3 posts tagged “sister”
Friday night, my sis and pseudo-sis-in-law (and a few of her friends, cus I mooch off of other people's friends) went to an anticipated Happy Hour. My first, by the way. It was fun. I had a martini, which, per my friend's warning, did a sneak attack. Despite the buffalo wings, with bleu cheese dipping sauce, I was a bit loopy and dancing in my chair to the live band's version of Billy Jean and other various awesome songs.
I stepped away from the table to use the restroom, and three things happened:
- I discovered the unity between women who have also had a martini, or other drink of choice. While I wasn't over the top, and the other women STANDIN' IN THA LINE FOR THA BAFFFROOOM weren't either, we shared a connection. We all smiled and complimented each others respective good-looking-ness, and acknowledged each other's respective long weeks that deserves a Friday evening happy hour. It was awesome.
- We discussed the Laker's.
- My sis and pseudo-sis-in-law plotted for them to manage a way to get me to go out (again) with them later that night. They made calls, and fenagled babysitting for me.
Fast forward a few hours, and my sis, pseudo-sis, sis' friends (2 different friends this time - still not my own, thus I continue the friend-mooching), and pseudo-sis looks me in my eyes and says, "Goldie. I forgot my ID."
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Ok.
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So, she attempts to get in, but of the group of us, she looks the youngest and is the shortest (but has the biggest butt, which isn't relevant, but I'm jealous). The bouncer denies access and we trek back to the car. Did I mention I'd changed into five inch heels and a gold greek Goddess looking tank top. Key words here being: five-inch-heels and tank top. Cus San Francisco is hilly and it was kinda drizzly. The martini I'd had earlier had worn off by then.
But. All was good. It would have been fun to go out, but I was kinda pooped. We ended up going home, stopping at a Jack in the Box, and going back home.
With regard to Jack in the Box, they stopped serving tomatoes, and instead, I think they were using tomato paste or something, cus I bit into my sourdough burger thing and the ketchup seemed mighty thick. But, I didn't care. Cus I was hungry, it was late, it was cold and all I wanted was the three-times-re-heated sourdough burger thingy to warm my frigid soul. It worked! I went home, called the aforementioned friend, and went to sleep.
Even though we didn't get into tha club, I had a good time with my sis, pseudo-sis and mooched-friends.
I'm sure I've mentioned the sheer and utter anxiety I get at the thought of going to "the club " (see definition 1).
In fact, I had an anxiety attack at a almost-but-not-really club. It was a high-end restaurant in LA that I went to with my brother and their friends. First, I didn't have anything to wear. I didn't think to bring anything fancy, so I ended up wearing a pair of my brother's khakis and one of his white, button-down shirts. Yeah. I don't like loose clothes. I don't wear tight clothes, but even if I'm covered up, I need a tight-fitting tank top underneath, at the very least. And I don't do khakis. I don't do pants, really, unless they are jeans or they look super cute. I'm a jeans or skirts person. So, I was out of my element, in the clothing department that day.
We get there, and I'm standing with my brother in the lobby, waiting to be seated. I'm looking around and there's a bar. Up until recently, I didn't drink. I mean, I'd have a few drinks here or there, but never thought of it as a recreational, fun thing I think of it as now. So, being 16 (as I was at the time), I was unsure about people drinking in public (naive, much?). It was just weird for me. Acceptable, but weird.
After peeping the bar, I notice that everyone is suuuper dressed up. Not only that, but they look goooood. Everyone. Sharp, fancy, sexy, glossy, neat, kept up. And then there was me. Clinging to my brother's arm in my khakis and white, button-down shirt that weren't even mine. I unclenched my talons from my brother's arms and excused myself from the group. He followed me to witness my anxiety attack and he calmed me down and reassured me that the food would be good (he knows the way to my heart) and that we'd be out of there soon. And then we were out of there, like he promised.
All this to say, my pseudocousin (read: Lorelai's dad's cousin) is turning 21 this month. My pseudosister (read: Lorelai's dad's sister) is getting a party bus and we're going to a few different "spots" (as they're called in the club scene) and going to "get our drink on."
And, I'm nervous. I told my pseudosister not to even bring it up until the bus gets here and she can confirm a drink is in my hand to knock the edge off. Why am I even going, you ask? Because my realsister took me out to a bar the other night and we had a pretty good time. Also, because I think it will be funny. And I think I need to get over myself a bit. And most of all: I want to dance.
I'm sure there will be debaucherous photos to come.
What am I going to wear?!
I will never understand why people have decorative towels in their bathroom. I NEED towels to try my hand. I don't need them to sit their and taunt me while I shake my hands dry in vain and then succumb to wiping them on my jeans. I won't lie. Sometimes I used the decorative towels. I'll use the underbelly of the top one and hope that my sister doesn't notice. Yep. I said it, Liv. I USE YOUR DECORATIVE TOWELS.
It feels good to get that out.
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