LuvvBugg Blog

“So, how was it?”
“He brought his dog.”
“What do you mean he brought his dog?”
“I mean, I just sat at a bar for two hours with a dog underneath my feet.”
“Well, you love dogs.”
This was typical rationale for Liz, my best friend and recipient of all of my post-date reportages. If the date was not to my satisfaction—meaning the said male companion was socially awkward, rude, needy, hated his parents, lived with his parents, friendless, unemployed, uneducated, etc.—she would try to sway my opinion. I attribute this to the fact that she is one, always in love, two, a champion of all love, and three, a public defender: always defending the poor, disadvantaged, and needy, pleading the case for all mankind, and thus my various dates.
“And he had a purse.”
“Like a man purse?”
“No, like a purse purse.”
“Wait, this was the venture capitalist?” I could hear her hopeful tone on the other end of my cell phone, as though the fact that he was a venture capitalist could erase the fact that he carried a purse of any nature.
“No, this was the guy in the Peace Corps.”
“Who grows organic vegetables?”
“Right.”
“You love vegetables. And you’re a f-ing public school teacher. That’s basically like the Peace Corps.”
“Liz, there was a dog and a purse involved.”
“Oh, ok. Well, what about the venture capitalist. What was his name?”
“Adam. Hey, let me call you back in a second.”
I hung up my cell phone as I walked into Anto’s, the liquor store across the street from my apartment. Making a post-date trip to Anto’s had lately become about as routine for me as brushing my teeth. The operation typically went as follows: I walk into Anto’s, grab a bottle of Chardonnay and some Hershey Kisses, Manny tells me I’m beautiful and asks me why I’m not married, gives me free Hershey Kisses, which he clearly perceives as a grand gesture, we affectionately part ways.
As the door sensor detects my presence, so does Anto, the elderly store owner and namesake.
“There’s my beautiful girl!” Anto says in his thick Armenian accent.
“Hey Anto,” I reply, not even feigning enthusiasm. The purse-carrying dog owner has rid me of all cordiality.
I go to the back, grab a bottle from the “under ten dollar” section, walk to the counter, and take a handful of Hershey Kisses from the basket marked “ten cents each.”
“How is my pretty girl tonight?” Anto asks in his half grandfatherly, half perverted way.
“I’m great, Anto. How are you? You enjoying this San Francisco sunshine?”
“Why a pretty girl like you no married?”
“Anto, not tonight.”
“Oh…pretty girl is grumpy? Tonight, kisses for you for free!” He points to my handful of foil wrapped chocolate. Part of me wants to tell him he’s ripping off the people of San Francisco by charging them ten cents per Hershey Kiss, but I smile gratefully.
“Thank you, Anto.”
“Good night, pretty girl.”
The censor beeps again as I walk out, tuck the bottle under my arm, and call Liz back.
“Where’d you go?” she asks.
“I had to get some wine.”
“Didn’t you just go for drinks with your purse-dog man?”
“Liz, this is not a time to judge.”
“Sorry, tell me about Adam.”
“He was old.”
“ I thought he was mature.”