Dressing the Part

I have a new theory about my social life.

Well, it is likely more than a theory by now.

I have empirical proof. Evidence.

It's real.

No, faithful readers and loyal friends (and sister), it is NOT about The Vortex.

(If you have no idea what that is about, ask me and I'll compose a new post about it. It's juicy. And also proven.)

Nope. This time it is more about social planning.

Here's my theory:

There are those nights that you're tired, feeling unattractive, dressed in a B-team outfit, having a bad hair day, bloated, hungover, stressed out, or just plain don't want to do anything but beeline for your own couch to hide in the comforts of home.

Yes. We ALL know those nights. For me, of late, they come during the week (it hurts too much to go out on a school night anymore), or more often, on a Friday night after a crazy wild deadline-filled week at work.

Friday nights are supposed to be fun. Festive. Relaxing. They call it happy hour for a reason. However, for me, I find it hard to muster up the energy for it all.

BUT.

It is on THOSE nights that you a) meet the most interesting people, b) laugh the hardest, c) dance the most, d) feel the sexiest, e) and have the absolute best time ever.

I'm telling you. Not once, or twice, but three times in the last two weeks has this theory been proven.

Now. Without telling TOO much information (as if that's ever stopped me before), I'll tell you this. One recent Thursday, I was minding my own business at work, glancing at the clock readying for quittin' time, when I got a little instant message from a friend. He offered Cubs tickets. For that night. Since it was the holiday weekend, I know it was technically a weekend, but it still felt like a random Thursday night to me. I was tempted to decline politely, and just couch-sit with the recent Netflix arrival (finally watching "The Tudors"!). But, no.

Something made me accept the offer, and join the three guy friends at the game. It was my first of the season, and the seats were fantastic. The weather was perfect - warm, but not hot; breezy, but not cold. The beer went down like water, and the hot dogs were grilled to perfection. The Cubs hit an out of the park grand slam to win the game. We sang "Go Cubs Go" and waved the infamous "W" flag all the way down the block. See?


Which is where we saw Alfonso Soriano (Cubs left fielder) driving south on Clark Street, rolling in style in his white Rolls Royce. I was walking right next to his car, which sadly, despite all indications that he should have had company, did not have a hot "Cribs"-style chick riding shotgun. Emboldened by the Old Style, I knocked on his window, and he rolled it down. We chatted, I congratulated him, and he laughed. With me! See?


That never would have happened if I'd stayed on my couch. And all of that happened with me in a baseball hat, tennis shoes, frayed jeans and a plain grey t-shirt.

My second example came the following Saturday night. Laura and I got all dressed up. We were lookin' good. I pulled out a new dress, given to me by Kristen, and even donned the black high heels. My hair was good. The makeup was spotless. We were hotttt.

And, the bar was empty.

Seriously.

It got "maxed out" at about 11 people. Total. And this is a place that usually has so many good looking people crammed into it by midnight that it renders conversation impossible.

But, not this night. Because we were ready, willing and looking for fun.

It was not meant to be.

My final case in point came this past Friday night. It was about 4 o'clock. My office technically had been closed since 1 pm for summer hours, but I'd been restrained hammering out a PowerPoint deck for my boss. I didn't mind that badly - I had no plans. The couch was calling my name. I even had some wine to open.

Kristen had other plans. She suggested, via instant message, that I join her and a few other girls at Hub 51 for happy hour. At 5 pm.

Since I had on an A- outfit, and hadn't yet piled my hair up into a messy knot that was unforgiving and irretrievable, I agreed to go. Come on, girls - you know what I mean. I'm not THAT vain, but Hub 51 is known for the chic, trendy folks looking good.

I joined Kristen at the table (a feat unto itself) and settled in for a calm girls' night. We were then joined by Jill, and then by three other lovely lady friends who were clearly out for the night of fun and debauchery. We laughed. Conversation flowed. We caught up, joked, reminisced and told stories. The food came, and was delicious and perfect.

Then, Jill and the others left me and Kristen to finish our night, and we thought it would be coming to a close soon. This was at about 8 pm - a solid happy three hours.

We had another thing coming. Two gentleman, whom I'd noticed checking us out (or were they after our huge table?) promptly visited, asked permission to join us, and brought with them hilarious stories (some true, some of the made-up variety), guessing games, "the name game," the "where are you from" storytelling hour, references to recent and past history, jokes, toasts, and more drinks. The hours were ticking by, but who had time to notice?

All I could see was the night turning into one of the most fun, and most satisfying, I'd had in a long while. These guys were classy, smart, funny, interesting, humble and, not least of all, attractive. One caught my eye in particular, and it turned out that his mother and my mother were just one grade apart at a certain private high school in St. Louis. He and I were even born at the same hospital for crying out loud. It was destiny. Or at least a good omen for a fun night.

I was convinced to store my 50-lb work bag downstairs at Sub 51 in a booth while we toasted, danced and literally "brought the party" to the basement dance club. I was spun all over the tiny dance floor, knocking into people and being asked by a dorky bachelor party from Maine to "make his night - he's getting married in two weeks." I didn't, don't worry.

Laughing until I was almost crying, I learned and tried out dance moves that no white girl should attempt. And succeeded, almost unilaterally. At least no one got hurt, myself included. I had met two really nice guys, who were perfect gentlemen, and didn't expect it at all.

Knowing when to say when (and not tempt fate or my "I fixed it at 7 am this morning makeup and hair"), I said my goodbyes, got a quick kiss, and left at the stroke of midnight to scramble into a waiting cab.

