I feel rather like shit today. Nice way to start, but there you are. I think I'm still hungover from Saturday, plus I'm hoarse, plus the infernal wind kept us up all fucking night. Not just a breeze, you-folks-who-aren't-from-CO, but upwards to 70 mph gusts. We lost fully grown trees in the neighborhood. My neighbor's patio furniture tumbled two yards down. Of course it was trash day, so you can imagine the results. The trash guy had a sense of humor though, he asked PHF if he could just help out on the other side of the street. Folks lost fences, and worse! the satelite tv was flaky all day, too. It's finally quit.
But tell me about Saturday night, you think, or at least move on past the bitching. Ok. Er, drunk. Very drunk. Shots early in the evening. Mixing drinks. Not enough food to soak it all up. The fun part was going to see the Indulgers. They are so great always, and they were in fine form on Saturday. Four couples went, cabbed it downtown, and us girls all had Floozie Coozies (a FC is a animal striped beer cozy with fur on it. Very chic.) so everybody kept stopping us and going, "You're one of the girls with those coozies, huh?" It only happened about fifteen times. Great conversation starter, really; about as smooth as chalky fudge. But no, lots of flirting, lots of merch around. Pretty good time. The best part was when I was surfing the crowd and my eye stopped - hot dude standing there - and it was PHF. Love it when that happens. And he is pretty hot.
But a question comes to mind: where are all the clever people? They were at home writing on their blogs, I guess, because they sure as hell weren't at the bar. What a bunch of dolts. This guy kept hitting on my friend, and every so often we'd go, "Dude. Her husband is here tonight. As in, he's about ten feet away and he's watching you. It ain't gonna happen." Dumbass. All four of us kept getting stopped to talk. Late in the night, we got seriously hit on (like, he asked to come home with us - wtf??) by a 22 year old, which makes us old ladies all flattered and shit. But he was just so stupid it was painful. I mean, D-U-M, Dumb. I could never be drunk enough to not be embarrassed for him. This guy didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. Trying to talk to him was like trying to have a conversation with an old Wobbly who's gone funny in the head. He mistakenly relied on his looks ("Well, there's your first mistake...") to get a ride home and sent his friends on without him. Loser. Fortunately, PHF rescued us. Unfortunately, we had to walk a few blocks to find a cab because none would come, and me in just a lace shirt, too. I think PHF loaned me his jacket, but I'm not real clear on that part of the evening. I'll go ahead and give him the benefit of the doubt. That tends to pay off for me.
How drunk were you really, you think, to recall being hit on at 2 am while waiting for a cab? Ok, PHF and I made out on the dance floor (yup, not only drunk enough to dance, but drunk enough to french on the floor). All in all, the whole night reminded me that I really like to window shop, but I'm glad I'm through with puttin' money down. I mean, cultivate the art of conversation, at least. Christ.
Ok. Whiskey and bed.
Whiskey? you say. Really?
Yup, I'm a get back up on the horse kind of girl. Cheers.