Girls' Night Out.
A bit hackneyed, thanks to Carrie B. and her pals.
A tad ubiquitous, thanks to those oft-photographed Hollywood posses of starlets and actresses and sycophants.
Completely riotous, thanks to the Goose of Grey, some tonic water and my capacity to attract interesting characters.
Went out last Friday night for what looks to become a regular monthly Girls Night Out gig with my best galpal and her "gay husband." Their mutual term. I also have a gay husband (actually, I have a couple, but only one is local.) However, he had a date with a dishy chiropractor, so he ditched us. C'est la vie.
My galpal and I planned our outfits meticulously -- I don't think I took this much care getting ready for New Year's Eve formal night on the cruise. Our hair was wild and fabulous; our makeup precise and fabulous; our breasts highlighted and yes, fabulous. We. Were. Smokin'.
Plan was to sup first at a restaurant that didn't feature crayons on the table and a kids' menu and then hit a gay bar for some dancing and fun. Dinner was nice and grownup -- fantastic chicken curry salad and adult conversation sitting outside on a patio watching the world go by. (For the record, that was my one "real meal" of the week -- still adhering to Living with NutriSystem, dammit.)
And then we hit the bar. Not the first time we'd hung out there -- it's actually a great place for us married gals out for a night. Great music, strong drinks, non-threatening cute gay boys to flirt with -- what more could a self-proclaimed hag ask for. Oh -- and there's also the go-go boys. The male dancers who alternately put on a show and mix, mingle and collect dollar bills. Rumour has it that a good number of said go-go boys are straight. But you didn't hear that from me.
On our past outings to this place, I'd encountered a whole array of interesting people: a self-taught non-dishy chiropractor who insisted on giving us an alignment right then and there just off the dance floor; one of Will's former doctors, who didn't recognize me and whom it took me a while to place; a gay fellow who instantly fell in love with my ample bosom and invited me to a naked pool party; some guy who walked up to me and asked me, as casually as a smoker asks another if he has a light, if I had any "rubbers."
And then there was the go-go boy who performed his special Halloween act, complete with candles and dripping wax.
I'm still not over that one. Can you say hot? I can.
This trip was no less eventful, I'm proud to say. My galpal ended up on the stage at the top of the dance floor with the go-go boy du jour, who was wearing what amounted to nothing more than two bandanas held together, front and back, with a couple of safety pins. I, on the other hand, made friends with a very drunk fellow named Russell who was there with his "boring ass" straight brother (his words, not mine) and insisted on laying his head on my arm and kissing me with pursed lips because that's how he kisses his sister. He left early, which was too bad, because I was in the mood to "social smoke" (yes, I know it's a terrible, awful habit, but...) and he was toting around his pack of ciggies, one of which I would have bummed off of him. Actually, maybe that's not such a bad thing in hindsight.
Oh, and then there was Tracy the Lesbian who was sorely disappointed to learn I was a very straight girl and tried to convince me to enter the Hottest Girl in the Bar contest with her, saying that she'd do all the work and all I'd have to do was stand there while she ground/grinded (I know that's not a word, but it's necessary for descriptive purposes) against me.
In other words, much fun was had by all.
It's a good place for a night out, this gay bar of ours. I feel very liberated when I'm there -- I'm not a wife or mother or sister or daughter or responsible community member or choir director or anything other than plain me. It's indescribable how wondrous and affirming that is.
There was a time when I could party like the rock star that I am and bounce back the next day with little to no difficulty. However, that is no longer the case, and I paid for my excess all day Saturday. Including getting back on the NutriSystem, which was not an effective booze-soaker-upper/hangover-helper, I'm sad to say. What I would have given for either a Little Asher (hash browns, scrambled eggs and cheese with a big old biscuit) from Gainesville's beloved, long-gone Skeeter's or a Primo beef burrito/double wrapped/extra sour cream with a side of chips and a Coke from Gainesville's beloved, still-kicking-ass Burrito Brothers. Funny how I reverted back to craving my most near and dear hangover food -- that of my college years.
And note the detail with which I describe each item -- it's food porn, baby. Mmmm. Mmmmmm. Mmmmmmmm.
Was it good for you? Let's see if we can bum a ciggy off of Russell...
So here's to Girls' Night Out, in whatever incarnation it takes. I'm just thankful that I'm not important enough to have paparazzi capture mine on film. The local paper is interesting enough as it is.