They get drunk off Natty Lite.
Well, there was none of that. In fact, we were having a good time at the clubs of Myrtle Beach. We braved the rain and headed out in search of alcoholic beverages and entertainment.[1] I even had a nice little umbrella Mary Poppins-style to keep us dry. At first Matt wasn't having any part of sharing my parasol, but ultimately relented as his smedium shirt was clinging a little more tightly when wet.
Eventually, the night found us at one of the clubs and we were having a good time. I had to us the restroom, so I got up and waited in line for the ladies room.
I went to wash my hands and when I was done, the bathroom attendant handed me a paper towel. WTF??? OK, let me back up here and explain why bathroom attendants annoy me. First off, I have been using the restroom by myself since the Reagan administration. Go potty, wash hands, check hair in mirror, and leave. Second, I didn't ask you to help me! If I wanted your help, I'd ask.[2] Then, you're expected to tip them a dollar, and if you don't, they glare every time you come back. I try to dodge these women every time I go in. If the end stall is unoccupied, I run to the end, do my business, and sprint out before she can hand me a paper towel. The problem is that she's always one step ahead. It's like she's trying to serve me with child support papers and I want no part of it.
The only consolation I get is that after dropping a dollar in her tip jar, I feel entitled to take as many pieces of gum, combs, lip gloss, tissues, and bottles of squirts of hand sanitizer as I can. I don't know how many squirts equal a dollar, but I'm trying my damnest to get my money's worth. They also have body spray and perfume. It's never the high-quality perfume, because the good stuff will get stolen almost immediately while the attendant is stalking the girl in stall four.
Side note: In 2007, Club Eden might have lost two bottles of Burberry, one bottle of Paris Hilton, and a few tester tubes of Chanel. They are also missing a red velvet rope, which may or may not have been hung in front of my bedroom door.[3]
Well, last night, I was washing my hands when a drunk, crying girl came in. If you're a Morman or non-drinker[4] and do not know what the quintessential drunk crying girl looks like, let me describe her. This woman, wobbling awkwardly in her heels and donning whatever shirt she got off the rack at Forever 21[5], stumbled in the bathroom, crying. Her makeup, which probably started off the night as "smokey eye," now resembled something more like, "dead hooker in back alley."
Her friend was following closely behind saying something to the like of, "Don't worry, you're too good for him, you can do better, he doesn't deserve you."[6]
Meanwhile, a guy somewhere was shaking his head because just when he thought he saw the rock bottom of this woman's craziness, he discovered there was a whole new underground garage.
Well, drunk girl was swaying and stumbling from side to side like she was running a zone defense on me. I couldn't get out of her way without tackling her, so I politely waited while her friend tried to corral her into he stall.
I guess at this moment, she decided she was stressed and was going to de-stress by smoking a cigarette. All of the sudden a cigarette materialized in her mouth and with her right hand, she lit the cigarette. This wasn't enough for this Malibu Multi-tasker. Oh no, she must have realized the reason she was alone was because she didn't smell good enough. With her right hand still trying to get a light, she used her left hand to grab a bottle of the crappy Wal-Mart brand body spray and start spraying. What ensued was a cumulus cloud of Designer Imposter violet eucalyptus hell.
 |
| Don't worry drunk girl. You'll find love some day. |
No fucking way was I going to die like this.
Seriously. No one in my high school class has died yet. I didn't want to be the first. How awkward would that be at the reunion? They'd have to have a little memorial flier about me or something. I can just see it now. Someone would set their wine glass on a little flier with my picture on it as they attempted to lamely hit on their rival's wife. One or two drunken idiots might slur something like, "She was kinda cute....why'd shhheeee have to die? How'd...it...happen?"
Then the story would be told. And I'd be mocked. I wouldn't even be there to defend myself. What would they put in the newspaper? On my headstone. No way, too many complications to die this way.
I deftly body checked her with one arm and held my breath as I escaped the ensuing Chernobyl. I escaped and return to Matt alive and well.
“You should be so glad to see me. I almost died.”
“I’m always glad to see you,” he said. He paused, sniffing. “But, why do you smell like a candle?”
[1] In
Myrtle, this is like finding repressed homosexuals at a Rick Santorum rally.
[2] I’ve
seen people ask these ladies to hold their hair back as they vomited.
[3] I
determined my bedroom was more exclusive than Eden. Hell, Target is more exclusive than Eden.
[4] If
you’re a Mormon or non-drinker, you’re probably not on this website and are
praying for my salvation.
[5]
Not that I’m judging.
[6] Or
“you’ve got so much to offer. Don’t
worry, you won’t end up alone with a bunch of cats.”
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