Have I turned into a gorgeous Femme Fatale without realizing it? I’m just curious. You all remember the story about Quagna that took place a week ago last Sunday. If you don’t remember, you can find it at the post titled At Last.

Last week, on Thursday, Beth got off of work early and we made a trip to the Chalet. We had a good time playing darts, even though there was an odd woman named Nerak (if you have ever seen “The Watcher In The Woods,” you will get this reference. If you have not seen it, you should. It is an excellent movie, very scary in a supernatural, not gory, way) who glommed onto us for most of the evening. She seemed nice enough but way too needy and touchy-feely. While I don’t mind being touched, I have a problem when a complete stranger starts touching my arm, back or shoulder. It is a form of intimacy that I don’t want to reach with someone right away, especially when they also have no concept of “This is my space. This is your space.”

She also invited herself to play darts with us which seems somewhat encroaching to me, especially if you don’t know how to play the game we are playing (cricket). Even with Beth pointing to the lit dart board and telling her several times that she wants to shoot for the numbers that are lit up, Narek didn’t get it. And, I’m sorry, but it is just rude to walk up to someone and touch their shoulder, saying “I’m just doing so terrible” when they are right in the process of releasing that pointy stick thing at the big thing with the numbers and the circles. We had asked Bryan to play darts with us and she did this to him, causing him to miss the bullseye by, oh, about a mile (well, maybe closer to a foot. He ended up hitting the wall).

Anyway, I decided I wanted to be put into the rotation because, let’s face it, I am an attention whore (continuously declaring myself to be Queen of the Universe might have been a clue about this). I love karaoke because it reminds me of when I was in high school and did a lot of acting and I miss “treading the boards” terribly. Later in the night, after the game of darts was over and Char had arrived to join us, I asked Theresa (bartender) for a glass of water. As she’s pouring the water, a man named Brian walks up to me and we have the following conversation.

Brian: I just wanted to tell you that I think you have a beautiful voice and I’m always glad when I see you’re here because you’ll be outstanding (this may not have been his exact words but he pretty much told me, in both words and voice tone, that I am the most wonderful singing sensation in the entire world. This is really nice of him but not accurate. It’s not that I suck or anything but I’m not going to be competing on American Idol anytime soon (not that they would let me, the ageist bastards)).
DM: Thank you. That’s so sweet. Your name is Brian, right?
Brian: Yes.
DM: I’m Dana.
Brian: I know.
DM: It’s really nice meeting you.
Brian: I like to sing but I only sing Irish songs because I don’t know any pop songs.
DM: Well, those are good.

I go back to tell Beth and Char about this and Beth asks me “Have you ever seen him before tonight?” and I respond with “No. I have no clue.” Throughout the evening, Brian and I were exchanging the occasional smile.

Beth also did a post about the excitement we ran across in her post about last Thursday. You should read it. It talks about Beth’s encounter with a real live crack smoker.

Nothing overly exciting happened to prove my irresistibility to the male species on Sunday, other than the fact that there was a guy there that I thought was Brian and turned out not be him. I, thinking it was Brian, would occasionally glance over at him to find him looking at me. He would smile slightly, I would smile back. However, it was a fun night, as always. About halfway through the night, Bryan asked us if we wanted to stop singing and play darts since it was dead. People would walk into the bar and look around confused, wondering where everyone was. We were all clustered into the dart area where I and my partner, Benny (non-singing regular) managed to kick everyone’s ass and I told Benny several times that I loved him and would bear his children if I was planning on having children. And no, I was not serious and he knew that. It was just fun.

After the game, Char had arrived and I gladly exchanged my position at the dart board with her. I do enjoy playing darts but some people had shown up to sing and this way I could throw my name back into the rotation. Yay! More singing! While I was waiting, I exchanged some pleasantries with Jason, a singing semi-regular, and worked on my next post which will be about how some of my phobias almost drove me to commit homicide when I was in high school. Liz arrived and called me over to her table and I enjoyed talking to her and James about various things, including why I don’t drive.

On the way home, Beth, Char and I (do you not just love the fact that our names are alphabetical? Isn’t that cool? Or is it just me) were talking about the evening – playing darts, karaoke, Bryan and Liz and the rest of the cool table, Gil (guy I like), etc. Then a car passes by us and we have the following conversation.

Beth (B): That’s a cop.
Char (C): He’s going a bit fast, isn’t he?
DM (D): Is it wrong that I want to lick his earlobe?

There is a dead silence. Both Beth and Char look at me.

B: Oh! You mean Gil.
C: Not the cop.
D: Well, yeah.

And then today, as Keem and I were headed to work, Keem had to run back to the apartment and change her shirt. I had already pressed the button for the elevator and, as I was standing there, the door opened and there was a man standing there. He looks up, sees me and his face lights up with this huge smile. I smile back and say “I’m sorry, we’re going to get the next elevator.”

I kid you not, his head drops in disappointment and he says “Okay” in this really sad tone. Like this is the most depressing thing he has ever heard of, my not sharing the elevator with him.

Now, I know that I’ve been doing my exercises at work (using one pound weights to gain a curvy body just like Marilyn Monroe) but it’s only been a few days. I know that I haven’t made that much progress. My hair needs to be shaped badly and is thwarting me on a daily basis. So what’s going on with the menfolk? Have they all gone insane? And why is it that the guy I like isn’t even aware that I’m female? Answer that.

*Title because I couldn’t think of a good femme fatale name and Mata Hari works because, seriously, I would love to be a spy. I could wear cool disguises and stuff. But then I’d probably get caught because I am not so good at keeping a secret.