Yeah, Sure You Exist, Schmooie

I did something rather stupid yesterday. I schlepped (that means “dragged”) myself over to the fancy area of town for a Young Jewish Professionals Happy Hour shindig at some sort of “Mexican Beach Club.” I’m not quite sure what happened, I must have had the date wrong, because when I got there, there was no meeting and the girl running the place had no idea what I was talking about. Nevertheless, the head bartender swiped my id through his fancy gizmo, told me to come in and have a seat in case “my party,” as he put it, did show up, and then had me sign a waiver since this ritzy “Beach Club” had cabana tents and a pool out back and didn’t want to be held responsible if I got drunk and fell in the pool. He saw that it was my birthday last week and said happy birthday to me, but of course didn’t offer me a drink or anything special. I mean come one, this was the ritzy area of town, why expect anybody to be too overly generous. So I did something that would rival Carrie Bradshaw. I ate at a trendy “beach club” restaurant alone. Yeah, that’s how hip I am. I didn’t feel as stupid or out of place as I should have for thinking a meeting was happening that wasn’t. The inside of the place felt almost like sitting inside a fancy coconut, if it were even possible to sit inside a coconut. And the side of the place had no doors, just one big opening out to the cabana tents and swimming pool. It was early in the evening, so there weren’t a lot of people there. But the ones who were there were doing their best to think they were hip. The waitresses were small and skinny with tight red shirts and little white pants. They appeared to have a special little walk that they’d purposefully do to make their straight perfect little hairstyles sway and bob as they moved around the room. No one wore glasses. In fact, if I were in LA or NYC, I would probably have screamed. In fact, I have a handful of close girlfriends who would most likely have wretched if they even had to even peak their heads inside such an overly trendy place. Still, it was fun people watching and I got a tasty avocado burger out of it. Then I went shopping at the amazing mall nearby. Retail therapy for missing Schmooie and being stuck with the snobby.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, the rest of this post is going to be a rant, and I don’t mean to sound depressing or negative, but a vent on my part is highly in order. Shopping didn’t really help at that moment. I felt annoyed that I get dressed up nice and nothing ever happens. If I were in a movie, in the midst of the anger stirring in my head while looking around Macy’s, I would’ve turned the corner and “boom!” bumped into Schmooie. But, it doesn’t work like that in real life. He’s not just magically there. He doesn’t just appear before you. If I wait for him, he doesn’t show up. If I search for him, he doesn’t show up. So what’s a girl to do exactly?  My friends, the happily boyfriended friends that is, say that love shows up in the oddest places and it eventually happens to everyone. Indeed, the two latest stories I’ve written end in the protagonist finding her man in an unexpected way. So what do I have to do then, jump off a barrel at Niagara Falls to make it happen! Think about how many women there are in the world and how little men there are (I so meant to say "little" there rather than "few.") Who’s to say that every one of the women like me who really wants to find someone actually ever does? Sometimes I think I should write a more realistic romance story about a girl who searches and never finds her Schmooie. For her, he just doesn’t exist. Actually, it’d be the ultimate break-up story, a great read for those who have been burned by men and want to know that they’ll be happy even if they never find someone. Except, in the end, she’d have to be the type of girl who is okay with that. I’m trying to be that girl, but deep down I’m not.

Men truly stink. There’s something wrong with that Y-chromosome. Anywho, what I need now is for you, my avid readers, to leave me a “you go girl, men are dirt” comment rather than a “it’s okay things will work out” comment. Sorry to carry on a little more negatively in this post, but hey, it’s a blog. Isn’t the point to rant just a bit? Can you blame me?