"What if she tells you not to get on the plane?" Whitney asked, referring to the psychic we were about to go visit.
"Then I'm not getting on the fucking plane!" I said.
Except she didn't tell me not to get on the plane. We were all just too engrossed in a conversation involving psychic predictions and whiskey dick over the best pizza ever and Diet Cokes at the Wazee Supper Club to notice that we should probably leave for the airport, so I could get on a plane back to reality. I remember saying, "I don't want to leave!" as I got out of Whitney's car at the airport in Denver last Sunday night. And, all I have to say is, be careful what you wish for because I was right back at Whittah's apartment a few hours later when they told me I arrived too late to check in. Fuckers.
Most of the next morning was spent wringing my hands in anxiety hoping they would call "Standby passenger Hastings," all the while thinking I was surely stuck in Denver for the rest of my life. I did get home eventually...14 hours later.
Of course my little flight-missing debacle did spark the beginnings of an angry consumer letter that will promptly be sent to United Airlines, who apparently hires the biggest assholes they can find to work customer service, just as soon as I can refrain from sprinkling the letter with such choice phrases as "a bunch of fucktards" and "scruncy face fat bitch." I'll be sure to post it when that happens. I also owe Jen Lancaster, one of my favorite authors, a thank you e-mail for making me at least crack a smile (when I would usually be laughing out loud) in my zombie-like state at the airport while reading her third book, "Such a Pretty Fat," as well as a thank you note to Whittah's roommate Rachelle who literally got up at the crack of dawn, no PRE-dawn, just to drive my flight missing ass to the airport the next morning.
Damn, and to think I complained about the little shit on my flight to Denver who screamed, "LALALALALALA!" continuously the last 15 minutes of the flight. I'd take a hundred of him any day just to avoid dealing with the fucktard, scruncy face fat bitches at United...
Now that the conclusion of the trip is out of the way, let's go back to the beginning:
Thursday night was spent catching up on all the Denver news. In other words, the conversation between Whittah, me and Danielle consisted of work, men and booze...you know, the essentials...oh and there was a brief discussion about Halloween costumes and whether or not He-Man and She-Rah were brother and sister...and Whitney falling on her ass in a crowded bar...
Anyway, while inhaling hummus and wine at the Tavern Uptown, I learned that Whitney had met a guy known as "Red Hat Man" who Danielle was convinced was the male version of Whitney and therefore her soulmate. Well, I had to be the judge of this and the next night RHM a.k.a. "soulmate" allowed me to do just that...JUDGE.
After one of the best and apparently strongest margaritas in Denver at Rio and a birthday celebration for one of Whitney's friends Coral at Wazee where I discovered this pizza that may just make me move to Denver, we headed to a couple of bars Friday night.
RHM and crew were around, but I was a little distracted by the Jager bomb provided by none other than Jan Clark's Visa, usually reserved for tequila, and the rap off I
had with Whitney's cousin's husband Nick to Young MC's "Bust a Move" to pay too much attention to him. I knew quite a few of the words, but I couldn't keep up with Nick who has apparently had the song on repeat in his car on his way to and from work since it came out in the late '80s.
After we were herded out on the street by several large, yelling bouncers at 2 a.m., I began to notice that RHM was more than a bit of drunken jackass - flailing around, yelling nonsense, running out in the middle of street in front of cars, unable to form coherent sentences, especially to Whitney. We were all less than impressed and while shivering in the cold trying to hail a cab, the quote of the trip was born: "My soulmate's a douchebag."
But, since Rachelle had been talking to douchebag soulmate's friend, they all ended up at the apartment where DS left cheese wrapper carnage all over the kitchen, drank milk mixed with old beer out of a wine glass, bucking bronco-ed his ass throughout the apartment and just generally behaved like a rude, obnoxious retard. The girls escaped to the bathroom with a bottle of vodka to hide from the situation we put ourselves in and this was the result:
Peeling ourselves out of bed at a decent hour the next day was surprisingly easy especially after the night we had. We put on our purple, Andrea and Logan picked us up and we headed to Boulder for the K-State/Colorado game. Whittah and I had flashbacks from our spontaneous roadtrip to Boulder for the game in 2004, which involved a stay at our University of Colorado sorority house, freezing our asses off at the game, consuming (or trying to at least) the worst Cosmos ever made, shots of Grand Marnier, wandering aimlessly (no, really, AIMLESSLY) down Pearl Street, Whitney crying when she found out 'Ole Dirty Bastard died and an attempted hike to the Theta Xi house for a party at 4 a.m...It was the best idea EVER after all of the previously mentioned events though we only got about 14 feet down the sidewalk before giving up.
