It’s been a while since I’ve written about my life in the fast-lane (AKA my life in the glorious night-club universe). Let’s blame no power and unfortunate life situations; did ya miss me? But although this is a bit delayed, I absolutely need to discuss Halloweekend. There is nothing quite like drunken-30+s in slutty costumes to really illuminate your perspective on life (and perhaps scar you emotionally for years to come). I worked four Halloween parties in the pre-Sandy/pre-Halloween (ew, who let Halloween be on a Wednesday?) weekend, and for the sake of not writing a novel’s worth of hilarious occurences, I’ll just sum up a few:
– Halloween-themed Salsa Night: Feisty Latinos in barely-there attire and full-fledged Batman attire and so much Spandex and heels so high I break my ankle just thinking about them. A line of about 10 desperate drunk men alternate in their attempts to not only hit on me and repeatedly ask me to dance, but also to force their numbers into my phone and confess their love for me and my sassy attitude. Apparently costumes increased their bravado, because I wasn’t even just asked out on dates – about four of them skipped every step in the book and asked to be in committed boyfriend-girlfriend-let’s-hold-hands-and-move-in-together relationships. My favorite? The man who continues to text me on the daily (despite my lack of response to his last ten messages) and who told me (in all his slurred Hispanic-accented glory) that I am “just the funniest” and I “keep it real” and “play with his heart” and should “be his special friend.” Ay dios mio.
– Real-life Halloween party/costume contest/busiest night I’ve ever worked in my entire existence: Put in charge of coat check and judging costumes (AKA the best job out of everyone there, no contest). People so drunk they were throwing money at me – tens and twenties, no less. So many “sexy nurses” and “spandex cats” and the resident creepy man who only mumbled and cocked his head to the side and wouldn’t answer any questions I directed at him and I think maybe he forgot he was just wearing a costume/how to be a real functioning human. There was the man in a Genie costume who got legitimately angry and paced back and forth when his group “didn’t win a prize” when they actually did win a prize, he was just too drunk and belligerent to hear their names called. And who can forget the masked men with cheesy pick-up lines (apparently it’s more seductive if you’re in a mask), the sloppy falls of scantily-clad women in skyscraper heels (honey, I don’t want to see your thong, thank you), the creative use of Christmas lights as costumes (don’t even understand how there were multiple forms of this), Snow White and Bob Marley breaking up in the corner (so sad, apparently he was too stoned to dance), and the inspirational speeches of the single and ready to mingle that I, as coat check girl, was the sole recipient of the entire night long (can I put therapist on my resume?).
Moral of the story: cash in my pocket and memories to last a lifetime. Oh, and a lot of desperate, slutty people and strange numbers in my cell. That too.
Much love and cash and hoes,
Your resident night-club worker extraordinaire