So. We didn't scope for any boys on frozen lakes this weekend, but we did venture out to three different bars on Washington Avenue in the hopes of feeling social-type Girls About Town. By the time we reached the third bar, the wind chill had dropped noticeably, from "Goddamn, it's more than a bit chilly out here" to a painful "Holy fuck; I do believe my face might crack in two if I don't get inside immediately or sooner." Apparently everyone else got the memo and smartly stayed home, because there were all of maybe eight people in that establishment when we walked in, and six of them were either with the band or working behind the bar. Incidentally, in case you are wondering, sharing the exact same birthday with the bartender who cards you does not earn you a free drink, even on the slowest and most chatty of nights. It'll earn you a smile and a bit of chit-chat about the celebrities also born on that same day (Dane Cook and Queen Latifah, in our case), but you will still have to shell out eight dollars for your Malbec. Lesson learned.
The rest of my weekend was fairly low-key... I ventured to Target yesterday, mainly just to make sure my car would still start, but other than that, I spent the day wanting nothing more than to curl up on the floor directly beside the heat register, not unlike the cat my little sister had years ago. (Sidenote: One benefit to running my Target errands in this weather is that it is cold enough to warrant wearing a hat! Guess what? I can go to Target with unwashed hair in a greasy ponytail if it is hidden under a smart, seasonably appropriate-looking hat! I didn't actually run into any former meMarmony matches on this particular Target outing, but I was ready for them, showered or not, even if I had! Whoo.) Finally, today, I went to an arty documentary with a boy I might be friends with but have decided not to date, and that about wraps up my weekend, I guess.
So, in short, I regret that I have nothing particularly exciting to report to those of you who like to live vicariously through my ever-exciting single-girl life. I will try to make it up to you eventually, though. I'm sure someday I'll experience some blog-worthy antics once again. Case in point: consider the following message, which I received from my good friend Michael on Friday:
Subject: Drunken Spelling Bee
I'll sponsor you and give you a ride home if you play.
It's time to redeem yourself after your failure as a child.
Sadly, pre-registration is full, so I actually can't sign up anymore. I do plan to show up early enough for a potential overflow/walk-on spot, though, and maybe if I'm lucky, I'll get a chance to make an ass of myself in front of a live, drunk audience. Let's all cross our fingers for that.
The "failure" he refers to, by the way, is my performance in my county's regional spelling bee in 1986. Oddly, I cannot tell you the winning word responsible for my victory in my grade school's local contest that year, but I do remember the word that ousted me (with only five pre-teens remaining on the stage) in the regional bee that followed. I went out on the word pejorative. (I know how to spell it now, even without Firefox's spell checker as a guide.)
Somehow I doubt the word pejorative will come up in the drunken spelling bee contest. In fact, the promotional information says the bee will feature "themed spelling rounds, including topics such as celebrity phraseology, alcoholic beverages, and naughty words."
I know how to spell "slippery nipple" and "dirty sanchez" (and plenty of other words I really shouldn't be typing on the Internet right now). Perhaps I'd best research how many Ts Paris Hilton includes in "That's hottt," though. I'd really hate to have Ms. Hilton be the fool who does me in. Don't you agree?