Yesterday was a child-free day, as Brianna went to my in-laws in the morning and spent the night (she’s not coming home until this evening). Josh and I usually try to do date night on these nights, and last night was no exception. I was in an especially celebratory mood because I got my pay statement. Yay! I love getting paid 😉
We started with dinner at Outback, then a quick trip to Target (and I am here to tell you that walking around Target in three inch heels is KILLER on the arches. How do women stand in those suckers all day?) and finally on to a local bar where a friend of ours does karaoke.
The bar we went to isn’t a club, by any means, it’s a bar. Actually a sports bar. But it is right across from the college and it gets hopping busy on Tuesday nights with karaoke. It’s fun to go and people watch (Josh sings but I spare the people and don’t) and there’s almost always someone we know to hang out with–because we’ve lived here long enough to know a few people and the karaoke crowd tends to draw “regulars”.
One of the regulars is an 83 year-old man called Mr. Bill. He’s been going to karaoke for as long as I’ve lived here (over five years?), wears jean overalls and a long-sleeved plaid shirt, carries snacks in the bib pocket, drinks beer, doesn’t seem to shower or wash his clothes with necessary regularity, and spends his nights dancing with pretty girls. Oh yes, Mr. Bill knows all the good-looking girls, will dance to just about any music, and while his hearing isn’t great, he’s still pretty sharp–t had been at least a year–more like two–since we’d seen each other until a few months ago. He remembered that I’m divorced, my ex is a pilot and that I’m from the midwest. Considering all the people he meets and the fact that he can’t remember my name, ever, I think that’s pretty damn good. He told me his doctor said his health was as good as it is, because he spends his nights dancing with all the pretty girls. I believe it.
Anyhow, we sat at a table with our friends Shawn and Sam. I adore Shawn, he has some of the funniest anxieties, but he’s completely grounded and tells the most hysterical stories. He’s also one of those people who knows everyone because he’s lived in the same place his whole life.
We always have a good time when we meet up with them, because conversation is not usually lacking. And even though Shawn was having a bad night (some chippy has a crush on him and won’t leave him alone and it’s actually getting kind of embarassing because it’s been going on for weeks and she doesn’t get the hint. She actually showed up at his house last week. Poor Shawn, lol), even though he was having a bad night, there was still plenty of laughs. Oh, and we got to play sex trivia. The Malibu girls were there giving samples of Malibu and free T-shirts to sex trivia winners. Hmmm, wonder who won? Dude, I edit erotic romance for a living, I was all over the sex trivia 😉
So we were having a great time and then…I had to go to the bathroom. Going to the bathroom there is always an experience for two reasons. One, there are only TWO stalls and the bathroom is really tiny. Two, something always happens to me when I go into the bathroom. Last time we were there, I witnessed the same girl not once, but twice, threatening to beat someone up. In the bathroom. And she was very, um…vocal about it. I would have described her a a pretty young blonde, but her attitude made her ugly. And then I got knocked out of the way by some chick with an attitude and an inability to either see people in her path or to say excuse me. Grrr.
This time, my experience made a more…lasting…impression. There were a lot of drunk girls (hmm….college, drunk girls. Go figure) and with only two stalls, that’s a trick. Well, one girl was in a stall, and her friends were telling her to hurry up. Meanwhile, she’s peering through the crack in the door at me and mumbling incoherently. No really. She seemed to be having difficulty getting her pants back up, but she spent the whole time looking at me through this crack in the door and babbling away. Finally, she comes out and another girl goes in. The lock on the door doesn’t work quite right and if you don’t know the trick (shoving toilet paper between the door and the lock part so it sticks) the door swings open. So the girl asked if I’d hold it for her. I said sure. Now, to set the picture up for you, this stall is right behind the bathroom door, which swings in. So when people go in or out and the door opens, I’m standing behind the door. With one arm in the air, holding the stall door.
Now, remember the girl who had been previously going to the bathroom and slurring drunken nonsense at me? Her friends are finally collecting her from in front of the mirror and leaving. As they leave, said drunk girl, reaches for me, where I’m trapped between the open bathroom door and the stall door, arm still in the air and GRABS MY BREAST. And I’m not talking a gentle pat. This chick reached out, got my entire breast in her hand and squeezed me like she was juicing an orange–and then took off out the door. Those of you that know me, know I’m not often speechless but I was so completely taken aback by that I literally felt my mouth drop open and I sucked air like a fish. No words, no sounds, just eating air. Holy crap. I was violated in the ladies room!
I never saw that girl again that night (and really what would I have said? Yo stinkin’ drunk chick, you molested me?) but I was afraid to go to the bathroom again because things always happen to me there. But I had to go once more. And wouldn’t you know it, this time, someone casually suggested that their friend might rip my shirt off because she liked cherries (I was wearing a black corset style halter with little cherries on it). It was said in a joking manner but there were two of them and one of me and after my previous experience…well…I hastily pointed out that it wouldn’t fit (the other girl was slightly thicker and much bustier than I) to which her friend pronounces, “Oh honey, those are fake! That’s a padded bra.” and proceeds to poke at her friend’s chest. I took the opportunity to flee.
Next time, I’m going to use the men’s room. Surely it can’t be any more dangerous for me.