I'm a terrible blogger, as it turns out. Great apologies. That are fairly insincere, as I am in grad school and have piles of homework as my excuse.
This past weekend, my lovely roommate and I went to celebrate her last day at a horrible job. We had a fabulous dinner of pizza and wine, and then we went to hear some "rockabilly" (which turns out is music previously sung by Buddy Holly and Elvis) at a local bar. We were pretty excited, cause Lauren and I both love live music. But we are girls that tend toward hipster styles, and apparently people who frequent rockabilly concerts are prone to dress more like punk 1950s teenagers. I say this because it means we stuck out like sore thumbs.
However, we were having a great time. Lauren's friend, Hope, had also joined us, so we were gabbing about boys as if we were 16 and having a slumber party. The only difference was that we basically had to scream all this, and we were drinking chocolate martinis and whiskey instead of whatever 16 year old girls drink at slumber parties. It was a great night, and we were very proud of our celebration.
And then I went to the bathroom.
I should preface this by saying that it seems whenever I go to the bathroom, I come back to something strange. I don't know how it happens. Once I went to the bathroom and came back to find my friends partying with Steve Winwood's saxophone player. No joke.
This time I walked back to find my friends surrounded by 3 guys. Two of which looked fairly normal. The third had some intense foo man choo. Luckily (or just mildly fine), I then started talking to a normal person, who bought me a drink and let me tell him I wasn't interested without getting pissed and throwing things. But when I realized my friends were looking less than amused, I told my new friend I had to leave. As I tried to gather my things, the boy sporting the 'stache (Billy Bob) started grabbing at my earrings.
Remember how I said Lauren and I lean toward the hipster? Well, my earrings were feathers.
"Are these REAL?" He yelled, clearly past drunk and into belligerent. "Oh, man, did you make them?"
"No. I think I got them at Target."
"You totally made them! You should tell people that, at least."
"Please stop tugging at my earring."
"You can tell them you killed a seagull. You grabbed it, wrung it's neck, and plucked the feathers for your earrings."
"That's disgusting."
"NO! It's so cool! I mean, seagulls are like the pests of the world."
"Actually, that's pigeons. And you mean of the bird world. Cause the world as a whole isn't terribly concerned about pigeons. Or seagulls."
Billy Bob would not let it go. He kept trying to grab my earrings, screaming about how I'd killed a seagull. At one point, he then decided I should tell people it was a bald eagle.
We left so fast, I forgot to close out my tab. Going back was possibly the hardest thing I've had to do. Luckily Billy Bob was being questioned by the cops about a block down from the bar when we pulled up.
