The other day a friend of mine celebrated her birthday by inviting a bunch of her closest friends to a bar she likes to frequent. I went because I like my friend a lot. The bar, not so much. Even in my heyday (read: college days), I wasn’t into the bar scene. At least not the meat market bar scene.
I like me a quiet bar where I can converse with the bartender and nurse a drink (okay, Diet Coke) all night long.
This was not that sort of place.
This was a meat market.
I was out of my element.
So around midnightish I had to make a trip to the little girl’s room. I enter and there, standing in front of the mirror, putting on her lipstick, is a Snookie wanna-be. Blonde. But a wanna-be nonetheless.
Okay. To each his own.
She looks at me and says, “I washed my hands. You weren’t in here when I did, but I did wash my hands.”
Umm. Okay? Good for you? I’m grateful? What does one say to that? I just smile and go into my stall. Blonde Snookie keeps telling me she washed her hands.
Another girl exits her particular stall and Blonde Snookie squeals. “Oh my GAWD, I LOVE your hair! It’s FAB!”
“Um. Thanks,” says the poor other girl who is now cornered by Blonde Snookie. I can hear her washing her hands then she asks Blonde Snookie, “Where do I dry my hands?”
“Oh on that THING over THERE. That THING hanging on the WALL.”
I quickly wash my own hands and side step out of there sending up a silent prayer for the poor girl still cornered by Blonde Snookie.
Yeah. Not my thing.