Mr. Saturday Night

So I have these new pants. They're hot. And they're of the ass-pants variety, meaning they both highlight and assist in acquisition. And I *forgot* to mention it before, but on Saturday night, they delivered.

When the female bonding at Porkapalooza subsided, all eyes turned to the meat. Err, to the sausage. (EW. I couldn't resist, though.) What I'm really saying is that all eyes turned to the eye-candy. The males. There were lots of them, and we were on the prowl.

HEG would have been in heaven in this alterna-sea of men. I was as well, but I of course stumbled upon a nice preppy. He bought me a Coors Light (is that a step up or down from the PBRs we drank earlier?) and we started talking. I learned that he is actually from San Francisco - so few ARE, it seems - and that he has lived in San Diego and New York before moving back here. After I told him that I'm from Philly, he apolgized for living on the East Coast for five years and never visiting the Next Greatest City. Forgiven.

He works in finance. I win, I guessed that. But then he wanted to guess my occupation. Advertising? Public Relations? Marketing? Sales? Not SOFTWARE DEVELOPMENT... Really? Software Development? Do you know COBALT?

Yeah, I was hooked after that line. Man, I love the dorks.

Maybe something was in the pork, or the PBRs, or maybe it was the tequila - it does make me crazy - but soon enough we were out to dinner. Then back at his place. (He has his own place in Pac Heights! Um, yes please.) It was fun, actually. But I had to put myself in a cab around 1AM because I was starting to feel a bit like Samantha Jones. Honestly, I was being more Charlotte York, but I was starting to sort of freak out. I really just had to get home. To safely remove the ass pants! I had overdosed on ass! Who knew I could ever max out on it?

Disappointing.

I wasn't sure I'd hear from Mr. Saturday Night after my melodramatic runaway. But he called tonight... And I'm now staring at the phone contemplating if I should call back and give Mr. Saturday Night - now Mr. Waits Three Days to Call - the chance to be Mr. Saturday Night again.

I hate dating.