Nice to meet you: awkward moments in fundraising

I get that by the end of the night, when there is an open bar, things can get a little sloppy. I usually expect that to happen closer to 2 a.m. and then not at a high-end fundraising event.

Yet another quasi-important business-type guy was introduced to me at about 8 p.m. The first thing he did was brush my hair away from the cheap name tag I was wearing and not in a classy way, nope he fully groped at me while dragging his hands along my chest and shoulder.

Ick point one.

Then while he was talking to yet another semi-important individual with a lot of money he was flailing his half-full wine glass around. I caught the contents on my hand (and thankfully not my dress).

He noticed, but instead of offering me the napkin he was holding, he raised my hand to his mouth and sucked/lickd the wine off.

If it was a bar I would have slapped him. It wasn’t. I politely retrieved my hand and headed for the door. And went home. To sterilize.

That is the indicator that it is time to go home.

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Gaging the reaction

I had drinks with a guy the other night – more on the guy and how I’m finding myself in yet another mess later – and I want to discuss people’s reactions.

We drank wine for the better part of the night; I think I was sober by 3 a.m.

I mentioned it to a couple of people, who nearly all asked some variation of, “did you hook up.”

And when I replied nothing happened (and truly nothing did) – we simply sat and talked, I was asked, “Well do you think he likes you?”

It strikes me as strange that in this society that because we didn’t kiss, make out (I’m in my 30s, can I still say make out?), or have sex, there is a question as to whether or not he likes me.

I’m going to say, I know he likes me because after the second glass of wine, I told him for every glass he poured I’d be there for another hour to sober up, and he kept pouring (not just from that bottle, but from another as well).

Or maybe it’s me … maybe the assumption is  because I’m in my 30s but not looking to get married, I’m only supposed to want sex.

All I know is, sometimes I find it all a little frustrating.

I just wanted someone to say, sounds like you had a really great night, because I did.

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The Crazy That Distance Will Do

While I usually pass for sane and well-balanced, every once and I while I can do what most women do and hop the train bound for crazy.

For those of you that are fortunate enough not to know what I mean — the crazy train is when something small sets you off, but by the time you finish thinking about it, all rational thought has disappeared. Once on the crazy train there are no brakes and it’s nearly impossible to get off of it.

As promised in my last post here is a quick glimpse into my kryptonite and the boarding station for the train to crazy — distance.

I’d been seeing this guy for about six months when he moved back to the United States, leaving me in Canada. I’d finally decided to book a trip to see him and the date was getting close. The weekend before I was to fly down, he went to visit a friend — a woman — for a night of drinking.

I was a little upset, but couldn’t be too mad because I have several male friends that I hang out with and stay with, in other cities.

But, he went out on a Saturday night and by the middle of the afternoon Sunday, I was imagining all of the ways the night before could have gone. And each one ended with him in bed with her.

He called early evening, but it was a short and unsatisfying conversation because he was driving. So it was all aboard the train for crazy. I started googling. FYI, when it comes to this girl and Google, you can run, but you cannot hide.

Within minutes I found photos that he’d posted of himself, great photos, on a forum, which would have been fine, if it hadn’t been for single guys.

The crazy train pulled away from the station and started picking up speed. I called a friend of mine to talk. She brought alcohol, which by the way, is the fuel for this train.

The next thing, well about 20 minutes and two glasses of wine later, I’m on the phone with Delta trying to figure out how to cancel my ticket.

The conversation went something this:

Me: Sob. Big deep breath … “I – I – I need to cancel my flight.”
The very accommodating agent: “Okay ma’am. Would you like to reschedule it for a later date?”
Me: Sob. “No.” Sob. Big deep breath. “No. I can’t go there, I can’t ever go there.” Sob.
Agent, clearly noticing some distress: “Well, um you could come here and visit me.”
Me: “No thank you.” Sob. “But, thanks anyway.”

The conversation continued with my so-called friend cracking up behind me. She must have realized I was in no actual danger of cancelling my flight.

A couple of minutes more with the delta agent and he described where I could go online to cancel and where I could find the number of my ticket.

I’m sure that call was monitored for quality assurance and now is floating around call-centre classrooms as a sample of how to handle a crazy called.

I hung up and consumed the rest of the bottle of wine and then, of course, thought the best action would be to call the man, whose fault this all was. Fortunately for both of us it went to voicemail.

I collapsed into bed to sleep off the wine.  Sleep, it seems is the brakes required to slow down the train because waking up the next morning I started to realize how crazy I had been.

The second fortunate incident is the ability of both me and him to laugh at circumstances. We talked over Skype although all I really wanted was to be held.

But, what he said was just as good.

“Why would I sleep with anyone else? I’m with you. I like you.”

Oh. Of course.

Crazy train parked … until next time.

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