I went out with some friends this past weekend for some much-needed respite. One of my blog fans/friends, JJ, invited me to her birthday bash, which was way cool, and my birthday was 2 days later.
I met JJ about two years ago, at the party of a mutual friend, Danica (no, not THAT Danica as in Danica Patrick the race car driver – but anyway).
We all met at an Italian restaurant downtown, and nine of us were STASHED into a booth designed for a party of 5, perhaps. And it was RIGHT in front of the kitchen.
See? I wasn’t kidding…I could SPIT on the kitchen, and, yes, I totally stole this photo from JJ’s Facebook page, sorry! SO…here we are.
One of the cooks had to come over and kind of shove Danica’s friend, Mr. M, on the far right back into the booth a couple times. He kept spilling out onto the floor and NOT from being over-served…LOL.
Yes, that’s me in the pink jacket on the left. Don’t I look like I’m about to launch my linguini into the kitchen? It was the heat. It was SWELTERING in there, and I didn’t take off my jacket because I wasn’t wearing a belt. And my jeans are too big (HAPPY DANCE! I’ve lost 6 pounds!), and my jeans droop…whereupon you can see my skivvies…
HOWEVER, the food was scrumptious though, and I ate too much. So much for those six pounds, right?
Afterward, we went to a comedy show at the Shadowbox about a mile away. So, JJ and I walk over to the parking garage. She was on 4, and I PARKED MY CAR ON THE FIFTH FLOOR. I even wrote the number on my damned parking stub! 5C…however, I get off the elevator, and there’s only ONE car on the fifth floor, and it wasn’t mine. GODDAMMIT. Seriously, I’ve now taken a vow to never park in a garage again because half the time, I swear to GOD, a small band of Leprechauns moves my car just to fuck with me, or…they rearrange the structure of the damned garage…which, ahem, I’m sure was at work THIS TIME…
The parking area designated as 5A was right next to the elevator. Ahem, so you’d think my car would be on the opposite side of the same floor, right? Um, no. I walk that way where I thought I’d parked, and it says 4E. WTF? So, I walked back toward 5A again, thinking I’d somehow missed it. Passed 5B…and THERE’S A FUCKING WALL…
Okay, when all else fails, use one’s tech (i.e. see the new show on sci-fi called Continuum cuz tech will save your life!). I grabbed my keys from my purse and hit the PANIC button on my key fob. And sure enough, my car started HONKING. I can HEAR IT, but I can’t see it.
I start RUNNING…got up to 6 A, and I looked down, and there, where you’d least expect it, was my car. WTF? I wouldn’t have written down 5C if I were in 6A.
GOOD LORD, ALMIGHTY, do I at least get a massage and a free glass of Merlot after all this? Meanwhile, I’ve gotten two texts from Danica wondering where the hell I am…
So, I keep walking toward my SUV’s beckoning HONK, and I get to the END of 6A in the GHETTO area of garage-land – nowhere near the LAND OF OZ, and I see my beloved Escalade. But THERE’S another fucking wall, and I can’t get to it! Maybe, if I dove over the OUTSIDE wall into the street, I’d pass through Narnia and the lion would tell me how to get to my FUCKING CAR, but I didn’t have time for that…so what did I do?
I said – FUCK IT. There’s MY CAR. I’m GOING OVER THE WALL, and I hope there aren’t any Russian spies over there.
I stepped back about 5 feet, started running and, yes – I jumped, hoisted my legs UP/vaulted over the damned cinderblock wall into the mythical land of 5C, which was, btw at the TAIL END OF 6A (go figure).
And thanks to the enormous amount of cardio that I’ve been doing lately (and lots of bicep curls), my legs cleared the three foot wall without a scratch though my arms were a tad sore from the force required to jack my fat ass 3 feet off the ground. And my 40th birthday is so far into the recesses of my rearview mirror as to be called an archived birthday, but we won’t really chat about that now.
However, needless to say, I was rather proud of myself. Unfortunately, there was one casualty. My boots. I did scratch up the left wedge heel of my awesome Kenneth Coles I bought the day before Dad’s funeral. So, someone at Nationwide Parking owes me $120 for a new pair, the bastards and their leprechauns…
However, I made it to the Shadowbox, just in time to get a FREE GLASS OF MERLOT before the show from a bartender who just happened to be a friend of my son’s. And his name is PANTS. Yes, P-A-N-T-S. I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried 
.
At least ONE parking lot Hail Mary came true ! Still waiting on the free massage though. That said, the show, called “Between the Sheets” was hilarious! A good time was had by all.
Additionally, I emailed the manager of the garage about my boots. To-wit, he replied:
“Sorry I not process claims for damage in garage. Forward to legal department.”
First of all – GOOD LORD at his verbiage. Did TANTO write that response? Or maybe, Clifford the Big Red Dog? Holy fuck balls, batman…can I buy a VERB and a SUBJECT?
AND I’m SURE the Leprechauns have infiltrated the hallowed walls of the Legal Department as well, so that’s a dead end. Perhaps, I should just be glad I didn’t break anything…
Over and out from fucked up central….
~TB