Flying northbound on Lake Shore Drive, I caught myself beaming.

See?

Yet another perfect example that life is like that. If you plan it too much, or get too fancy, or try too hard, it isn't meant to be.

It is what John Lennon said about the generation he, in part, symbolized - "Nothing happened in the sixties except that we all dressed up."

Sometimes, you end up just dressing the part.

And other nights? You're enjoying life as it comes.

Bowl Me Over

It was a neon lit room, with sparse out-of-date and ugly decorations. The only ones present were those with me.

My hair was a solid color of offensive orange, puffy on the sides and parted dead in the middle. My eyes were brown, chocolate almost, and I was wearing what appeared to be plastic black-rimmed glasses. My shirt was bright yellow with no pattern and dorky short sleeves and my pants were blue solids and about two inches too short. People were calling me Coach, and I'm not quite sure why. I was quite a character, to say the least.

But, man, could I bowl.

In a riverside dive bar called The Boathouse the other night in St. Joe, Michigan, I was one mean Wii bowler.

I got strikes (more than one in a row, even!), spares and the occasional good spin on the ball. The ball steered clear of the gutters, and I had power in my roll that I didn't know I could possess. I reached the incredible personal best score of 170 and did a little dance around the bar on the sticky hardwood floor.

My arm, however, the next day was so sore that I'm pretty sure I have no spot on the Pro Bowling League.

Seriously. It still hurts to wash my hair.

Something is wrong with that picture, besides the multi-colored outfit and orange split part hair.

Bomb Shelters or Bathrooms

I have a vent. A group of us gathered at my favorite little local bar this weekend, and enjoyed a nice evening of conversation, drinks, random intrusions by a drunk guy named Kevin, and good juke tunes.

But, why is it that even in this nice bar, with cool decor, good un-bar-like food, a friendly staff and clean furniture, does the bathroom resemble a dusty bomb shelter in 1940s Germany?

It is a treat to make it down the steep metal stairs alive, and when you do, you think a rewarding trip to the ladies room is in your future. After you stand in line, of course.

Instead, you get to battle a dank, nasty, low-ceilinged bathroom with only two stalls, one of which leaks something rank all over the floor. As if that isn't bad enough, on one of the stalls, the door is gone, so they've installed a trusty little curtain hanging on the outside of the stall, but it is just resting up there on two little posts, and it inevitably falls on your head as you slide the curtain aside to gain some privacy. It fell twice for me and bounced once off my head...it was my lucky day.

Lucky is what you call yourself if there actually is toilet paper left in there. I'm convinced that not once in the course of a Saturday night does anyone actually check the state of affairs in a ladies room, much less replenish the provisions.

After the stall incident is complete (and you're very possibly drip-drying), you are treated to sinks with no hot water, and paper towel dispensers that are almost falling off the wall. The pile of trash was overflowing, so most of the newer towels are on the floor (maybe soaking up the toilet's leakage?).

It is an all around disgusting adventure. If only I hadn't ever broken the seal.

Come on, at $5 a beer and $8 a cocktail, can't a lady get a cleaner, more pleasant bathroom experience?

I'll Have a Double

One more post today since I'll be in La-La Land all weekend and will likely not be writing. Although I would look quite cool if I sit at the Hollywood Starbucks with my MacBook and a coffee...wearing sunglasses of course, to appear famous in disguise...

Yeah, probably not.

Anyway, I have been pondering the notion of Last Call. A familiar phrase, it has such a dichotomous meaning.

On the one hand, when you're out on a Saturday night, and the music's pumping, the crowd is surging, the fun is bubbling up and the gang is all smiling (this is girls' night out, clearly), to hear the bartender turn down the jukebox and yell out, "Last Call!" is a total buzz kill. Literally.

However, the notion of having someone that you want to talk to at the end of each day, a Last Call, just to hear their voice and say goodnight, is a really nice, comforting feeling.

Lately, I've experienced both meanings of the phrase, and certainly enjoy the latter much more.

And, there's no annoying bartender yelling in that one either.

All Together Now

I know that this post is about 6 months too late, making me a total loser and completely out of it.

I don't care.

I was at a bar this weekend and the Soulja Boy song came on, you know the one...the one that has the terrible lyrics and the annoyingly catchy tune?

Well, it has been my observation that this song immediately makes the whitest guy think he can dance. Doing that choregraphed electric slide line dancing thing that was so big in the early to mid-nineties. Like at weddings.

I know the rapper has some dance associated with this song, and I have even seen my beloved Georgia Bulldog football team doing it on the field mid-game when the song played over the stadium speakers, but at least those boys can move.

These guys Saturday night could not.

I had horrible flashbacks of middle school dances. Cafeterias draped with streamers. Carnation corsages that were kept in the fridge. Kissing a date with a mouth full of braces. Fuschia taffeta dresses with butt bows.

I think I need therapy.

My New Man

I must admit it isn’t my style to take strange men home from bars, but Fonzie was the exception.

I found him laying, face down on the bar, after everyone had gone home from my company holiday party. Someone must've left their gag gift for the taking.

All wrapped in plastic, he seemed harmless and safe. Nice, even. He is wearing a mechanics outfit (fix my car, Fonz?) and he was dressed and ready for work (in coordinating top and pants, he totally matched!)

He even fit in my purse! What a guy.

He’s not much of a conversationalist, by the way.

However, upon further consideration, that may be the best kind of boyfriend.