I let myself down tonight, just a little.
Out with Mecca, her pals Jo, Chef, and Big Daddy. Usually a night with Mecca alone has me waking up the next day- checking to see what state I'm in and where my pants went.
The faint taste of squirrel lingers in my mouth and I hope my virginity hasn't been somehow lost in the evening's debauchery.
Where do my pants go? Damn pants.
Tonight, well...not so much.
Debauchery, I mean.
Hymen? Check. Bra? Check. Unders? Dirrrty, but...check (another story, another day, my little birds). Dignity? Check.
Tonight, I was RESPONSIBLE and drove home 12:15-ish. Pretty darn sober.
I hate responsible.
Fuck you, responsible.
We started out at a new wine bar/wine shop on Washington Ave. called "Spill the Wine".
Nothing too exciting. Cheap wine, though. $15 pretty good bottles.
Atmosphere? O.k. Not bad, just o.k. Good people watching, but a little more "mature" crowd, if ya' know what I mean. Not exactly "Golden Girls", but not really "Girls gone Wild", either.
Then, Grumpy's for beers & bar food.
Mmmm...quesadilla. I love your pedestrian cheesy goodness. I would rub you all over my face and chest if these judgey judgmental-types weren't looking.
They just don't get it. They never will.
Shhh...I know, you love me too, Mr. Quesadilla. Our love is a precious and secret thing that we shall never speak of in public again...(muffled sloppy kisses).
Big Daddy had some porn on his phone that we watched while we ate & drank.
Yup, porn on his phone. A 20-minute "movie." Gigantic donger. Tiny girl. 'Nuff said.
Kudos to you, Big Daddy.
And thanks for supplying the entertainment.
After getting completely SOAKED in a freak downpour on the walk there, we then went to Cue for, well...more drinkies. We looked ridiculous- dripping wet and loopy. I had bright pink lipstick kisses from Mecca on the shoulder of my now-transparent white shirt.
I love being ridiculous and out-of-place. Always. Especially in chi-chi bars.
Somehow, magically, we were treated to a super-secret-v.i.p.-who-did-we-blow-to-get-this tour of the new Guthrie.
It's great knowing people.
Who know people.
Thanks, Jo. Your chutzpah is to be admired and stalked. Just a little.
We went on the roof. WAY up on the roof. A-fucking-mazing. Quite possibly one of the finest, but completely unavailable, panoramic views of Minneapolis in the city. We REALLY weren't supposed to be up there, I think. Our reluctant tour guide seemed to be sweating a bit that one of my drunken cohorts was going to decide that they could fly- "ABC after school special on LSD" style.
No, mostly we grabbed boobies and took pictures.
Sweet, delicious boobies.
Pictures are coming, I promise.
We all agreed that making of the love needed to take place up there, preferably during the fireworks on the fourth. Or during Sunday brunch. Or Friday dinner. Whatever.
We also toured backstage and in the "2.5 million gets you in the door" really V.I.P. room.
This room was designed for watching the fireworks on the fourth.
2.5 million. Just to get in the door.
Again we decided that someone had to have some serious nookie on the couch in there as well- the view is way too good to waste. Pristine, unobstructed views of the Mississippi.
This room was way too clean though. It needed some, you know...messes.
Of the making of the love variety.
On the couch.
Bow Bow Chicka Chicka Bow...
But, alas, no REAL debauchery tonight. No one naked, no one making out, no one stealing things.
Not so much as a nipple.
So Mecca says to me tonight, "I can tell by your blog that you're not going out. You're writing about staying home, cleaning the garage...yup, I can tell. You need to go out more."
And, amen, sister.
Girl Scout honor- I promise to be the same questionably moral and alcoholically-empowered girl y'all know and love.
I am not boring.
I will wear inappropriate unders and accost total strangers.
I will order more wine than I can, or should, drink.
I will grab my girl's boobies as much as they want.
I will pose for possibly/probably incriminating photos.
I will decide that onion rings DO make a perfectly normal dinner choice.
I will call my husband at 2:30 a.m. and make just enough sense to tell him I'm taking a cab home, maybe. Unless I crash at Mecca's.
I will stay out way too late, doing nothing of any consequence.
I will never use the word consequence again, if I can help it.
I will not be what my age expects of me.
This much, I promise.
Though, truth be told, I never was much of a Girl Scout...