Stay Hydrated, My Friends

Tonight I went to happy hour with Margaret from Nanny Goats in Panties, Ms. Chick from Limit Reached, and Joan*, a woman I know from Twitter. Originally I was hesitant about going because I have been so irritable lately that I didn’t want to subject my friends to my attitude problem. When I’m in those moods it’s much easier to stay at home and grumble at my computer than to risk going out and shooting my mouth off about whatever is bothering me at the moment. I am fortunate, though, in that my friends allow me to rant and rave and don’t take it personally. Well, that’s what they told me, anyway.

Even with my pervasive attitude problem, it was a fun time. We talked about everything from online dating to prostitution in the Central Valley. Those are the kind of friends a woman needs, I tell you, where you can discuss the big issues interspersed with comments about dried out nachos and whether or not your chicken quesadilla did, indeed, have chicken in it.

water, glass

Water, water everywhere.

After one Cape Cod, I was a little buzzy and more sassy than normal, so I switched to water, as did Ms. Chick. Once we all got glasses of water, I noticed that the servers were coming over a lot more often, more so than I thought they were when we were actually buying food and beverages.

Which brings me to my point. In recent years, I’ve noticed at several restaurants that the wait staff are committed to proper customer hydration. Sometimes they will hover over your table, pitcher of agua in hand, ready to refill your glass. It’s a little frightening. When I lived back east, there was a restaurant I frequented that was notorious for this. The bus boys would stand by, just waiting for you to put down your glass so they could refill it. One time I went there with Mr. X and a friend for dinner. When we saw the water boy head to our table, we agreed to keep drinking and not put down our glass, just to see what would happen. Do you know that guy glared at us, just waiting for one of us to break? (In case you were wondering, I was the first one to put down my glass. I’m not a champion water chugger.)

We decided that this would be a great headline for an online ad: Single Woman Seeks Well-Hydrated Man. The only downside, though, is that most men would think it said “hung” instead of “hydrated.” Which isn’t a bad thing if you are looking for a hot date.

*Not her real name. She likes “Mad Men” so I figured I’d give her a Mad Men- related pseudonym.

Not Quite Carrie Bradshaw Yet

“So my editor loved the piece I wrote for October and asked me what ideas I have for the November issue.”

“That’s great!” Giles exclaims. He’s a great friend to tell good news to, because he’s genuinely happy for you. T-Wizzle is the same way, which is exactly the reason why they are my two closest friends. That, and they pour drinks with a heavy hand. Both are excellent qualities to have in a friend.

“And she asked me if I wanted to write several short items for the November issue.” I tell him the figure she quoted. He is ecstatic.

“That is wonderful!” Giles is full of exclamations today. “You want to come over for dinner later? I have chicken we can stir-fry.”

I say yes, of course, because even with all these writing assignments I’ve been racking up over the last two months I still have a fridge full of condiments and not much else. Writing for a living is great; it’s the pay-on-publication part that sucks.

I suck down a couple gallons three glasses of water to tide me over until dinner at Giles’ place. He lives just a few blocks away so we hang out together often. I go back to finishing up the first part of what will be a five- to six-week-long writing project, which I landed thanks to a friend of a friend who recommended me. It also pays very well, and there’s potential for more assignments, so that pleases me.

At 6:35 I head over to Giles’ place. He lives in a fabulous building just off Capitol Park – great views, high ceilings, fireplaces. The place has had its share of famous residents. Giles is not famous, though he knows a lot of people in town. Being involved in the media will do that.

He lets me into the lobby and we take the elevator up to his apartment. Even though it wasn’t extremely hot outside today, it was warm enough that when I open the door to his place the cool air hits me right away. It feels so cool and lovely that I want to lie down right there in the foyer. But I refrain because I am sober.

Since he just got back from walking to a nearby market, he suggests sitting down for a while with some cocktails. Never one to turn down a cocktail, I agree.

“Wow, you’re like a Lifetime movie about that woman,” he says after a swig of beer.

“What?” This is a joke he picked up from Zach Galifianakis. We say it every time we are flipping through cable channels and we pass a particularly heinous movie title such as “Mother May I Sleep with Danger?” or “Too Young to Marry.”

“In those movies the woman is always a magazine writer and she lives in this huge apartment in New York. You’re Carrie Bradshaw!”

“My apartment isn’t big enough,” I remind him. “And how in the hell did she afford that huge apartment plus $300 shoes on a writer’s salary? She was only writing for the Post. Or was it the Star?”

Giles waves his hand at me. “It was a tab, all the same thing.”

“Still, I do fantasize about having a column someday,” I confess, looking down at my now-empty wineglass. How did that happen?

“Columns aren’t what they once were,” he says. “Used to be a lot of klout saying you were a sports columnist for the Chicago Tribune. Now with blogs that doesn’t really exist – you might be one of several people contributing content.”

“It would still be cool, but I’m no Carrie Bradshaw,” I say. “I would definitely have to move to a bigger place for that to happen.” I look down at my slightly chipped home pedicure of OPI’s I’m Not Really a Waitress and my $5 Target flip-flops which have already been repaired with Super Glue once. “And I would need better footwear.”

Moxie does not live here - yet. Photo courtesy