But, before I jump into my after-hours debacles...
I have to rave about Moshi Moshi, the sushi heaven we ravaged on Friday night in Ballard. Now, given I don’t like sushi, I will confidently say I do like their wine selection, their tempura and their unbelievable LED cherry blossom tree that serves as the centerpiece. The rest of the group dined on Seattle rolls, BBQ eel and yellowfin and judging by the collective sighs of satisfaction, you could say the consensus was clear: Moshi Moshi is a hit.
Back to the drunk dial. For a single lady, Friday night can end one of three ways: happily alone in bed- face washed, teeth brushed, tucked in with a glass of water and 2 Aleve. Or, happily NOT alone in bed- please fill in the blanks. OR, chomping down Street Meat with the girls, laughing hysterically at drunk conversations, scrolling through the Blackberry’s ultra-dangerous address book, sending texts that would NOT be sent in the light of day... Unfortunately, my evening landed somewhere in between #1 and #3, which brings us back to Boy.
The Drunk Dial. I am very glad he called because on some level, it means he was thinking about me. But on other levels, it means it took three days and some liquid courage for him to pick up the GD phone. Here is where I experience flashes of “He’s Just Not Into You” advice and the array of excuses I want to pathetically grant him. Although all of my friends say this whole phone call is a good sign, I can’t help but feeling I would like even better signs- like maybe him calling on a Thursday afternoon just to say hi. Or making a date with me when he’s completely sober. For the record, we did make plans for next Friday… but here’s where it gets even more tricky and walking the fine line of ridiculous. Will he remember making plans with me? Do I follow up? Do I ask him if he remembers? Should I still assume we're going...?
Oh for god's sake. I'm throwin' in the towel on this one.