Last night was Hannah's 30th Birthday Extravaganza at The Monkey Club, our corner bar. Apparently, another birthday was planned for the same night. We felt we had the home court advantage. We hang out there all the time and we're friends with everyone who works there, especially Dave and Gigi who own the joint. They were running around, trying to find room for both groups, when I suddenly realized that the other party was made up of a bunch of bitches I went to high school with. Let's just say, they were not cool back in the day. Not fucking cool at all.
I pointed this out to Bonnie and Gert, who sent me over there. The leader appeared to be someone we'll call Whore-en, so I decided to be a class act and go say hello. Stupid move.
Beth: "Uh, hi. I went to high school with you."
Whore-en: "Oh my god. Look at you!"
Beth: "What are you doing at this bar?"
Whore-en: "It's my sister's birthday, and actually, we had booked those 2 booths that all of your friends are in."
Whore-en: (enthusiastically, and this is verbatim)"So if you could go rally the troops and get them to move, that'd be awesome."
In a rare moment of speechlessness, I had nothing to say. I turned and reported back to Bonnie. Bon, in turn, walked up to Dave and Gigi, who were still trying to figure out how to accommodate both groups.
Bon: "That girl was a bitch to Beth in high school"
Dave: "No shit. Fuck 'em. The bar is yours."
How ya like me now?
Ultimately, it didn't matter. By 10, you could barely move, the place was so packed. The party was fabulous, and tremendously fun, due in large part to the fact that once our booze ran out, Bonnie kept buying everyone drinks, throwing her credit card around like a frisbee.
Sadly, and as is typical with the holidays, I got a little more inebriated than usual. I believe dancing was involved. What's worse, I vaguely recall trying to bust some serious moves in an attempt to one-up my former classmates.
Jason complained that I never write about him on my blog as he did shots of Jaeger with his brother, Pete. At which point, Gert comes up to me and says, "You know bitch, none of this goes on the damn blog."
Jason, who is quite possibly the most metrosexual man of all time, chose to wear his scarf as a belt, which I'm still chuckling about as I write this. Genius. Seriously. I should've taken a picture.
At 2:30, I received a drunken text from Ben in Chico. "Welcome to Trashedville. Population: Ben."
I awoke to the phone ringing, my father reminding me that Alex and I were to meet him at the Plush Room at 9:45 a. fucking m. We were going to be in the live audience of West Coast Live, a Saturday morning radio show. One of the guests was Harry Shearer, and I must say, it was almost worth dragging my hungover ass downtown because Harry Shearer is fucking awesome. Never heard of Harry Shearer? Hmmm. You're a loser. He's not only a brilliant film actor (Spinal Tap, A Mighty Wind), but he's THE voice on the Simpsons. Mongomery Burns, Smithers, Ned Flanders, Reverend Lovejoy... I could barely hold my head up, but I was in heaven watching him do those voices, as was my Simpson's obsessed brother. He'll be at The Make-Out Room on December 20th, playing music with his wife.
I can barely move now, and must spend the rest of the day recovering. I'll need my energy as Itty and I plan to have blog-worthy adventures tonight. I apologize, but I'm far too hungover to write a snappy ending. I owe you one...