Last night after stuffing ourselves on sushi and Sapporos, I suggested to Stacey and Jorge that we go to the Westin and get a drink in the revolving bar area and then head to an old school rave that a friend had told me about. For those of you who have not been to the Westin since the tornado, they only have one working elevator left that takes you up to the 72 floor and it isn’t one with a view. This means the line is long and there is a lot of waiting to be done.
Did I mention that in an attempt to stop smoking cigarettes, I have started smoking other things: LIKE CRACK, for instance. Because that is the only way to explain the fact that a bride in her full bride-white- wedding-dress and veil was standing right in front of us in line with several other wedding guests who were all holding onto their party favors and looking very bored. This also explains why I love Stacey so much. At the exact same time, we both looked at each other and Stacey said ” When I get married, you better make sure I never have to wait in line” and then we laughed until I thought I might wet myself.
Shouldn’t they have a special bride elevator for these occasions? Or at the very least, couldn’t anyone of thought to send her up first or allowed her to cut to the front of the line? I think wearing a wedding dress merits this privilege. Seriously, chivalry is dead.
Unless she wasn’t a virgin. That is really the only plausible excuse for making her stand in line like that.
After the Westin we drove to where the rave was supposed to be, got to the door and were informed that it was $25.00 to get in. This is also the point in the night where I got to learn a fun new acronym: BYOB. At first, I thought it might be the name of whatever DJ was in charge of this spectacular throw down, but after asking the nice man at the door who looked like he might have been an original member of the Hell’s Angels I learned that, no, BYOB means “Bring Your Own Beer.” I’m sorry, what was that? You want me to pay $25.00 to get in and I have to bring my own alcohol. I am getting too old for this shit.
We left and went to a club called Opera instead. This is normally not my kind of place. It is loud and full of uber beautiful people who are experts at making me feel not uber beautiful. For example, Opera has elevated platforms with half-naked women who are paid to gyrate their asses and flip their big beautiful uber hair back and forth over and over again. And I find it increasingly more difficult each time I enter a place like this to pretend that I do not want to be one of those women.
As I am standing there with my mouth open watching one of said women, a gorgeous man-boy approaches and asks me ” Are you with him?” pointing at Jorge. Then he says the magic words that I have been waiting to hear all my life at a dance club, “Can we go outside, I want to know you.” Umm, let’s see, do we really have to go outside in order for me to shove my tongue down your throat and write my number on your very strong and tanned looking arm? Seriously, talk is cheap and action is so much more gratifying. But, I gave in, went outside, put my number in his phone instead of on his arm, and made semi-boring chit chat. All of this instead of making out. And the worst part is I think I gave him the wrong number ( there were other things impairing my vision and speech at play here).
Is it too soon to print out flyers with my phone number on them that say “Looking for a 23 year old Lebanese man-boy. You were hot and I mistakenly gave you the wrong number. I promise to quit smoking if you call.”