In the words of Garth Brooks, I am much too young to feel this damn old (or to be quoting Garth Brooks).

So for bachelorette party last week, a whole group of us (who were friends from back in high school) went to a place called "The Velvet Hookah". That's cool right? I mean, that name alone begs to be explored...aside from the fact that everytime I said the name to anyone, they thought I was saying "The Velvet Hooker".

I knew we were in trouble when we opened the door to the club and our hair was blown back by the "DUMDUM DUM DADADA DUMDUMDUM DADADADA". AAAhhhh gawd, techno music!

"I'm sorry what?"
"Do what?"
"It cost what?"
"$5? $5? $10?" (are we haggling for a pig here?)
"My WHAT?" (actually I heard that they wanted to see my ID, I just didn't know who they thought they were kidding).

It was an interesting interior. Little areas sectioned off under drapey gauzy tents. We were not of tent importance level, so were relegated to the bar area. You can always tell the difference between singles and marrieds at a bar. Singles start scoping people, marrieds start scoping tables. You can rest assured that if you are sitting down at a bar table, and someone is giving you the eye...they're probably oggling a different type of seat then you think.

The single girls who were with us were busy getting shots in bulk. I was busy trying to tuck my arms as close as my boobs would allow so that Vaca in the tank top would stop smacking me with her elbow.

As me and the soon to be bride scored a table, we sat and looked around us...the bachelorette commenting on how all the men looked like White Slave Traders. I commented how those girls over there looked like they were trying too hard to look like they were models (male hips, carefully funky hair and alot of bracelets). As a fire dancer entered the room, the crowd ooh'd and clustered. Bachelorette and I eyed the exits, pondering the wisdom of one throwing fire around gauzy drapes.

At last we scored a spot in the "Harem". Yeah...that's what they called the tent area. The HAREM.

This was actually cool. Under the "tent" were low tables with big pillows all about. People sat about smoking hookah pipes and generally looking as cool as they could with their stomach fat scrunched up.

One of the girls purchased a coconut flavored hookah to smoke.
"You want some?"
"No."
"Sure?"
"Yes"
"You don't inhale it, you sure?"
"Yes"
I mean, that fact didn't help Clinton any, y'know?

One note...just because the smoke smells nice and coconutty at the time does NOT mean your clothes don't smell just as bar crappy the next day.

This is how they did the hookah. The waitress brings you a big hookah pipe filled with some tobacco you choose. Because this is a pipe that goes all over the restaurant in the course of an evening, she gives each smoker their own plastic mouth piece to use. Basically a hookah condom. Even if I weren't so adamantly opposed to smoking of any kind, that would have sent me right over the edge. With the tents, and the atmosphere, I kept getting imaginings of some really health concious opium den.

I was the designated driver. I had two shots and then stopped cold while the girls moved on to different martinis. This was kind of sad for me b/c they had the yummy chocolate martinis. Sigh. Because someone had purchased my shots, I offered to buy the next round of drinks...which was three of the chocolate martinis. When I got my portion of the bill at the end of the evening...I paused. I flipped through the bill to make sure there wasn't a mistake. $27 for three drinks. TWENTY SEVEN DOLLARS FOR THREE DRINKS?!?! I can't afford to have a good time! I'm sticking to my cheese doodles at home in front of the television.

On the drive home...six of us clustered into a CRV, and I tried to drive home safely despite my failing night vision (gah, I'm old, OLD!) The girls shrieked and giggled in the back and I suddenly realized what it was like for our poor parents to drive all of us as teenagers to and fro. It's amazing they didn't run off the road more often.

All in all, I make fun, but it was good time. No one made me dance, and it was goofy and silly. We couldn't hear each other, but we were able to pantomine in a very entertaining manner. The truth is, I never did this kind of stuff, even in my teens/twenties. But you know, it was nice to do it now...when there are no expectations, ulterior motives (girls looking over your head for a guy) running through the night. Just some girls having fun, and enjoying each others company. I didn't realize I needed that until I did it.

Of course we still got home before two :) Old, OLD!!!

Breakin'

Next week is my Spring Break from school. I never thought at 31 I'd still be saying that. My guy is also doing the old-fogey school thing, on top of work, so we're pretty excited about the week off. We actually get to see each other before 8:00 the WHOLE WEEK. Woo-woo! PAAAAR-TAY.

