**Saturday night I went barhopping with the usual mischief makers.
Would you believe it that Karen is such a pimpette that she arranged for a limo/cab to take us out? Sure it had seen better days, but I was in HEAVEN when the driver put on a CD of -- you guessed it -- 80s tunes. Add one Red Bull to this situation, and you've got one hyper V.
At our first stop, Bobby and I couldn't stop laughing hysterically at the song that cued when we walked through the door.
'Let's talk about sex baby. Let's talk about you and me. Let's talk about all the good things and the bad things that may be. Let's talk abooooout sex.'
My new theme song...or something.
It was at the last stop of the night, however, that things got silly. It didn't matter that this bar had no dance floor. We, uh, sorta created one of our own. Four guys and five girls going nuts and loving it. Whether it was yelling 'Whhhhhooooooooooa we're half way there!' (ala Bon Jovi) or shaking what little we got to 'my hump my hump my hump' (yes I'm ashamed to admit I danced to the overplayed Black Eyed Peas ditty). It was also profoundly ironic when the Pussycat Dolls' 'Don't Cha' came on.
You see...Tom was there. Remember him? Oh yes. Pretend Boyfriend Tom.
When I heard this song in the past, I always sang along and related the lyrics to him.
Yet thanks to my venting on this here blog about that situation and deciding not to deal with the BS anymore, I've moved on.**
****
**Tom and I are still friends, but instead of hanging out three times a week, we usually get together a few times a month (if that). He tells me he doesn't see me anymore. Too bad. I've gotten the space I needed to get past crushing on him. Let me tell you, once I took him off that pedestal I even wondered what I saw in him to begin with.
Keri and I had quite a laugh when we heard the song start.
'I can't believe you liked him,' she said.
'I knnnoooooooooow. Isn't it funny how things change?'
Indeed it is.
***
On another note, can I just ask what is up with would be Dance Fishers?
'What's a Dance Fisher?' you ask.
Stay at any place that has people dancing late enough and you'll see what I mean. They're the guys that linger on the fringe of the booty shaking crowd, eyeing the gyrating group. At this point they're pretty plastered, so their appearance has almost a zombie like effect.
Then, when you least suspect it: there it is.**
**
A Dance Fisher has come up behind you, draped his drunken arm over your shoulder, pressed you to his crotch and is rocking you back and forth like a seesaw.
Did you invite this?
No.
Does it always happen?
Yes.
I saw this occur countless times throughout the night. It didn't even matter that we had guys with us -- these dudes were too bombed out of their minds/skeevy to care.
So I just want to say to you sober would be Dance Fishers: stop!! ;-)
And I mean that in the nicest way possible.
If we want to dance with you, trust me, we'll make it known.
We'll smile at you, hell we might even back that dancing ass towards you and put your hands in ours.
Believe it: those sneak attacks creep us out. Is it coincidence that one of our girlfriends comes to pull us away the moment you start that nonsense? No dears, it isn't.
**
