J and I went OUT out on Saturday night for the first time in a couple of months. The bar was of the sort that we don’t typically frequent – we are old and don’t like local frat boy rejects, and The Continental Club just feels like home now (tangent: is it sad to say that a given BAR “feels like home”?) – but this new group of friends had wanted to hear a band there, so we decided to be adventurous (read: “decided to give it a couple of hours before we pulled the ‘J has to work tomorrow’ excuse, if needed”).
The band put on a great show – The Molly Ringwalds are an 80’s tribute band out of New Orleans, and have great singalongability. Hearing an entire bar sing the synthesizer bridge of “Weeeeee-ooo-weeeeee” to The Cars’ “Just What I Needed” is something everyone should experience.

I know, I know. It’s one of those things that if you get into it, you’ll have a great time – if you act Too Cool For School, then whatever, dude – anyone that isn’t down with The Safety Dance is no friend of mine.

So the band was good and all, but I had just as much, if not more, fun people-watching with J. Sometimes I forget how much fun he and I can have at random places doing random things together.

We had scrounged a place to sit on the edge of some platform, next to another married couple (we could tell because they were not giving off the obvious I Am Trying To Get Laid vibe). We were sipping beer and making astute observations about our fellow bar patrons. This one chick kept walking by in ridiculous heels, a ridiculously short and skimpy sundress, and some giant-ass (fake?) Coach or Louis Vuitton or some such nonsense-looking purse, that was obviously empty.

Me, to J, and also no one in particular: “Why in the hell do you need a GIANT ASS PURSE in a BAR? Phone, Cash, ID, Lip gloss – if it doesn’t fit into your jean pockets, you don’t need it.”

J: “Word.”

The girl trips by again – it is 10 and she is already pretty wasted.

Me, still talking to no one in particular: “What the hell does she have in that bag that she needs to carry around AT A BAR?”

Married Chick Next To Me: “Her spray tan.”

OH, SNAP!

Me, to Chick Next To Me: “Awesome.”

I will go on record right now to say that not high-fiving her for that remark is now in the Top Ten Biggest Regrets Of My Life; that was totally deserving of an Up High.

Dear Chick Next To Me At The Bar,

Even though I know nothing about you, that comment confirmed that you and I are kindred spirits. Let’s be friends and braid each others’ hair while we drink wine out of my favorite collectible Dr. Pepper Fonzie glasses and gripe about stupid people. You are awesome.

Love,

Gin