On Friday, Esteban began to search in earnest for a replacement for the Monte. He really loves the thrill of the chase, in such a way that it scares me. As I mentioned in the previous entry, he is more concerned with a good deal than what I really really love. Thus, I began my own Internet search.
And that’s when I found it.
The perfect Lincoln LS. Silver as a bright new quarter and just as pretty. Relatively new, relatively low miles, and I swear that when I looked at the picture on the Internet, I heard the song of angels. This was it. This was my precious.
It was about 10K more than Esteban wanted to pay, but I didn’t care. Without thinking, I called my bank and secured a blank check for the future purchase of a used car, good up to 30K. Or, she added, more if I needed it.
I am a very bad girl. With a good credit rating, apparently.
I called the dealer, which was the same large conglomerate dealer we usually work with in the Fox Valley. I spoke with a very young sounding salesman. I had to work until 5 and Esteban had his Dorkathalon starting at 7, thus we wouldn’t be able to look at the thing until Saturday at the earliest. Then I had an idea’ we were going to shop on Saturday that way anyway’ what if I drove down and got the car for the evening and then brought it back the next morning? This is a fairly normal thing around here for serious buyers. He waffled and said that their insurance doesn’t allow them to do such things. Which is complete and utter bullshit, as the last time I test drove an identical car, the salesman for the same chain was practically thrusting the keys into my greedy little palm. I didn’t feel like arguing with him, so I just said fine, I’d see him on Saturday.
During this conversation, Esteban called and said that there was a 2002 Grand Prix ready for me to drive over night at the dealership next to my office. Just go and pick up the keys, they were expecting me. Fine. I got the car and the salesman encouraged me to take it overnight, although I already knew that I didn’t like the thing. It was whack. My CD sounded like it was being played over a FisherPrice radio. Poor Beyonce. She just doesn’t deserve such torment. Esteban and I went out to dinner at a local ancient lunch counter (famous for burgers absolutely dripping with melted butter) where I had mashed potatoes (something about their mashed potatoes’ they are the absolute best things ever) and fried perch fillets (bye bye Operation Hottie). Then Esteban left for his Dorkathalon and the soulless rental car and I limped our way back home. There, I imbued myself with The Hotness because it was another Bad Bar night.
Yeah. You know you love it.
I chose a pair of dirty-washed boot cut jeans and a white pin-striped button down fitted shirt, unbuttoned far more than was prudent. I paired this with silver or white gold jewelry, including a silver necklace that contained just a silver stick thing hanging down, basically making an arrow to my cleavage. Seriously, Hotness thy name is Weetabix.
Penny and Carissa pulled up and hooted at me as I got in the car. We got to the Bad Bar by 8:30 and were dismayed to find that it was completely packed. We were lucky to get one of the auxiliary tables away from the bar. We then watched and later squeezed in by the Twister board, where on a previous night, bad touching had taken place. And then made friends with the Baby Boomer’s to our left.
Almost immediately, I was accosted by a very drunk middle-aged man from Michigan, in town for the Packer/Lions game. His name was Dave and his breath might have been capable of ignition. He introduced us to his friends, also from Michigan, Charlie, Wayne and someone else (Garth?). Wayne kept putting his hands on my waist and hips, then Charlie started hitting on me too. When Dancing Queen came on, I couldn’t argue with Penny and Carissa when they pulled me up to dance on the windowsill. Complete with choreography, which entranced our Boomer suitors. Then Eric and Scotty Boom Boom showed up and I suspect that Charlie & Co realized that they never had a chance with us. And I suspect that I frightened them when I introduced Eric as our pimp.
Penny mentioned that every guy in the place was mesmerized by my cleavage, and I do have to admit that the girls were in fine form that night. I had realized while getting dressed that the D bras I had recently downgraded to were fitting on top but there was an escape issue below. There was this whole Demilitarized Zone where the bra wasn’t doing its job. Thus, I went back to my little lonely pile of forgotten DD’s and was much happier for it. It felt as though a missing piece of the puzzle had been snapped into place. The DD’s might just be my secret strength. I don’t know. It’s a mystery.
Oh, and then Carissa flashed her breasts at the sticker picture maker machine. She’s proud of them, as she should be, as they are a very fine pair. Thus, she had sixteen little postage stamps of her chest. The rule at the Bad Bar is that if you show the bartenders your boobs, you get a free drink, thus, she had sixteen free drinks at her disposal. The Bald Bartender, of course, was happy to oblige. He had started comping me free drinks as well (the secret is that I should just never order drinks from the girl bartenders’ the boys like me more). At one point, Bald Bartender was pouring someone else’s drinks and I teased him about his retro costume for the evening ‘I wish I could wear my shirt open to my belly button and be just like Dave.’ And he replied something that I still can’t quite figure out but I think he said something about my big cans. I don’t know. Then he gave me a bottle of Boone’s. Comped, natch. Which prompted Penny to hit me because he loves me best.
And then I looked over and Carissa was making out with Eric.
Yeah, I don’t know what was going on there either.
I hadn’t quite gotten over my astonishment when she spun her bar stool and then gave Scotty Boom Boom (whose new nickname is getting to be Scotty Too Hottie) a long languid spit-swapping smooch. And then had this look on her face as though she’d just gotten the wind knocked out of her by the kisses from the boys on either side of her. And then some girls kissed. Each other.
It’s a bad bar, people. A very bad bar.
My lips remained untouched however, in case anyone is keeping track. Although it wasn’t that hard for me to resist. I’m friends with Scott and Eric, therefore I wouldn’t kiss them because it would be weird. And just because I showed Penny and Carissa my breasts a few days ago, doesn’t mean I’m easy. I think I’m saving my Girl Kiss cherry for just the right girl.
In all of the excitement, Scotty fled. I still don’t know where he went. He never said good bye, he was just gone. I think he just didn’t want his face on the next Girls Gone Wild video.
Then the four of us went to Taco Bell, Penny and I in Carissa’s car (she wasn’t fit to drive) and Eric and Cari in his car. Penny and I simply stared at each other for several minutes, unable to come up with the word ‘Quesadilla’. The best I could come up with was ‘soft and cheesy and makes me happy’. Then we ordered and explained to the Taco Bell drive through guys that we loved him. And he loved our tunes. And also was impressed with our hotness. Ok, he didn’t tell us that, but it was implied. Because how could he not?
Then we went to Penny’s house and ate our chili cheese burritos and most delicious Nachos and Cheese (is there a more perfect food than crunch Nachos and fake shiny plasticy cheese when you have been dancing and sweating all night? I think not.) And then Cari stayed at Penny’s and Eric drove me home, where Esteban was asleep and when I crawled beneath the covers smelling like second hand smoke and hot sauce, he murmured ‘Beautiful girl!’ and pulled me closer.
So it was a good night, all told. A very good night.
