyone really gives a damn if they get dragées at the end of the night.”

“Dragées?” Jamie asks, squinting his eyes in confusion.

“It’s a polished silver candy-coated almond,” Andy tells him.

Dawn shakes her head like it’s the stupidest thing she’s ever heard of. “Yeah, like anybody over the age of six is going to want to bring
that
home. So I tell Kate that. She thanks me and hangs up.”

“Point is moot,” Andy tells Dawn. “Dragées are illegal in the state of California.”

“Seriously?” I ask, “Why?”

“Some lawyer sued, alleging that the candies were toxic. It’s not illegal to bring them into the state. You can consume them here. You just can’t buy them here.”

“I am not smuggling candy across state lines,” Dawn vows.

I try to keep from laughing. “So I’m guessing, having been a maid of honor recently, Kate called you back
again
ten minutes later . . .”

“Five!” Dawn exclaims, thrusting out her left hand, and spreading apart all five fingers. “I’m on a date, which she knows, so I don’t answer. So she calls me back. Again and again until I pick up.”

I smirk.

“Are you smirking?” Dawn asks me suspiciously.

“No,” I assure her, while still smirking.

“Good. Because then she asks what do I think of measuring spoons . . .”

I’ll admit, now I’m lost. “Measuring spoons?”

“Yeah. Apparently some people give them to their guests as wedding favors. They include a spoon that says, ‘A spoonful of laughter,’ and one that says, ‘A dollop of kindness.’ At this point, I lose it. I say, ‘Kate, you want your guests happy? Send them home with a half bottle of champagne, and a straw.’ Then I hang up on her.”

The game begins again, and Dawn and Jamie immediately turn their attention back to the screen. Andy is still engrossed in her baby name book, so I decide to take this time to scope out the men in the bar.

Ah . . . what a nice assortment to choose from: there’s Lawyer Guy, complete with slightly undone tie (pulled to the side to reveal an unbuttoned top button) and perfectly tailored suit. He’s good-looking, coiffed, looks like he wears Chanel for Men or Hugo Boss.

Then there’s Writer Guy: He’s with a group of friends, all of whom look like writers (they’re all wearing some version of a team jersey and jeans). His hair looks a little unkempt, but that’s okay. This is the type of low-maintenance guy who thinks it’s weird that you spend twenty dollars on a scented candle, but not enough to withhold sex or anything.

In between the cute slob and Michael Clayton we have everyone else: We have the guys in oxford cloth shirts, some in bowling shirts (God, why was that ever a popular style, and when is it finally going away?), and many more wearing team jerseys. Two men are wearing Hawaiian shirts. Or, as I like to call them, “I’ve gained twenty pounds, and I think I’m fooling everyone” shirts.

Leggings are for women what Hawaiian shirts are for men: comfy, sloppy, and never sexy.

Most of the men look cute tonight.

And none of them is Jordan, my subconscious reminds me.

I drink some beer to try and drown her voice out.

Almost one and a half mind-numbingly boring hours later, Andy has already cited pregnancy exhaustion, and called it a night. I have made eye contact with a few cute guys, a few more have cheerfully high-fived me when their teams scored, and I have had various “conversations” (although I use that term loosely) about various football and basketball players with various good-looking men (but only during time-outs and commercial breaks, per Jamie’s instructions).

But I’ve yet to strike up a love connection, so when halftime hits, I’m depressed.

“Do you realize how many of these guys have wedding rings?” I ask Dawn, dejected. “Which is a shame, because everyone here seems so genuinely nice.”

“Well, of course they’re nice,” Dawn says, using the downtime to open her compact and check her lipstick. “These are the guys someone already picked and put a leash on. We need to go back to the shelter, and by that I mean the clubs we frequent, to go get one some other girl threw away.”

Jamie sighs. “Guys, this is not a club, it’s a sports bar. These guys did not come tonight hoping to meet a woman. They came hoping to watch a game.”

“Yes, well, I go to bars hoping to meet the perfect martini, but that doesn’t mean I’m adverse to an Abercrombie and Fitch model coming to say hello,” Dawn says, clicking closed her compact. “Order another pitcher. I’m going to make the rounds.”

Dawn hops off her seat, and sashays her way to the ladies’ room.

Jamie looks confused. “Why doesn’t she just admit she has to pee?”

“Because she doesn’t,” I explain. “She’s pretending to go to the ladies’ room to separate herself from the herd.”

Jamie laughs and shakes his head. “God, I love that woman.”

“Me, too,” I say. Then I pull out my phone, and check it absentmindedly. No new e-mails.

As Jamie flags down the waitress for another pitcher, I stare at my beer.

“What’s wrong with me?” I ask Jamie.

Jamie does this half-sigh thing he does when he doesn’t know what to say. “Nothing wrong’s with you,” he tells me for the millionth time. “It’s him. You only had a few weeks together. They meant something. Just not as much as you thought they did. . . .”

“But why didn’t it mean as much to him as it did to me?” I half say/half whine.

Jamie shrugs his shoulders as if to say, “Sorry, sweetie.”

I start playing with my cocktail napkin. “What’s wrong with me that no one wants to stay with me? It’s not just Jordan. It’s Dave before him, and Marshall before him. Doug, Jim, Nick, Spencer . . .”

Jamie grimaces. “You really wanted to keep Spencer?”

“No. Okay, I got rid of Spencer,” I admit. “Jim, too. But only because it was obvious that he was just killing time with me until someone better came along.” I start mindlessly shredding my napkin as I ask, “What am I doing wrong that the guys I want don’t want me?”