Yeah, that's right. It's V. I had just gotten back from Australia, was still hung over and dreadfully jet-lagged, but when she invited me to go to a charity benefit she was organizing, I didn't even pause when I shouted, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" So I grabbed a black lacy, skin tight dress- a dress that a guy once told me "made him want to sit up and beg"- and hopped on the next plane out of there. (Well, ok, maybe it was the next plane a week later but seriously guys why you gotta nitpick?)
The weekend started out with cake, wine, our pajamas, movies, a very satisfying three way (Thank you, Drew, of Welcome to the Clusterf*ck), and a confession of our mutual, secret adoration for Amanda Bynes in What A Girl Wants. I could have gone home satisfied and happy at this point. Seriously, how could it get any better than V, wine, and cake?
But things, my friend, were about to get even better. Because Saturday night, I mixed one part Faux Trixie, with one part V added a dose of pseudo celebrities and a retired NFL football player whose name I couldn't pronounce after a few too many rum and diet cokes , and garnished it with an 80's ski lodge party at a dive bar where I made out with someone's teenage crush.
Yes, I said 80's Ski Lodge Party. Wha-at?
And yes, I showed up amidst a sea of bright red ski patrol jackets, florescent green headbands, pink spandex pants, and checkered legwarmers dressed like the above. Did I mention the ice-pick heels? I swear the drunker I get, the better I am able to maneuver in them. Unless it's 1:30 am and I'm desperately trying to prop myself up against the cold, wet concrete side of the dive bar while getting hit on by a guy in triangle shaped sunglasses.
What amazes me is that this glorious weekend would never have happened if it hadn't been for writing a blog and getting to know people through theirs. Without which this conversation never would have taken place:
Lola: Hey there new friend! So, do you mind if I post about our antics and link to your blog tomorrow?
Faux Trixie: I would only expect that you would.
Lola: I may or may not refer to my tryst with _______.
FT: I think you need to.
Lola: 80's glasses and all.
FT: And red hoodie and ghetto tude. He loved you.
Lola: I think you mean my boobs.
FT: Everyone loves your boobs.
Lola: True, they, like have their own gravitational pull.
FT: And _____ started orbiting them. He's like your very own hoodrat satellite.
Lola: I love our newfound friendship already.
FT: Me too. I was commenting about it yesterday and today.
Lola: Ditto. And not in that lame Patrick Swayze in Ghost kind of way. In the real way.
Credit goes firmly into V's luscious court for introducing me to this fabulous chick. And for the amazing Star Burst bowl she made for me when we went to see True Grit the next day, hung over and bleary eyed. As much fun as the drunken mess that was Saturday night was, lazy day Sunday just might have topped it. Despite the cold, it really was one of those perfect days. Tinged with a lot of laughter, bookshop/wine cellar browsing, hung-over brunch, and the odd Ernest Borgnine tribute.
If I hadn't already adored the hell out of the girl, this weekend would have solidified it. Because when I needed her, she was there. And I'll never forget that. Well, just maybe some of the little things that occurred while mixing many different types of alcohol this past weekend but, hey, nobody's perfect.
Except maybe me.