My first tennis lesson was a success. My tennis coach is an aggressive petite older woman. As I wait for her to hit the ball to me I’m supposed to be hopping from foot to foot, but what with thinking about hitting the ball and trying to hit the ball I forget to hop. Her voice booms across the court,

“KEEP MOVING.”

This lady means business.

She asks me,

“What level are you?”

“Beginner.”

“True beginner?”

“I took lessons as a kid, but I don’t remember much.”

“True beginner.”

What I do remember is how hot it was and how much I looked forward to lunch.

She continues,

“What are you hoping to accomplish?”

“I’d like to be able to play with my friends who are decent.”

“We can do that. I’m not gonna be able to turn you into a pro, but we can get you so you can play.”

After an hour of hitting balls in the general direction of the other side of the court. She tells me,

“The good news is you’re already in shape and you have decent hand-eye coordination. There are some people who can’t even hit the ball when I drop it right in front of them.”

So you’re saying I’m not the worst ever.

A guest comes into the bar. I haven’t seen him in a year. He asks,

“Are you still blogging?”

“Yup.”

“I stopped reading it because you make fun of men my age relentlessly.”

I turn to my co-bartender,

“Is that true?”

“Maybe not his exact age, but older men.”

I was at a fancy wine bar with a co-worker and his wife the other night. After we demolish the chef’s charcuterie and cheese selection I ask the bartender,

“What’s for dessert?”

“You can make s’mores at the fire outside or-“

-Say no more, s’mores it is.

I head outside. There are already two drunk women struggling to make dessert. They should not be this close to fire. One woman drops her burning marshmallow into the ash. If you’ve ever roasted marshmallows before, you know that this is the end of the line for that ‘mallow. Let it die. Get a new one. Start over.

The woman does not do this. She plucks up the still burning marshmallow. It is now covered in ash and she puts it on her chocolate and graham cracker. The flame finally goes out. She takes a bite. Her astonished friend who’s response time has slowed, manages a,

“What are you doing?”

Too little too late.

When it comes to cooking I may not know much, but I’m a pro at s’mores. I take my perfect s’more inside. My co-worker looks at me and says,

“We have to make them ourselves?”

“Yeah, what did you think I was doing out there?”

“Doesn’t seem like a good idea to let drunk people get close to the fire.”

I used to play tennis as a kid. I’ve been wanting to play again and not just because I get to wear a sexy skort.

After five minutes of researching courts where I can play, I spend the next half hour shopping for my tennis outfit. Ok, so maybe the skort does have a lot to do with it, but the trendy tennis tote bag should not be overlooked.

I should be shopping for a racket.

P.S. I’m not the only one putting fashion before the game. There is a web site called SlamGlam.com: “Unique and fashionable sport accessories for women. On the court or strolling through town, you will look your best.”

I’m taking this seriously.

The regular that’ll kiss you if you get too close, motions me over. I ask,

“Yes?”

“Can I give you some hair advise?”

“You probably shouldn’t.”

“Ok, I’ll back off.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Can I tell you one little thing?”

“If it’s not nice, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Your hair would look better straight.”

A well-dressed, good-looking man comes in to the bar. Based on his awkward stance, I assume he’s waiting for an internet date. I’m right. Points for me.

She’s cute, but she’s wearing sweats. She looks like she came straight from the gym. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. This date is over. They only get further apart until I can almost put another bar stool between them. There is no smiling. I assume this is a one drink and everybody cuts their losses, but it’s my job to sell alcohol so I offer,

“Another round?”

Without conferring, she replies,

“Yes.”

I look at him. He nods his head kinda yes, kinda no, kinda ‘help me I’m trapped.’

Then they get a third round. They are still as far apart as ever and looking miserable. Is this an exercise in dating torture? Finally he puts his credit card down. She mentions,

“I was on a date once and the guy put down a Black Amex card.”

“What do you have to do to get one of those?”

“Have a lot of money.”

That’s an understatement. Wikipedia says the average Black Amex cardholder has 16.5 million in assets.

The guy turns to his date,

“So?”

“So what?”

“So he put that card down and you went home with him?”

A group of four approach the bar. They become six, then nine, then fifteen. They’ve taken over two-thirds of the bar. Some are here to drink. Others are content to ask for water refills. I’m trying to maintain my patience. One of the women shrieks at her friends,

“I want nothing to do with your masturbation conversation!”

