Dignity Lost; Inspiration Found

Hello, kiddies. I'm back... Did you miss me? I know I missed you; and though I would prefer to never have to leave you alone and postless, there are times when a gal's got to head out into the night in a liquored up stupor just to bring you fresh blog material. It's all in the name of research, baby.

The night: Friday

The bar: Martini's

The outfit:

Who knew it would look that good on Susan Sarandon as well?

My posse consists of members of my French class as well as our Paris-born French tutor (Who, for the record, wears a fanny pack around his neck... You remember fanny packs).


Though, in his defense, it's Lacoste and it stores an I-pod... Does it get any cooler than that? It also wouldn't hurt to know that I openly dubbed it his 'Mary Poppins bag'.

Before we head out, one of the girls offers me a few drinks of wine in a teensy glass. I see the dainty offering as an opportunity to make a few quips about me being a lush. The party laughs and laughs and laughs... until a few hours later when all somberly realize that my drunkard jokes are actually well disguised truths.

The crowd arrives at the bar, got-drunk-way-too-early-Michelle in tow. My gal pal and I wander into a back room illuminated solely by black lights (this information will become useful momentarily). The first thing to grab my attention is a pole located in the middle of the dance floor which arouses short-lived fantasies of a solo reproduction of 'Chicago'. I say short-lived because the evening's target for my slurred flirtations walks up before I have the chance to relive 'All that Jazz' in its entirety in my head. His name obviously wasn't important enough to remember, but he was a white, surfer dude from Africa. The most appropriate nickname for this newfound foreigner? "Guy with Really Bad Dandruff Wearing a Black T-shirt Underneath a Blacklight". Beautiful--we'll call him 'Dandy', for short.


Dandy's sister--Dandrulina

So Dandy begins arguing with me about a few of my French translations (which, for the record, were correct)... This being the event which sparks my unhindered annoyance of the French, fanny packin' tutor. Most of the rest of the evening is spent running up to this poor guy screaming (in my beth Keith Richards') "Wait a minute, wait a minute... How do you say 'donut' in French?"

That is, of course, until I discover the long lost art of 'the booty dance'.... and while in my head I looked like this:



In actuality it was more like this:



Oh yes... I backed my thang up... I backed it up, down, sideways and diagonally. I shook what my mama gave me... and then took my shaken, not stirred, ass out Martini's front doors, through the parking lot, and to the nearest building... where I proceeded to let all that pure alcohol out of my system and onto a bare, brick wall.

An entire Saturday off from work spent in hungover reflection and painful embarassment, leading to poorly thought out suicide attempts, has brought me to this final thought:

I have but three simple rules for my nights of alcohol-induced fun, and they are as follows...

1) Never, EVER dance
2) Don't dare get sick in public
3) For the love of humanity.. Refrain from reproducing

I suppose 2 out of 3 isn't the worst case scenario.

Yes--French class will never be the same. Now that I will be forever known as the Tara Reid of FRE1120, my first goals include dying my hair blonde, having sex with 30 dirty Europeans in one night, and figuring out how to say "I'm a drunken asshole" in francais.