Gettin' JiggyArgh. Fingers still hurt. Difficult to type.
But I can still DRINK! Oh, lawd, do I love to drink. And goodness gracious, thanks to my impossibly adorable friend (who shall remain nameless due to her political aspirations), I needn't drink alone (not that I would, you understand. I'm no lush. Perhaps a lushette. A lush-lite?).
She and I, accompanied by three others who will also remain nameless for reasons I shouldn't even intimate (Christ, the scandal I could cause!), went out to a hole-in-the-wall after a town meeting thing, and we got hammered, y'all. Do you realize how long it's been since I visited a hole-in-the-wall? No, of course you don't. Well, I'm here to tell you it's been years -- years, dog.
Oh, the night was magical.
I laughed, I flirted, I never had to open my wallet -- and I tripped down some stairs Jerry Lewis-like, though I did prevent a fall by whirring my arms wildly, my fancy-shmancy Italian gem-studded sandals all aglitter as my feet did an Irish jig across the bar room floor. I finally skidded to a stop in front of a gaggle of dart players, one of which had his lethal weapon poised mid-air, look of pure disgust creasing his otherwise handsome face.
Good thing I was hammered or I would’ve really felt embarrassed.
So I casually looked back at the stair I'd just tripped on, as many of us are wont to do when we trip in front of strangers (why do we do this? As if looking at the stair, crack in the sidewalk, slippery rug, whatever, will somehow alleviate the humiliation, as if the offending trip-maker will rise up and bellow IT'S MY FAULT SHE TRIPPED, FOLKS! SHE IS NOT A GRACELESS BOOB, NOR IS SHE A DRUNKEN ASS! NOTHING TO SEE HERE! GO ABOUT YOUR BUSINESS IMMEDIATELY OR I SHALL SNEAK IN FRONT OF YOUR FEET NEXT!) then walked, head high, proudly and without much shame, to the ladies' room.
Anyway. My jiggy trip, besides inspiring hatred among dart players, also inspired love -- an older gentleman with bologna breath, a man who is a successful caterer here in town, began to follow me about the room. And outside the room. Couldn't even have a freaking smoke without bologna man creeping up behind me, asking me questions, trembling with lust...
I finally had to tell him this: "Sir, your breath is like a package of Oscar Mayer bologna that has been opened and left out in the steaming Rochester sun for thirty-two hours. No, I do not wish your company."
Aw, let's change the subject now...Got some great news last night regarding my brother, Dan. Ready? He landed a beautiful position at a law firm in Flushing, corner office, everything -- and they'll be paying for his bar exam. You make me so damn proud, bro'.