Andare, Partire, Tornare


A Crazy Saturday. By Genibee. In Italics.

My ass hurts. No, wait - there's a good and non-oogy reason for it. It hurts because persia2 and sherrydarlin went out and shook our rumps to the funk Saturday night. And it couldn't have happened at a better time, because Saturday well and truly blew chunks in many different ways, and I needed the stress relief of mindlessly dancing like a fool in front of odd dot-com execs at ECity Cafe.

Saturday dawned bright and early when Bemo's alarm rang at five-twenty, and I had to drag my carcass out of bed to drop him off at work. I get truly bitchy when I feel I haven't been permitted the sleep I expected to get, and since despite Bemo's enthusiastic affirmations that he had, indeed, told me I needed to drop him off at work at the butt-crack of dawn, I remember no such thing. So we got into an argument, rode the whole way to the radio station in silent anger, and I ended up driving back home, crashing for another two and a half hours, and awoke in a much better frame of mood to go to my own Saturday job.

Where I was met with absolute chaos. We were frenetically overbooked at work, with every dog that had been rolling in the mud of his backyard coming in to be bathed or groomed. We were frantically busy for the eight hours I was there, and only towards the tail (you should excuse the dog pun there) end of my shift did it start to become managable. I had to deal with a cocker spaniel with a poop fetish, two pint-size chi-hooa-hooa dogs (as Bemo refers to them), a Newfoundland puppy, a lab covered from nose to tail in thick, chunky mud, and an angry cat that was in for a bath. And that doesn't even begin to scrape the bottom of the barrel. Since we're still trapped with one car, I headed to the radio station after my shift was up, to pick Bemo up. He was supposed to call me if he had gotten a ride home, but when I got to the station I discovered that the lobby door was locked so I couldn't get to the inhouse phone that I usually call the air studio on. So I headed to my mom's house, used her phone to call his cell (no answer), the house (no answer), the radio station (no answer) and, finally, Persia's house to tell her I was tracking down a lost husband and would be late for our Dance Party Rave Out that night (no answer there, either, but her answering machine is reliably checked, unlike all the other unproductive calls). I trekked home, and found my missing husband asleep, with the cat sitting on his chest and a pillow over his face. He had forgotten to call to let me know his mom was able to drop him home. Grrrr.

Anyway, I showered, put on my silver flairs, gold velvet top with the nice deep neckline, and black sandals. Made up my eyes to look smokey and mysterious (an effect that wore off as I was leaving the house, I'm sure), and headed to Persia's - who greeted me at the door with only a towel on. I panicked momentarily, but she quickly let me know that it wasn't what she was planning to wear to the club. Phew. I would have had to carry a club to keep the men away. We headed out to ECity, which is her usual hangout but was new to both me and Cherbear. It's a hotspot for the technogeek crowd, with an upscale (sushi bar, lots of men in suits looking at every female that walked past) but also slightly weird (advertisements on the wall, buisness cards being flashed on a jumbotron-style monitor, a combo of good looking guys with lots of really skeevy looking guys) vibe. Some people were in backless shirts, some were in conservative buisness wear. A black guy in his fifties boogied down with three twenty-something Asian chicks dressed in two spangles and a piece of cloth, plus a few glow-in-the-dark bracelets. Two Filipina lesibians danced the Electric Slide to "Booty Call." A woman in a floral skirt and eighties-corporate-wear blouse was rocking out by herself in a corner of the dance floor. And I was danced with by one truly fugly man and one touchy-feely not repulsive looking but definitely oogy man, who kept looking into my eyes in what he probably imagined was a seductive fashion. We all did not care. We were there to dance, and by god, we danced. We danced and had the most overpriced and the most watered-down drinks I had ever sampled, and then we went to Denny's and then went home and I woke up and all the muscles in my body screamed, "Bitch! Warn us when you plan to do that next time!"

Oh, and in the running for Worst Timing Ever, as we left, three hot German guys in town on a layover were just going into the club. Persia and I dared Cherbear, who lived in Germany and speaks the language, into going over there and chatting with them in their mother tounge. Their three little German faces lit up, and they chatted, and Persia and I were getting excited because there was one for each of us and Cher had gotten us in good with them and they were so cute and blonde and polite and then the valet pulled up with Persia's car and we had to leave them there, standing by themselves at the entrance of the club. Arrrrgh! Five more minutes and they would have shown up on the dance floor and we could have danced wildly and funkily and provocatively with them! Did I mention how cute they were? Wait, allow me to stop and tear my hair out in Hot German Frustration.

And that was my Saturday.

I think Sunday deserves an entry of its own, as it was memorable as well but in a much more sedate fashion. I will write about my barred owl, brother-in-law heart attack, mexican food Sunday tomorrow.

Hopefully, by then, I'll be able to stand up without making Squinchy Face and repressing a groan.

8:35 p.m. - 2003-03-09


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