Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Tales from the Beach | A Mostly True Story, Volume 4

The Only Sober Girl in the Bar
I'm not trying to act superior by saying that I was the only sober girl at the bar, and I'm not implying that my friends were tanked--they weren't at all. But by day three of living off of a steady supply of beer, I built up a resistance and just couldn't catch a good buzz. Also, three nights of straining my voice to talk over the house band left me voiceless. I didn't see the point in pounding back shots of tequila to get *crunk* (as the kids say), and chugging beer with no promise of a buzz seemed like a waste of calories. So, unable to get tipsy or carry on a conversation, I elected to observe and report. Below you will read an itemized list of my findings:

  • I don't think you have to get drunk to have a good time, but I do think you should get drunk to use the public restroom at a bar. Through the clear eyes of a sober woman, there is nothing scarier than a public restroom that is used exclusively by drunks. Every surface is inexplicably wet. The counters, the floor, the toilet seats, everything is wet. Is it sink water? Toilet water? Did employees hose the place down after somebody puked on the floor? It's crowded, and clumsy girls are bumping their heads on sharp corners. Other drunk girls are sharing their lit cigarettes with strangers and almost burning themselves and each other. There is a major toilet paper shortage. I want to leave this place, and immediately take a Hazmat shower and dispose of everything I'm wearing. I propose a special, separate restroom for teetotalers and designated drivers. You would have to pass a breathalyzer to gain entry, but it would be clean, dry, and well-stocked. Somebody get to work and make this happen please.
  • Drunk people pontificate. I patiently listened for five entire minutes as a man explained to me that Zooey Deschanel is the greatest actress of our generation. "If she is performing with highly capable actors, the result is magical, and if she is working with less talented or inexperienced actors, they rise to meet her. She makes them better." I love me some Zooey Deschanel, don't get me wrong, I just haven't spent this much time thinking about her impact and place in cinematic history. Oh, and the Zooey Deschanel devotee? He's in the Air Force. What did I tell you? My friends are always approached by members of the armed forces. They claim we seemed "non threatening". That's a flattering characterization if I've ever heard one. Accurate, too.

Beana: Who is Zooey Deschanel?
Me: She was in 500 Days of Summer.
Beana: What?
Mama: She was in Elf.
Beana: I don't remember anyone in that movie.
Me: Did you see Failure to Launch?
Beana: Yes! I saw that!
Me: She was Sarah Jessica Parker's roommate.
Beana: Ohhh. I like her.
  • I'm seated at a table with The Gypsy, who has struck up a conversation with two members of the Canadian military. The men act like they're engaging both The Gypsy and me in conversation, but I can't talk on account of I lost my voice. I wonder how long it takes them to realize I'm not participating in this conversation. Ten minutes later...
Canada Steve: That's quite an accent you have. I like the way you talk.
The Gypsy: I speak with perfect diction, and if you say otherwise, I'll slit your throat.
Canada Steve: Oh, I wouldn't dream of it. You're quite a pistol.
The Gypsy: It's too bad this one over here can't talk [points at me]. She lost her voice, which sucks, because she's got all the funny stories. My banter would be more witty if she could talk.
Canada Steve: Oh, is that what's going on? Because she hasn't said a word, but her eyes are screaming.
  • Drunk people injure themselves. I passed one girl on the way to the bathroom. She was sitting on a bar stool, surrounded by the bar's security team, crying harder than Shelby in Truvy's salon, as her foot gushes so much blood that a legit puddle forms beneath her bare foot. 
  • I've decided that Alanis Morissette's "You Oughta Know" is the white woman's "Free Bird". When this song plays, every woman stops her conversation and begins an impassioned sing-along, like "this is my jam!" The guys watching them are sort of into it, but sort of scared at the same time. This is, after all, a very aggressive man-hating song. My favorite thing about this phenomenon is that there is always one girl who is singing along with her friends, but she doesn't actually know the words to the song, so she nervously mumbles jibberish like, "buh da love that ya gay dat we may wasn't ayyy ayyy ta may you up bup every tie you bee ber bay dun dee dun dun doe ray mee. WELL YOU'RE STILL ALIVE, AND I'M HERE!"
  • The same band played both nights we were at AJs. They were a group of capable musicians with an extensive and varied repertoire. The problem was, they played all their songs at the same time. I blame Glee: on Glee, they are constantly yammering about how innovative and cool it is to "mash up" two seemingly different songs, like "I'm Walking on Sunshine" and "Halo" and put them into a single performance. So the house band performed mash ups--of every song they played. Just as Beana and I would start jamming along to the first verse of "Fat Bottom Girls", the band flips the script and begins singing Radiohead's "Creep". It was very off-putting. 
  • We didn't fare much better at Rum Runners. Is that place a piano bar all the time? I must have been half in the bag every other time I visited this place, because the piano came as a surprise. There was a bachelorette party going on (there is always a bachelorette party going on), and these girls were dancing on the front row and trying to get on stage like they thought they were at a Poison Justin Bieber concert. Drunk white chicks love piano bars, who knew?! I don't know if they ever play "You Oughta Know" at the piano bar, but I bet it incites riots. 
  • The bouncer at Rum Runners was absurdly gruff with Cara and me. Also, he looked like Rob Riggle, the cop from The Hangover.
Bouncer: [stern and glaring] Show me your ID!
Cara: [uncharacteristically perky] Sure!

Bouncer spends an inordinate amount of time scrutinizing Cara's ID. 

Bouncer: [irritated] Do you know that your license is expired?
Cara: [shocked] What? No! I had no idea. Wow, idea. Thank you so much for bringing it to my attention. [perks up again and bats her eyelashes] It's my birthday!

"It's my birthday!?" Does she think this is going to win over the bouncer? Because it isn't. She has the youthful enthusiasm of a four-year-old hoping to score a free balloon at Chuck E. Cheese. This is so out-of-character for Cara. I'm standing behind her so she can't see me laughing.

Bouncer: Today is not your birthday. Your birthday was four days ago.
Cara: [crestfallen] Well...we're here to celebrate my birthday.
Bouncer: Here [gives back her ID, disgusted] Just go.

I step up and present my ID. The increasingly annoyed bouncer gives me a dirty look and snatches the ID from my hand. I decide to act like a cold-as-ice, bad-ass bitch. Show no fear! I'm not going to let him know that I think he is comically angry.

Bouncer: Well what the hell happened here? [He's referring to the bottom corner of my ID, which features prominent teeth marks.]
Me: [bored] Puppy.
Bouncer: [Suspiciously, while still carefully examining my ID] What kind of puppy?
Me: A Pembroke Welsh Corgi.
Bouncer: Glances up with one eyebrow raised] A what?
Me: A Pembroke Welsh F^#&ing Expensive Useless Corgi. [because the quickest way to earn street cred is with needless profanity and puppy mockery]
Bouncer: Mmm hmm [hands back ID]. Enjoy your evening.
Me: [casually] Thanks, I will.

Ok, gang--that's it for the Girls' Beach Trip 2011 Recap. I managed to stretch a three-night vacation into five blog posts. I even surprised myself at how much I could remember from the trip, three weeks after returning home. I'm glad I was able to document our experiences and that the memories aren't lost forever at the bottom of a shot glass. Thanks for reading! 

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