Actually, he's opted to take off Wed-Fri from work so that we can actually enjoy the break. What are our big plans you ask? Sit down, I'm not sure you can handle it. Big plans, big HUGE plans.

We're going to Houston.

I know, right? It makes you quiver, doesn't it?

Actually, it's ironic that we spent 2.5 years wishing we didn't live there, and now we're going back..on purpose?

This is our annual booze run. Mr. Man, the vinophile, gets just what he wants for his birthday, to buy a cartful of the grape. Houston has something very vital to this: Spec's Downtown. The biggest, largest (cheapest!) selection of wine to haunt a liver's dreams. One thing I've learned while visiting there...judging by the cars and dress of most of the patrons, and by the carts full of booze they walk out with, either rich people have alot of big parties or are very very drunk for most of the day.

It does seem a little weird, though, to explain to people that we're making a wine run without them suspecting you have issues. I think deep down these trips appeal to the man's childhood "Smokey and the Bandit" fantasies. He longs to use words like "convoy" and "c'mon back" (but never "good buddy"...b/c saying that these days will put you in intimate aquaintance with the undercarriage of a tractor trailor). The only thing I can offer him is to perhaps find some bird stickers to attach to the hood of the Civic. But it's not the same...and he can't even grow a proper mustache to pretend it is. Sad, sad, sad...

Anyway, in addition to our trip to Spec's, we're going to brave Ikea. The thing about Ikea is that 75% of it are items you would use to decorate an ADHD playroom, a Dutch airport, or a misguided 1972 movie directors image of a home scene from 2050. But that other 25%....that gasping excitement you get when you realize you can buy a steel trivet for $1! (oh MY!) I have fantasies of organization whenever I am at Ikea....dreams of drawers and cabinets lined with labeled plastic boxes. It's an OCD'ers erotic dream. The decor design of Ikea is summed up in one word: "Sterile". Ok, and maybe another one: "Disposable". I know that's not entirely fair, they do have some decent leather couches and some other nifty "Warmer" things, however it's just easier to write about the living room vignettes of white plasticine with leprechaun height chairs.

One last thing..something for you to think about the rest of the day. If we have time we'll stop at a delicious place called "The Chocolate Bar." Here we will get the best ice cream solely made to give man faith in the existence of a higher power. Picture: chocolate covered strawberries, chopped up, then added to fresh made vanilla ice cream. Picture: you dying with a smile on your face. It almost gives us a reason to move back to Houston. Almost.

Auld Lang Sigh

I like to think that everyone on this earth experiences some sort of mental function eclipse when they’re going to see old friends….that I am not the only one who suddenly begins to take a very negative stock of me. I’m convinced that there are tiny ego stockbrokers running around inside my head shrieking, “Oh god, “Ass in Jeans” just fell 20 points on news of a reunion…sell, sell!!”

Frankly, seeing old friends is quite like getting married. You know you’re happy, you really really are. And yet, you can’t deny the fact that you vaguely feel the need to vomit. Should a trip down memory lane make you car sick?

Is there any doubt that the real thing keeping the Diet industry going is reunions? And I also suspect that reunions are twice as responsible for midlife crisis’ than any young blonde. That seed of discontent in your head starts getting a WHOLE lot of fertilizer to help it root.

You’ve heard that the definition of insanity is constantly doing the same thing and expecting different results. I’d say it’s hanging your head over that fence gazing longingly at the grass over there. Even worse it’s imagining some cows over there on the other side snorting their mocking bovine snorts.

But why? Why do we let those feelings sink its teeth into us? Why is it so easy to believe the worst about ourselves, and so hard to believe the best?

When we gather up the shreds of ego after things like this, you hope that you can remember the way it’s supposed to work. Success isn’t where you are, it’s really how you feel about where you are.

Trite platitudes to follow:
The hardest thing to learn is that it’s not about living up to other people; the only measuring stick that counts against your life is your own conscience. My point in all this is: we’re where we are for a reason...questioning it just means we don’t understand it. We all begin the same way and we all end up the same way. They’re right when they say that any day above ground is an accomplishment.

Did you love? Were you loved? Yes? Then job well done.

(But I still want a Jag)