After a series of, "Which way? Left? Right? Wilshire or Santa Monica?"...we found ourselves at the intersection of Santa Monica Blvd and Fairfax, warming our hands over hot lattes and me eventually dishing out every coin I could find to a homeless man who patiently beat out the wait time with an empty Pepsi bottle into his palm, all the while listening to me mutter, "Wait! I have some more!" With warm tummies and cold fingers we finally hustled back to the car still unsure of our next destination.
Now, let me explain here that Teen and I have a devout faith in the religion of Weekends Are Meant For Trying Something New. So after a quick discussion centered around, "where haven't we been yet?" plus, "let's go drink wine!" as well as, "um, it's effing chilly outside. where can we sit indoors?"... the car was quickly pointed toward the Sofitel. It was still only 7:00 p.m., so we should have no problem securing a seat in the swanky Stone Rose lounge, right?
Right. More like we could take our pick of seats, do a dance, belt out some tunes and rehearse every single move from Thriller. The place was ours. But there was no time for Michael Jackson impressions because we had some serious gabbing to do - and this is Hollywood, so what else would it possibly be centered around then some shrewd "industry" career moves?We bellied up to the bar...and talked...s.l.o.w.l.y. sipping our way through spendy glasses of Matua, one of our favorite white wines (try it!). Neither of us looked at the time after glass one, but hey, we were having a fabulous time, so Mr. Bartender, please bring us round two!
More sisterly yapping with each other and our new friend, the cute bartender from Pittsburgh, led to glass number 3. At some point, we pulled out a phone to check the time, both almost falling off our chairs when it flashed back that it was already 10:30. No wonder the place was starting to get uncomfortably crowded with wankers in sports coats and giraffes in one-shouldered cocktail dresses...
We had a decision to make: do we stay or do we go? We were having an unexpectedly fabulous time, but these drinks weren't cheap, and one more round would mean that in the coarse of the evening we would EACH DRINK A BOTTLE OF WINE, GLASS. BY. EXPENSIVE. GLASS. We hesitated. We looked at each other out of the corners of eyes. We both silently imagined our checking accounts... And then I experienced the moment of clarity that makes you say, "Screw it. You only live once. And I brought lunch to work 4 days this week, so clearly I am a financial genius. Yes, we will have one more!"
It turned out that round 4 was purchased by our new best friend, Mr. Bartender, making our smiles even bigger. The only thing that could damper our mood now was...oh wait... here he comes... ah, yes...of course...the entrance of the inevitable Jackhole-who-considers-himself-to-be-Mr. Suavo. Gah.
Why any one guy ever thinks it's a good idea to try and hit on two girls at the same time is beyond me. I'm sure in their minds it has something to do with playing the odds, but I really don't care. Unless you are George Clooney, I just want you to go away. The music was louder now and the crowd was huge now, so when Jackhole-would-be-Suavo tried to introduce himself, it was done through a series of shouting into each other's ears while continuing to shake hands. When Teen leaned in to scream her name to him, the corner of her mouth curled up with the hint of sinister humor as she screeched, "I'm Kelly."
Excuse me? What? Kelly. KELLY?
I was so thrown by the introduction of a name I consider synonymous with '80s-licious Tiffany and Brittney, that I couldn't push my own pseudo name out of my mouth. In a moment of holding-back-sheer-laughter-panic, I opted for the truth instead. Kelly and Sara might actually be sisters. But Kelly and Betty? No.
That's right. Whenever reaching for another lady name, I inexplicably go with Betty. When there were 5 Saras in a class of 18, I instructed everyone to refer to me as Betty for simplicity's sake (though no one ever did - bunch of assholes). My mini-fridge in college had the full name of Beautiful Betty. I don't know why. I've never questioned it much; I just go with it.
And I think this says a lot about the difference between Teen and I. When confronted with a situation where a fake name is warranted, Teen reaches for a name that many of her friends currently posses, whereas I grab at the one that hasn't been in use by anyone born after 1943. Realistic meets quirky. Sanity meets a 26-year-old senior citizen.
So there we were, Kelly and Betty, finally elbowing our way out of the crowd over 4 hours after staking our claim on 2 bar stools. Cheeks sore from smiling, mouths dry from too much yapping - 2 sisters out on the town having a great time on a mini-L.A.-adventure that started out with getting in the car as Teen and Sara, not knowing where we would end up.
As someone from Betty's era might muse, "Aint life grand?"
The answer, of course, is YES.
3 comments:
Every time I think that I can't like you more . . . do you ever get sick of how fabulous you are?
Seriously, what IS it with you and the homeless dudes outside of coffee houses? At least he provided his own version of waiting music.
And, um, like, is there maybe any way, that, um, maybe, and you don't have to say yes, that I could, possibly, maybe, move back to la la land, and hit up, oh, just, every. single. fun. fabulous. place. ever. that you go to? Just think about it. No rush. I'll be here. Standing next to my packed bags, freshly printed cash from the ATM for all the bar drinks we'll be drinking.
Betty. I love it.
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