Lessons of the City--Just a Typical Saturday

Saturday was one of those epic weekend days where you leave your home seemingly for brunch with the Oberlin girls, but you don't return to your home until well past 3:00 am. As is the case with many days where you spend 16 hours away from home base, the city teaches you a number of lessons, and with each one your friends remind you of your duty to blog about them. Here, in popular numbered list format, they are:

1.) Sign of the Whale no longer offers its famous bloody mary brunch.

For the unindocrinated among you, SOTW's bloody mary brunch was, in it's time, one of Washington's best excuses to be drunk on a Saturday afternoon. For 12 dollars you received an unlimited quantity of cheap vodka, with which you could make an unlimited number of bloody marys. The window sill of the bar would be lined up with an abundance of tomato-based liquids, millions of hot sauces, dozens of steak sauces, and a myriad of flora with which to garnish your creation. Having recently heard that the establishment is due to go out of business, we decided to have one last hurrah. But it was not to be. B, who called the bar upon realizing that the doors were locked was informed by the voice on the other end that they will be reintroducing the special in the fall for NFL season. Apparently, somebody didn't get the memo that they're closing.

A decent substitute can be found several doors down however, at the

2.) Mad Hatter's $16.95 breakfast buffet with unlimited mimosas. So you can't make your own bloody, in fact, they're barely even included in the special (they cost 3 dollars) but, you may feel free to get as tipsy as you'd like off of mimosas, and cram as many waffles, plates of eggs, piles of grits, and mountains of scalloped potatoes (highly, highly recommended) down your throats as you wish. The ladies among you can also feel free to flirt with the waiter, who will flatter you by asking you if you're in school or "just graduating." He's 21, in case you're interested.

It seems illogical, but sometimes the best thing to do after eating a ridiculous amount of fat and starch is to go shopping at

3.) The fancy French underwear store in Gallery Place/Metro Center.

I have been promising L a blog entry about this place for quite some time, based on her experiences there, but never having been in the store myself, I didn't want to pose as any sort of authority. But yesterday, to my mimosa addled mind, a measly 10 percent off sale seemed the perfect excuse to drop all sorts of cash on frilly, sexy unmentionables. So that I did. I will not get in to exactly how much I spent, but let it serve to further explain why I don't own a car or a condo--because my spending habits are not always as practical as they could be. However, I am now the proud owner of some incredibly kicking underduds (as Lulu calls them)--sheer pink with white lace and all sorts of ribbons. The next man I date will be a lucky one indeed.

I didn't have much of a problem with the sales women there. I swallowed my pride and bought the size larges, without even bothering to ask the size 2 French lady behind the counter if they'd fit. L on the other hand, did not have such a pleasant experience. It seems that several months ago, she entered into something of an abusive relationship with the owners of the store, who possessing boring rail thin bodies, don't quite know what to do with L's rockin' curves. But L gave them her money, and she continued to do so yesterday even after a traumatizing run-in with la Frenchie in the dressing room. It's not my story to tell so I won't get into the details, but let this serve as a warning. If you're one of those women who likes to eat food, even in modest quantities, and you have a body that betrays this dirty secret, proceed to the fancy French underwear store at your own risk.

What's the next logical move after spicy up your lingerie drawer? Why, I trip to the

4.) Tattoo parlor!

Did you know you may be required to wait two hours for a tattoo? It's true. If you go to get inked, I suggest you bring a friend. Or four. And while you are there, as a gesture of solidarity to your friend who is getting inked, why not get your nose pierced? If you do, you may have the pleasure of talking to Brian, who has more metal in his face than anyone I have ever seen. It seemed impolite to stare long enough to count all the bling, but a rough estimate brings it to 15. On his FACE. Never mind what was lurking beneath his clothes.

If you have the patience to wait the two hours for a tat, you may be subjected to the gun of the meanest, most bitter tattoo artist ever. Bitch practically yelled at my friend, who did her best not to squirm as she was subjected to the sensation akin to being stung by a bee repeatedly for 15 minutes. Never having seen a tattoo in process, I do admit that the whole thing was a kind of fascinating.

By this point in the day, it will be 9:30 pm. Although you intended to go home and change into something slightly interesting for the evening's party, you realize you don't have time, and its so hot out it barely matters what you're wearing because you'll look like ass eventually anyway, with all the sweat running down your face. But having recently had the "I don't give a shit anymore" epiphany, you really don't care. Your friends will be with you and if strangers aren't impressed by your jeans/black tee shirt combo, well...fuck 'em. The party will be fun, but nothing major to speak of. Until you learn the...

5.) 1:00 am rule. Why nobody clued me into this years ago is a mystery to me. Knowing it would have saved me much pain and suffering over the years. Anyway, it's like this. Do NOT entertain the flirtations of anyone at a party who does not speak to you before 1:00 am. Exceptions can be made for people who don't roll in to the party until 1:00 am, but that is it. But the guy who elbowed you out of the way of the keg at 11:00 pm, or the one who walked away from you to chat up the hot Asian chick? Yeah, he does not deserve your attention when, at 1:00 am, he slithers up to you and asks for a smoke even though he doesn't. Move along, little man, move along...

I know I should end this post with a conclusion, but I don't got one. More later, bebes.