Big White Lies

Do you ever tell tall tales to strangers when you're intoxicated? Namaste and I could have written 'The Liars' Club' on Saturday night. We spent the last three hours of our night out in hysterics, knowing we had fully entertained several local Charlottesville residents with our antics.

The evening began respectably. I had received an impromptu evite from an old college suitemate who was celebrating her 29th birthday. Since both her and my 4th year roommate would be there (who, between the two of them, have 4 four gorgeous children, meaning, I never see them), and since Namaste lives in the same town, and since that handsome man I'm seeing was away for the weekend, it was a no-brainer. I slid gracefully into Scarletta's front seat and sped as fast as I could (except for Greene County) down to the 'Ville through pseudo-snow and torrential winds.

When I saw the birthday girl, and my 4th year college roommate, I decided that I do, in fact, look forward to motherhood. They were both glowing. Four children later, and they're even thinner than they were when we lived together (perhaps the lack of free Biltmore grasshopper pie has helped us all). Amazing!


Birthday Girl.


4th-Year Roomie: 1122F!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Unfortunately, I had somehow missed the memo that said I needed to wear teal to the party; and since Namaste and I are neither homeowners nor parents, we decided the night needed to end with a few RBVs and Petron shots on the Downtown Mall, single-dom style.

This is when the evening began to spiral towards out-of-control entertainment. At this knob-tastic club, Namaste and I, with a grand total of $3 in cash between us, edged our way past the large bouncer collecting cover, the blinder-ized Italian coat-check man, and the significant crowd of cheezoid townies, to the center of the dance floor where we absolutely dominated. No, seriously. We were like Cha-Cha and Danny Zuko, approached by no fewer than 20 men (and a few women) attempting to join in our fun, each of whom received a big, phat "nope" or a hip-check. When Nam and I are in a groove, that groove cannot be penetrated (except by the ARL).


Um, Whatevs...Back off, Dude.


Our shift is just about over.

Half an hour later, we decided we couldn't take the sweltering humidity of the dance floor, and rushed out to the refreshingly cold outdoors, sans jacket. We agreed on one more martini at Blue Light, but first...some ridiculous photo opps.

Management at Zocolo closed the place for a private party. We weren't letting it go without a fight.

The bars eventually shut down (and despite the pleas of the male bartender who was very fond of Nam, the busted-ass female bartender told us we had to G-O. No really, she spelled it), but our night was not done. We needed chow and Little John's beat the White Spot. There we were in line, discussing our absolute takeover of the dance floor, when the man behind us said "what, you think you can dance?" He should NOT have said that to Cookie without expecting obnoxious comical relief. I began to girate all through the sandwich line singing 'I've got skillz.' Similar to the two dudes in the Nextel commercial. I demonstrated my excellent running man and toprock, and did a freestyle rap about the Little John's cashier (who liked it so much I got extra pickles free of charge).


Cookie does the running man in the sandwich line.

As I bit into one of my dill pickle slices, someone beside me said, "Hey, do you work for XYZ Consulting Firm?" Say what? I admitted I did. Oh, the professionalism of it all - and how the heck did he know that? Apparently he was friends with someone we hired last year, and the last time I had seen this kid, I had been buying multiple pitchers on a Sunday night before a recruiting event. Some things will never change...


Nam meets Bobby 8-Pack.

With half a sandwich to go, in walks Bobby 8-Pack with a large duffle bag. He slid into the booth adjacent to Namaste, and that was when the white lies began rolling from my tongue. Bobby 8-pack joined in the conversation, although he had little to offer except that his girlfriend had kicked him out (hence the duffle bag) and that he'd been working out a lot (he flashed us his abs no less than 3 times). I introduced Namaste as my sister-in-law, who I had set up with my brother (I don't have a brother) back in college and who now had two children (no children) and this was the first time in a month she'd been able to go out on the town (we'd just been partying in DC last week). I told him I'd come from a blue-collar family, that my father was a miner and an odd-jobs construction worker (my dad is an actuary), that I was the first person in my family to go to college (first to go to college in the US), that I'd paid my way through university by working as a waitress (paid for my drinking habit by working as a waitress), and that I hated big cities (I live in and love DC). Bobby 8-pack then told us he was 40 and didn't have any kids, but that he wasn't "queer or nothing," that he loved women, but just hadn't had kids yet. I told him not to worry - that my boyfriend was in his mid-40s (mid-30s; semantics) and hadn't been married yet either. That he had plenty of time, and he should ditch his mean-ass girlfriend and find a new one.

Lying to perfect strangers (who will most certainly remain strangers after the evening has ended) is SO MUCH FUN!

Nam - may the good lord help this city when you move here...I fear DC won't know what hit it.