We went out to the Bad Bar on Friday night (and true to form, Ron sent me an email while I was there. It’s bizarre’ we only go to the Bar once every four to six weeks, but without fail, the only emails I ever get from Ron are while I am at the Bar, usually prompting a drunken reply. I’m sure he thinks I’m a lush). Carissa and Penny were planning for some serious hotness, which sent me into a tizzy, as I had nothing planned. I mean, I’ve done the Punk Girl, the Sexy Executive, and the Mall Girl With Too Much Credit. I’ve worn The Boots with fishnet stockings and a skirt cut up to there. I’ve even tried the slacker look but ended up looking like a lesbian. I’m in danger of repeating myself.
I had to work until 5 pm and then I was planning to pick up Carissa at 6 (I offered to be the designated driver this time) for dinner. When I walked into my house, the plan was to wash my face, reapply makeup, spritz the hair, and then go out in the business attire from that morning (French cuffed button down shirt, black flat fronts, and Doc Martins), but then I decided that it simply would not do! I had a reputation to uphold as the Hottest Chick in the Bar!
What followed was a furious flurry of flying clothes, swapped undergarments and curling iron nunchucks. In fifteen minutes, I transformed myself from a reasonable business chica to some kind of overwrought sex kitten. I maintained my black flat front pants, but swapped the Docs for one of my new black heels (thank you Nordstrom!). I ditched the white French cuff button down for a black velvet camisole, the top of which was adorned with black maribou (thank you clearance rack at Torrid!). Then I topped it with a retro 1940s-esque cream-colored cardigan sweater. Because the camisole exposed veritable MILES of skin, I completed the look with a black bow choker (thanks again Torrid Girls!) and hair curled in a manner the befitted the weird pinup girl look I was going for.
I dub this outfit Feather Boob Girl.
It worked. I was damned hot. Penny couldn’t stop touching my bosoms, which gave every man in the vicinity stroke material for months to come. Two old men hit on me from across the bar and then when I passed them in my quest for potty, they actually accosted me and very possibly broke the laws of several states. But I was not a drunken giggly girl, even though I was dressed like one, therefore did not really give them acquiescence they were probably expecting. Also, apparently, I was being cranky. Carissa called me out on my impatience and then Eric later commented that I tolerate the inconveniences of the Bad Bar (people bumping into you, elbowing your back, spilling beer on your jackets, etc) much more readily while I’m intoxicated. And then I felt a little bad, because I am, in general, a very impatient person, and what is more, given my family history dealing with alcoholics, being sober around a bunch of people who are drinking tends to trigger an involuntary irritation that I have a hard time suppressing. I shouldn’t inflict that on the very people with whom I love to spend time. But they seem to forgive me and love me anyway. And my impatience did give birth to our very favorite sound byte ‘It’s Elvis, you fuckers’.
In other news, a person who will not be named was receiving a backrub from a guy whose license said that he was 27, but in reality, looked to be about 40, and then suddenly I overheard her saying to the young old guy that she gives very good hummers but nothing in comparison to her friend Weetabix who is Ms. Oral Gratification. And then the guy looked at me with eyebrows perked and then beheld the magic that was my mariboobs. What can you say in a situation like that? Emily Post should really extend her scope in the etiquette genre.
The title keeps cracking me up, though. Ms. Oral Gratification. Like there is a pageant or something, with sashes and crowns, with prizes of scholarships and pearl necklaces. Or a competition like the Iron Man on ESPN, with meters measuring saliva and perhaps torque. It blows the mind.
Bad choice of words.
Despite the below zero temperatures, I managed to escape unscathed from showing so much skin. I thought for sure that I’d get a chest cold which, with a chest like mine, might have killed me.
