Charming, but single

So, I got an e-mail from The Producer. Short and sweet, “I had a lot of fun on Friday, but I was really worn out all day Saturday. Call me! We should do it again.” Not exactly the dirt-dishing I was hoping for at all. AT ALL. I was hoping to get some sign from the Super Bowl party. Like, “Hey, The Engineer kept going on and on about you, but then he was rendered speechless by an infection brought on by an allergy to the cheese on the nachos. As they were wheeling him away, he blinked out your name in Morse code before losing consciousness. We hear the doctors expect him to be out of his coma by Friday night, so we made reservations for you two at 8 p.m. He’ll pick you up at 7:30 for a fantastic dinner. Does that work for you?” Sadly, no. So I sent her another short e-mail saying I’d call her and talking about how worn out I was all day Saturday from staying out too late on Friday. Then later, Best Friend Ever called to say that she would be in town next month. (Haven’t seen her in ages! Like maybe a year!) I gave her the dirt on Friday night (which she had received via voicemail and text message several times throughout the weekend) and after hearing my version of the night, she said, “So, has he called?” I told her no. And she kind of giggled and said, “Sorry babe. But I told you so.” (And told me so she did, even as I was en route to “one more glass of wine.”) And then she said, “Asshole.” And we both devolved into laughter because I could never be mad at her. She’s one of the few people who can tell me so without me flipping out. I gave her the more randy details of the night, we had some rather non-PG talk about the incident and these sorts of things in general. After this round of talking ended in laughter, I sighed. “I liked this one,” I said. “He seemed different. Not slimy.” “I know you did, babe. I know. Call me if he calls.” I think I’m so bothered by this whole noncalling situation because I’ve grown up. And what you do at 21 feels a lot different when you do it at 26. I’ve mellowed out considerably in recent years and I don’t have the desire to go back to drinking four to five to six nights a week and eating copious amounts of pizza and Jack and the Box or Taco Bell at 3 a.m. I’m a dreamer. A hopeless romantic. I am a cynic in many ways, but for some reason when it comes to dating I still have this really cheesy, idealistic side that keeps me from joining the convent or just plain swearing off men altogether. I’ve been heartbroken and I’ve not been called many times before. Notches on the bedpost. Check. Unrequited love. Check. As I said to Neil in a comment on a previous post, I am so hopeful because after two glasses of wine a boy with a nice smile is the kryptonite to my time-hardened demeanor. The cynic in me melts away and I really forget the lessons learned and the mistakes made. And it doesn’t matter to whom the nice smile is attached sometimes. It’s not that I’m freaking out over a guy I spent 14 hours with. It’s just my neediness and a loneliness that is so palpable right now. I want to be with someone. I want to not have to worry about dates for weddings and I want to cuddle up with someone on chilly nights with mugs of warmth and dangerously cold toes tickling up and down my legs while hot breath whispers into my ear and big hands pull my body into the crook of his form. I want to hear, “Yes, Honey” in a playfully sarcastic tone when I’m nagging, like my friend’s husband said to her while they set out the food on Super Bowl Sunday. She just grinned. I want to feel a towel snap against my legs when I am cooking, like the way my Dad teases my Mom in the evenings when they cook dinner and they don’t think anyone else is looking to see them, so he snaps her with a towel and they flirt like teenagers. And my Mom pretends to be annoyed with my Dad, but really she’s just getting ready to put an ice cube down his shirt or do something else silly because 30 years into their marriage they’re still nutso crazy about each other. And I want to have a cheesy ritual like how my Mom calls my Dad “George” (and he calls her Laura) when he brings her coffee in the morning, because Laura Bush said on Oprah one time that Dubya makes the coffee in the morning and always brings her a cup. (I secretly think they do this as a funny little way to torture the more liberal-minded members of the household, but it IS still pretty damn cute.) No one in my large extended family has ever been divorced. Long marriages and big families surround me. Not every moment has been happy and joy-filled, I am sure. But even my grandparents, who have been married for more than 50 years and argue like old people who’ve spent the last 50 some-odd years and raised five girls together have their moments. When I scolded them for being so short with each other one day, pointing out playfully that they should "pretend to still like each other," my grandfather let a grin spread across his face and said, “It has been 50 years. And the honeymoon is OVER!” and then they just laughed and laughed and gave each other this Look. And so this is what colors my experience. These silly little things that I know people cherish more than wedding rings and anniversary dinners. Just the underbelly of love and relationships. The day-to-day minutia that gets lost in grand gestures, but serves as a constant reminder that, “Hey, I dig you. And we’re in this together, OK?” And the possibility of this is what makes me swoon over a Nice Smile and Bright Eyes when they’re turned on me. This hope not for the fairytale, but for the towel-snapping. So, depending on my mood, temperament and the way the wind is blowing, a nice smile over a glass of wine will get me every time. And all I can do is hope that one day the nice smile is attached to a guy who is willing to go past the crap of dating rules, regulations and standards and just be a normal human being with me.