I realize that I neglected, in my not-terribly-triumphant announcement that I am returning to blogging more frequently, that I neglected to provide any details about Saturday evening.

Every so often, when I’m out in public, I observe the mating habits of that most intriguing of creatures, homo sapiensis heterosexualis, and I wonder–sometimes to myself, sometimes aloud–how it is that our species has managed to propagate itself as long as it has, given that, well, straight boys are just completely inept. Honestly. The survival of mankind as we know it depends on this??

I should preface this by acknowledging that Ray made what is not an entirely inaccurate observation about me. When I’m out in public, and I see someone who looks young, I tend to comment that they’re “twelve!” Ray gently pointed out that it’s not that they’re getting younger, it’s that I’m getting older. I prefer to think that it’s both, but whatever.

We started Valentine’s Day evening at a local wine bar, Cork and Company, where we had a couple of glasses of wine and some cheese. It was here that I had my first great revelation of the evening: I don’t know anywhere near enough lesbians. I like lesbians. In fact, it’s entirely possible that I enjoy the company of lesbians more than I enjoy the company of many gay men. We were seated at the bar (stupid me: it hadn’t occurred to me to make reservations at the bar that I planned to go to before dinner–this is why I hate Valentine’s Day!) next to a pair of lesbians. I don’t know if they were a couple or not, but they were a hoot to watch. They kept the alcohol coming, and they were no-nonsense, and god help the meandering soul who got a little too close to their space. They even managed to get the bartender to watch their seats for them while they went outside to smoke (Austin’s starting to make California look pro-tobacco).

On the other side of us was a young straight couple (me: “He’s twelve!” Ray: “He’s got three wine glasses in front of him. He’s clearly over 21.” Me: “He can’t possibly be shaving.” Ray: “You do know that he’s two feet away from you and can probably hear every word you’re saying, right?”). In all honesty, these were straight people who were significantly less inept than the others I observed later. She had on a nice dress; he was wearing a suit, and they seemed to be engaging each other in some conversation that prevented him from hearing (or at least acknowledging) the bitterly aging queen sitting next to them.

Then we strolled off to dinner. I had managed to secure late reservations at a Mediterranean restaurant called Taverna. They have a sister branch in Dallas that I’m convinced that I’ve been to, which is more Greek in style. The one in Austin is decidedly Italian. I kind of want to try the one in Houston just to see if it’s Lebanese.

Anyway, Taverna isn’t the cheapest place in town — it’s midrange, and I knew it because when I was spending a lot of Fulbright’s money last summer, I took a group of twenty there for dinner and earned a few frequent flier miles for it. I recalled that we enjoyed the food, and I thought it might be a nice place on Valentine’s Day.

Dirty business first: Ray had the veal parmagiana, I had butternut squash risotto with sea scallops. They were both good. Moving on.

There was another (presumably) gay couple sitting next to us. We decided that we were cuter than they were, and so that was that.

At my eleven o’clock, there was a young Latino couple. (Me: “They’re twelve!” Ray: “They’re not twelve. They have drinks.” Me: “They’re drinking soda.”) He was in a shirt and tie (no jacket), and a pair of loafers that had seen better days. He was slouched so far down in his seat that it was a wonder that he didn’t have to put his plate in his lap in order to eat. She was dolled up in a cute dress. I don’t know what the story was, but I tend to form judgments when, for example, it’s Valentine’s Day and the waiter hands the check to the woman and she pays. That’s just not right.

About halfway through the meal, another couple came in and sat at my nine o’clock. She was wearing a gray dress and had clearly spent hours getting ready. He clearly had not. He was wearing an untucked shirt over a paid of jeans and black athletic shoes. If I were her, I’d have left his sorry ass standing at the door. He spent the whole meal leering at her as if he was just going through the motions so that he could get to the part later where they have sex. Assuming that she didn’t dump him after dinner.

Which, of course, leads to the other thing I find weird about Valentine’s Day. You’re supposed to get dressed up, go out, eat a lot, have dessert, and drinks, and then … who still feels sexy after that? I felt kind of bloated.

But still. Every time I’m out in a formal setting, I tend to look at the straight couples of whom society approves, and I wonder … “How in the name of God have we not died out yet?” Because sometimes … it just doesn’t make that much sense.

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