I do. A guy notices my obvious interest and explains,

“Oh it’s nothing. We’re all teachers and the fifth graders had sex-ed today.”

I’ve been there.

Two guys in their fifties settle in at the bar. They toast each other,

“To friends!”

As I’m taking a woman’s drink order one of the guys raises his hand and waves me over,

“Will you take a photo of us when you have time? Whenever you have time.”

“Sure.”

I go back to helping the woman choose a beer. I get her a sample of one she might like. The guy has his hand in the air again and is waving. I walk over,

“Yes?”

“Will you take our photo?”

“Yes. I’m getting someone a drink first.”

I take the photo and then type an order in on my computer. I overhear the one guy say to his photo-waving friend,

“When she broke up with me, I couldn’t believe it. I told her, ‘I have the three things that every woman wants.'”

I’m done at my computer, but I keep standing there. I HAVE to hear this. I have no idea what the three things are that EVERY woman wants.

“When she broke up with me, I told her, ‘I have the three things that every woman wants. One, I’m a man. Two, I’m not gay. And three, well there’s not a third because one and two are good enough.'”

I’m slacking on blogging, I know. I’ve been busy. So busy. How busy? I’ve been cooking. That’s right. I swear this is me and my blog hasn’t been hacked. I’ve been cooking for myself almost every day. Ok, so I may be making the same thing over and over again, but that’s still an improvement on opening a yogurt.

I made a full dinner the other night without any major issues. I now have a new found respect for all those people with cooking shows. Cooking and talking at the same time is HARD. I was chatting away, as if I cook dinner every night, and I think to myself,

‘How many cups of water did I just add to this pot for the rice? Three? Four? Do I dump it out and start again? Should I just keep going like I know what I’m doing? Yup.’ Gonna fake it until I make it, or set off the fire alarm. One of those is bound to happen if I keep this up.

I tell my fellow bartender,

“I’ve been cooking!”

“You’re really blossoming.”

Excuse me while I go check out Rachel Ray’s site. I’m serious.

A regular in his seventies, who kisses any woman who gets too close to him, was at the bar the other night. He’s very excitable. If I say hi to him, he blushes. If I give him a drink, he slaps the bar. If I smile at him, he pounds his chest and grunts like a gorilla.

That’s right. He’s a caveman. As I deliver his second martini doing nothing out of the ordinary, he beckons me closer. I don’t move. He beckons me closer again. I’m already within grabbing distance. I stare him down,

“What?”

“You are well bred, very well bred.”

Does he want to check my teeth?

It was a very hot weekend. I thought about skiing in my red bathing suit which matches my equipment. A snazzy ski outfit is close to being a requirement.

I want to buy new skis so I decide to demo some. The woman in line ahead of me to pick up rentals declares,

“I’ll try these, they match my outfit.”

My outfit is RED. The sales associate pulls out a pair of skis for me. They are PINK. My eyes hurt looking at them next to my jacket. I decide I can suck it up for a day and who knows, maybe I’ll want the skis and I’ll have to start wearing head to toe pink. I’m not opposed.

On the lift my friend looks at my skis and says,

“There’s a lot of propaganda going on there.”

“What?”

“Do you see what they say?”

My feet are far enough away from my head that I can’t read them without my glasses. She continues,

“They say ‘All-terrain rocker, supermodel series.'”

“Oh dear.”

“And what’s that in the middle of your ski? Is that a?”

I stare at my ski in dismay. My friend shrieks,

“It’s a mirror.”

Going skiing! For a change. Talk to you someday.

P.S. If you really miss me, my brunch cocktail is on the list and you can go have that. It’s called Bikini Barista. I’m not sure why. Maybe because Jess’ Milk Box was already taken?

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For someone who has a massive underwear collection, I have very few bras. Not even enough to start a collection. I have the basics: nude, white and black. I haven’t bought new ones in almost a year. It is time.

I’m going to Whistler, BC Canada in a month. I’m looking for flights now. Kayak.com is 85% sure that prices are rising and now is the time to buy. Bing.com is 80% sure that the prices are dropping and now is the time to wait.

I’m 100% sure that now is the time to buy or wait.

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