This time we settled for lunch and beers before meeting up with Whitney's friend and Colorado alum Chris, who entertained us with a tailgate...except I've never been to a tailgate that involved two grown men sharing a banana seat bicycle ride:
Logan + Chris = Bromance
Or a rousing game of donkey balls with Chris' mom:
The game was basically a "who sucks the least in the Big XII" match up and K-State lost by one motherfucking point, so I suppose we all know the answer to the question now. My Wildcats, you are absolutely horrendous at football this season, but I still love you.
After a quiet ride back to Denver, we headed out for a more chill night...that is until I met the girls' friend Ashley, who welcomed me with a lemon drop shot - my kind of girl. Douchebag Soulmate was there...again...being a dumbass...again...except this time we didn't drink enough alcohol to tolerate another night of him galavanting around the apartment, so we left him to run out in front of cars and allow natural selection to take care of him instead.
Sunday involved sleeping in (glorious!) and a small hike to Bump & Grind - a restaurant where drag queens serve you breakfast. The decorations consisted of bright colors and transgendered Barbies hanging from metal trees while "Fergalicious" blasted from the speakers. The bald headed host(ess) with yellow eyeshadow streaked up to her/his ears wearing a hot pink netted dress stuffed with Nerf ball boobs said the wait was 45 minutes to an hour - a little too long for us. As we walked out and decided we'd go to the restaurant Coral worked at instead, I saw a drag queen deliver a couple of meals to customers on the patio wearing a bikini - a very bottom lumpy bikini. Perhaps it's OK I didn't get my breakfast with a side of bulge. Just seeing the place was good enough for me.
Breakfast led into the hunt for a psychic and we ended up sitting on a couch watching the "Poseidon Adventure" with some Romanian dude (who turned out to be the psychic's dad) while waiting for said psychic to come downstairs for more than 20 fucking minutes. We knew this experience would be kind of strange, but this was just bizarre even more so because they ran this business out of their house and there was some larger than life photo of a mobster looking guy staring at us from the front hallway. Creepy.
Then, to top it off, there was no turban or scarves or robes. She totally came down the stairs in a t-shirt and sweatpants and looked like she hadn't slept in a good 48 hours or was completely strung out on meth. I suppose having other people's "energies" constantly swirling around in your head might just drive you to drugs to silence the "voices." However, she did pretty much scare the shit out of me with what she told me. It was nothing bad, she was just strangely accurate about the present. She knew I had been looking for a job, was a neurotic freak of nature, that my past love life had been filled with a slew of negative people and that dating had been particularly difficult for the past six months. If you recall, about six months ago I escaped the insane asylum that was living with my ex-boyfriend and started dating again. Apparently I'm also not destined for spinsterhood - I just have to wait six years and despite my children protest, I'm destined to pop out two of them. Well yea, hooray. A long, prosperous life is in front of me - or at least that's what the psychic envisioned in my palm.
As for Whitney, let's just say she's going to be obsessed with the initials JSM for the next year and a half. I'm sort of glad the psychic didn't give me that detailed of information about my future hubs. I'm neurotic enough as it is...
And now we're back to the end of the story where we went back to the Wazee to chat about all things innappropriate for dinner conversation...especially in public...but I think the old dudes next to us got a thrill from eavesdropping. They haven't seen that much action in years.
As for 'Lil Wayne, I discovered my hatred for this "rapper" during this trip. Whittah's ghetto children have apparently been rubbing off on her because we listened to T-Pain and 'Lil Wayne's "Can't Believe It" about 642 times. WORST. SONG. EVER. Mostly just because 'Lil Wayne comes on, you can't understand anything he's saying, and he's greasy and creepy and his "singing" voice makes my skin crawl. *shudder* Then we discovered just how many other songs 'Lil Wayne gets to chime in on and each time we heard one, I screamed and changed the station.
And, now off to craft my United Airlines hate mail. Fucktards...