On Saturday I was looking through photos because I was afraid. I have this way of starting to take photos after a few cocktails. What I discovered were these taken last weekend after the World Cup viewing.
Grasshopper and I met up with one of her friends because they wanted burgers. (Yes, Gloria. Once more I forgot to take photos of the fantastic burgers.) We then headed down the street for some gelato. I had chai and saffron -- mmmmmm. Then we headed up the hill to the Rose Garden. I haven't been up there since I was a kid. I must remember to head up there more often.
So fast forward to the weekend that just passed. I managed to not go out the entire week. Mistake. That meant by Friday I was feeling a bit out of control. Screw this pacing myself crap. I arrived before Grasshopper (I live closer) so I kind of butted my way into this conversation that these two guys next to me at the bar were having. Another mistake. The basic gist was that they were comparing reading computer code to reading poetry. I guess that tells you how desperate I was for conversation. Shortly after Grasshopper arrived, the cooler of the two guys left. That left us with Stalker Guy. He kept staring at me and following me around. When I went to the bathroom, Grasshopper said he almost had a nervous breakdown.
I'm getting ahead of myself though. When Grasshopper walked in, I suddenly realized who we were. I had chosen to wear a mock turtleneck with a fitted cardigan and skirt. Oh yeah, and the sandals with the three-inch heels. (I couldn't do the four-inch ones because I had a seven block walk each way.) Grasshopper came in wearing a kind of Berkeley earthy, bohemian look.
Yes, I got her permission to post this.
I turned to her and said, "I know who we are. We're Patsy and Edina." For years my friends have been trying to call me "Patsy" and I have tried to deny it. I have decided to stop denying it. Oh, and I took the quiz on the site as well. Apparently I am truly Patsy.
"Bolly darling? You are Patsy Stone. A sloshed Sixties relic. Your heart belongs to all night parties, free booze and perhaps something a little more illegal. You've lived a wild life and it has taken its toll. You have a tendency to be catty, jealous and rude to anyone who doesn't meet your standards of high fashion. Despite your shortcomings no-one could deny that you love your best friend. Cheers!"
Now the real fun is that I have never had an Eddy in my life. Plenty of other Patsys but never an Eddy. This could be fun. Or maybe I'll end up in a foreign prison.
With that settled, we then proclaimed to everyone around that we were the stars of our own TV show. "Coming to you live from Beckett's, it's The Dagny and Grasshopper Show." Trust me. It sounds much catchier with our real names. We had everyone saying it. Grasshopper was also quick to remind folks that because it was our show, we could have them thrown out if they irritated us.
So I, Patsy, continued to down cocktails while Eddy was busy working the room. By the end of the night she had at least two dates lined up.
She didn't remember that I took this photo as well on Friday but the guy did.
Saturday I rolled out of bed around 1 p.m. feeling quite refreshed. Well not quite. I was a wee bit dehydrated but half a bottle of white grape juice took care of that problem. I did think about heading out but it just wasn't going to be the same doing this alone. (Grasshopper had a date.) Oh, and USA was having an all Johnny Depp afternoon/evening. No brainer there.
I did manage to do some productive things, like vacuuming and laundry. The vacuuming happened first.
Natasha was kind enough to remind me about the laundry situation when she went to hide from the vacuum.
Because I kind of lied on the first quiz on Saturday. I did not describe the underwear I was wearing because I was down to the emergency ones. I think that's why I wasn't really trying to talk to any guys on Friday night either. It's hard to feel appealing when you know you're wearing the granny panties.
Sunday afternoon came and I had clean clothes and was feeling restless. That meant only one thing. I headed up to Telegraph to go to Zebra. (The principal with whom I'm working this summer recommended them.) You'll have to guess what I had done. Next I have to work up the nerve to get a tattoo. (No, I am so not having a midlife crisis. I've been thinking about doing this for years. I just never had the nerve to follow through.)
The piercing itself didn't really hurt. It was the after effects. Pain like that meant only one thing. I quickly headed to Beckett's. And of course I already knew that Grasshopper was on her way there as well. While waiting for her, I struck up a conversation with a very cute Czech boy. He left shortly after Grasshopper arrived. Then the man (No, he is not a boy. At least as far as we can tell.) from Friday night showed up.
They didn't know that I planned to post this one as well.
I started feeling like a third wheel. Besides it was way past dinnertime for B&N. Luckily we all decided to leave at the same time. They headed off in the opposite direction of me. I got one block away from the bar and realized that I had forgotten the bag containing the cleaning solution for my piercing though. So I headed back. And was greeted by one of the boys who had been sitting next to us at the bar -- Paramedic Boy. He said he realized that I had left the bag and was going to come looking for me. He also had peeked into the bag and wanted to know what I had pierced. So I showed him. About an hour of conversation ensued after that. He has my number and swears that he is going to call. We'll see about that.
The most important thing I learned this weekend is the first rule of the Dags and Grasshopper Show. "Never date a man who cannot dance." Grasshopper shared this theory with me the previous weekend. During the following week, I realized that every guy with whom I have gone out this year cannot dance. Now Stalker Guy definitely falls into this category. Watching him try to dance on Friday was one of the most painful experiences of my life. I had already decided that the guy creeped me out before the dancing though. Grasshopper's theory is that if a man has no rhythm on the dancefloor, then how can you expect him to have rhythm elsewhere? Also guys who dance? They probably ask you on real dates.
*sigh* Life is good when you have a partner in crime.