Okay, it's experimental . . . Hopefully this will make someone laugh in a good way.
Well, this was a first. I had never even been in a bar before tonight much less get thrown out of one. Wish I could say it was for something good.
Tracy and her big mouth.
About an hour before, we had strolled into the bar looking hot. I mean HOT. Subject to a recent break up, The Break Up Diet had taken it's toll in how my sexy jeans now fit. Slightly more forgiving in the thighs than a month ago, I chalked it up to the sudden distaste for food that comes from being dumped after four years for some bimbo he met in a dive bar.
Wow. So here we were, on our way. Granted, we had spent an hour in my bathroom just primping, so I would certainly hope that we looked good. I briefly said a prayer that this time out, I wouldn't end up with eyeliner smudged down my cheek. Crossing myself in a Catholic style I wasn't completely unfamiliar with, I braced myself against the wall as I shoved my size 8.5 foot into one of the pair of size 7.5 shoes I was borrowing from Tracy for the night.
Trying not to stumble from the extra three inches I am normally unaccustomed to, I stopped in front of the mirror to look at my now 5'7" frame. Damn. Even I was impressed.
Of course, the black tube top and my aptly titled Sexy Jeans didn't hurt.
"Alright, Your Hotness, let's go!" Tracy prompted. Ignoring the numbness already developing in my pinched toes, I grabbed my purse and checked off the list: keys, wallet, phone and my lucky lip gloss (all the best kisses will come with this stuff, I told myself). Smiling, and hiding the twinge of foot pain, I teetered out the door and we made our way to Tracy's Corolla.
After a light dinner of chips and artichoke and spinach dip at one of our favorite haunts, we made our way to Sherry's, a bar we had decided to explore.
Inside, we made our way to the actual bar, where a weathered, leather-clad woman was pushing a rag over the grainy wooden top. Seating ourselves, I surveyed the room for likely targets. Three college-aged guys were sitting at a table across the room with a couple of girls who only could have gotten in with fake IDs, a couple of slightly graying men in power suits to our left and two guys in the corner booth with a slightly-more-mature-than-21 look.
Making a verbal eye agreement with Tracy, we each grabbed one of the whiskey sours that Tracy had ordered and I followed her over to the booth. By this point, I was sure my little toes were no longer viable, but I swallowed my nerves and waited while Tracy made the introductions to Justin (brunette on the left with the blue shirt) and Matt (on the right with the blonde hair).
Tracy didn't wait for the invitation before sitting down next to Justin, so I followed suit, grinning like a Cheshire cat and trying to sit on my fidgety hands. A small-town girl who had never so much been on a blind date much less introduced to a stranger in a bar, I knew I was going to have a hard time not stammering and exposing my nervous habit of talking way too fast.
Man, that was hard to get out. The word just fell out of my mouth, making a thud in the middle of the table, it seemed. I reminded myself to close my mouth, since I was sure about fifteen seconds had elapsed with my jaw hanging down. He chuckled and I could see really cute dimples on one side of his mouth. Curious, indeed.
Somehow, I found my comfort zone from which to speak and it didn't take long for one whiskey sour to turn into four. Tracy and I made eye contact briefly here and there to acknowledge that the other was still having fun and wanted to be there, and in my peripheral vision, I saw her shoulder inching closer and closer to his side, under her guy's oustretched arm.
I had been sitting on my hands to keep them still in the beginning of the conversation, but I finally pulled them out from under my legs and wiped sweat and the seat's stickiness onto my jeans. This guy was nice. Really nice. And cute. I couldn't help but be drawn into his warm, brown eyes.
I can't remember what we talked about. Even today, sober and alert, I don't remember. The alcohol just kept coming. I was sure if I stood up too quickly, I would be flat on the floor in no time. At one point, I know we made our way to the juke box to pick a few songs out while giving Tracy and her guy (what was his name again?) some alone time. I knew my feet wouldn't want to function in the morning, and in a bold move completely out of character, I leaned into his side.
I'm sure he thought I was forward, but I couldn't help it. I had a weird flashback to my high school's Homecoming. I was fifteen, going to the dance with this guy that I tutored in English. He was curly-haired and awkard and all I wanted was for my hair not to frizz and not to have to worry about whether he would accidentally grope me while putting on the corsage.
My current date was far smoother. Polite, reserved and charming. I was trying to visualize the coolest, un-slutty way to give him my phone number, but nothing was coming up. Could have had to do with my battle with retaining for more than 2 seconds that kind of consciousness that only comes with complete sobriety, but I wasn't willing to admit defeat. I leaned in to look at the song titles and while focusing my blurred vision, I felt my forehead against the glass. THUNK!
I didn't have to worry because soon enough, over the din of "Any Way You Want It," I heard Tracy shriek, "ARE YOU SERIOUS?!!?!?! How could you even SAY such a thing!!!!"
I turned and watched as she stood straight up, barely clearing the table top on her way out of the booth and incredibly managing to avoid knocking a dozen glasses onto the floor, and as composed as she could without giving in to a half dozen drinks or so, take the one she was currently working on and dump it on a very shocked Brunette Boy's crotch.
Horrified, I moved over to Tracy's side. "Um," I started, but "Honky Tonk Women" was just a little too loud. "Trace, what are you doing???" I was back to barely speaking English very quickly, but Tracy would not be soothed. I pulled on her arm to get her to focus.
"THIS - TH-THIS ASSHOLE ---" she started, but didn't finish. Her pointing finger jabbed towards him repeatedly.
My guy (oh, crap, his name was what again . . . ?) looked at me, with a flabbergasted look on his face, as I pulled harder on Tracy's arm. Out of nowhere, the bartender came up to us.
Tapping my left shoulder, I turned around and felt my jaw fall as I eyed a huge man. I mean huge. He was probably close to six feet tall, but weighing in around 350. Some sort of sound escaped my throat, but I couldn't decipher it over the music and my own pulse.
"Ladies, do we have a problem?" he asked. It was the raspy, low voice that told me that this man likely smoked two packs a day but also, that he would snap me in half if trifled with. I was already envisioning my own head next to my body.
Tracy, however, would not cease.
"THAT . . . THAT-THAT ASSHOLE . . . !!!" she continued. I don't remember what came after that specifically, mostly because I can't quite place the order of the profanity.
"Alright, girls," said the bouncer. "Maybe we should take this outside?"
The bartender watched with arms folded as he gestured to us to come with him. Flailing her arms at him, Tracy lunged in the direction of the booth. The bouncer caught her just in time, pinning her arms against her sides and blocking her as she shouted over his shoulder, "You ignorant idiot!! You're the stupidest idiot I've ever met!!!"
My internal grammar radar was going off even through the haze of my intoxication and I swallowed hard and gave a gaze of pure apology back to Cute Blonde-Haired Guy.
The bouncer continued to walk Tracy out as I scrambled over to the table. My drunk haze cleared for a nanosecond and I remembered to check for purses and such. Blue Shirt Guy looked really ticked as I tugged Tracy's jacket from underneath him.
"I'm-I'm-I-I'm so sorry," I stammered, composing the stuff in my arms and regaining my balance. The blood was rapidly draining from my skull, yet miraculously pooling in my face.
"Umm, bye Zack," I offered as I locked eyes with Cute Blode-Haired Guy, awkwardly waved and turned on my left heel, barely staying vertical.
As I was hurrying towards the door, mentally calculating the amount I would be able to spend on the cab ride we now would have to take home, I heard him shout, "It's Matt, actually."
Okay, I'm a little rusty, but congratulations if you made it through all of that. :o)