The Curse of the Skirt.

My Missoni skirt is cursed. 
Cursed I tell you! 

*But only when worn as a skirt. When it is worn as a mini dress, it's curse isn't as strong.

Oh the voodoo that you do!

Now I know why someone would sell a perfectly good, classic Missoni skirt to Buffalo Exchange.
Because it is cursed.  
Also, I should change the name of this blog to The Misadventures of the Buffalo, dontchathink?

This skirt is, quite obviously, cursed by an fiery & wild Italian woman. A woman who drinks too much red wine and wants to dancing the night away under the stars. She is too wild for me, letmetellyou.
The first time I wore Her, she was paired with my favorite denim shirt, tied in a perfect little knot at my stomach, with the sleeves rolled up and the collar popped. Her and I, accompanied by Beauty, wanted to go to every restaurant and bar in my tiny town, demanding to be seen in such an exquisite piece of Italian workmanship. She was seen and saw most everyone we know, and by the end of the night I was prepared for quite the headache the following day.
That damn Italian wildchild of a skirt kept me out most of the night.

The Missoni: She Be Crazy.

The next day, I immediately texted Bijou asking if she wanted to borrow the Missoni, as I can't handle that sort of woman. She said yes, and I sent the Missoni away. Be gone!

But then, last Saturday, I had a date.
And nothing to wear.
First dates are funny; for me, most of my man repellent clothing is not an option, as most of my closet is two sizes too big or takes the kind of crazy layering usually reserved for stubborn Kindergartners and places where 'Winter' is a season.
Once, I was wearing essentially a black cotton trash bag, and Apt F & I were about to go to lunch, and I said to him,

Wait! I have to change! I look like I'm wearing a trash bag. 

And his response?

But... (confused pause) You always wear stuff like that.

Touche. Anyhow, I try and find some sort of even ground for the First Date; a 'taste test' of sorts.
I remove a bit of my jewelry, and then add the pieces back slowly if the dating continues. I mean I want to show that I have a style that is all my own, but still look pretty and feminine and not alarmingly eccentric.
(I save the Crazy for later.) Now, I try not let clothes wear me, I love that I feel most comfortable in my own skin and style, but as one of my friends put it prior to my first date, 'No! No motorcycle boots! No Rib Cage sweater vests!' So much of my closet is more costume than sensible basics and I like it that way; but it's not ideal for a First Date.
So I rang Bijou and got the Missoni back.
This time, I wore her with a cream racerback silk tank and a silk Obi belt tied at my true waist and my perfect suede taupe mary-janes.
I felt phenomenal, I felt rich, luxurious and ready to go!
I arrived on time for a couple of cocktails at a beautiful dimly lit restaurant with panoramic marina views - I walked in and saw him sitting at the bar. I came up behind him, tapped his shoulder and said hello. He looked up and (as etiquette determines) said hello back.
He stayed seated as I took my place at the sunken bar, and he glanced at the Game on the TV, and took a sip of his already half drank vodka soda.
We exchanged pleasantries for a bit, and then I realized two things: 1.) He had a lisp, and spoke out of half his mouth a la Drew Barrymore, and 2.) He was not that interesting.
I ordered a glass of wine, and started asking questions. Basically, over two glasses of wine (and three more vodka sodas for him) he started speaking louder and louder about less and less interesting things, and it was apparent to both of us (or I think both of us) that there was no connection whatsoever. He actually said at one point, 'So what else about you...?' Our conversation was at a stand still.
He then mentioned that he was hungry and I recommended to calamari. But then I thought to myself,

Oh God. If I now have to sit through him eating calamari, and drinking another vodka soda I may die. Right here in this bar. 

I excused myself to the bathroom, and called Goldi from the stall and for the first time ever incited Code Blue, Something Bad Happened! I couldn't commit to another minute with him. Now, to be honest, he wasn't thaaaaaaaaat bad, he just wasn't... Good. He was a drunken bore. Who spit when he talked.
I navigated my way back to the, gave him a sheepish look, and explained,

I'm sorry. The reason I excused myself to the bathroom was because my friends kept calling. It turns out one of them has been pulled over for a suspected DUI and I have to go to them. I'm so sorry.

He laughed and said,

You know what you're doing right? You're doing the cliche 'leave for an extended period of time and then come back with and emergency.

No, seriously, I'm not. (Gulp.)

No, no I'm kidding. Go! Go help your friends.

And with that, I left. I never heard from him again.

Seriously though, Is this not the Best Picture Ever?
That's all.

I suspect he was as okay with not sharing calamari or another moment with me as I was.
Apparently the Missoni skirt is cursed a picky, easily bored Italian firecracker who does what she pleases.
I went home and changed.
And then...
I called The Carpenter. (Yes, like Jesus.)
More on him later, I promise.
(Also, he and I are going to dinner tonight.)
Also, I went on another date Tuesday.
Again, off the dating website I use.
But that time, I wore my borrowed from my Malibu Bad Ass' Blessed Blazer*.

*I wore it on my first date with the Aussie.

I'm Dating for Dinners again! 
Or... Let the Hunger Games begin!


Sidenote: Apartment F & I are navigating being friends as best we can; which, surprisingly, is pretty well. Go us!