Adventures in Graduating

Our night begins with bubbly at Madame V’s (that’s Vavoom, not Vicarious—official name change) lovely home.  Specifically, in her daughter’s adorable pink and black room.  We are thankful she’s loaned it to us.  From there, we head to Maudie’s (surprise!) for some margaritas, Mexican martinis and food.  Our dinner, of course, involves lots of both, so by the end, we’re in the parking lot discussing our abilities to drive, continue to drink, and, it turns out—walk.

We had already planned to cab to our next destination.  But following our considerable alcohol intake, Madame V regards her spiky awesome black heels with doubt.  “It’s not really legal for me to walk.”

We are also on a mission to obtain what we’ve decided is the magical hangover cure called milk thistle.  This involves a rather wobbly walk over to Randall’s to try and find said herb.  Randall’s doesn’t have it, so we teeter over to the CVS, where we score a gigantic bottle.

Milk thistle and vitamin water?  Check.  Down the hatch, ladies, and let’s see what happens next.

Our cab pulls up while we are still en route from CVS, so I run ahead of the girls in my own heels to grab it.  From there, we tell the cabbie we’re going to Lavaca Street bar.  It’s a welcome change that our cabbie actually seems to know where he’s going.  However, some of the digital numbers on the fare display are out, so it’s a riddle that Lady Butterfly cannot decipher.

“Um, I can’t read that,” she says, digging in her wallet for some cash.

It looks something like this:

“Duh, Lady Butterfly, OF COURSE you can’t, because it’s in Sanskrit,” I say, grabbing the first foreign language that I can think of that wouldn’t use the same letters of English.

I am pretty sure this is the point where our cabbie decides I am racist, because after we successfully pay the fare and get out of the cab, the tires actually peal as he drives away from us.  Unfortunately, he appeared to be, ah, foreign?—and perhaps he actually reads Sanskrit.  Ooops.

At Lavaca, we realize that it’s Gay Pride night and the parade has just finished rolling down 4th Street.   This means I am pretty sure before the night is out that I will hit on a gay guy who I think is straight.  (My gaydar leaves something to be desired.)

It’s drawing close to the witching hour when the girls have to take their leave of me—they have real children to take care of in the morning, as opposed to me!—and so I contact El Dilector for Phase Two.  We agree to meet at Jimmy’s Irish Lair shortly.

I arrive at the Lair and find El D and MackTate at the bar drinking Matador and vodka.  Apparently I missed an Infamous Infancy reunion the night before.  Aw, crap.  Those things are like Halley’s Comet—you can only see them once in a while! 

Bartender J-Two comes by and touches my nose to get my attention.  “I love you,” he says seriously, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

“I love you too,” I respond, and get my own Matador and vodka.

We travel to the porch to catch up on last night’s shenanigans. 

“We were hot on the gay list,” MackTate says with pride.  Apparently everyone thought they were gay, and he and El Dilector have taken this as a compliment because it means they are good-looking and well-groomed.  Huh.  Interesting.  That’s one way to take it.

Then it turns out Charles L. Picadillo is off work and hanging at Rebel’s Honky-Tonk.  “What’s that?” El D wrinkles his nose.

“MECHANICAL BULL!  It’s on my bucket list!  LET’S GOOOOOOOO!” I’m screaming.

We jump in a cab and ride over to Rebel’s so I can fulfill my dream.

MackTate is kind enough to supply me with the five dollars required to ride the bull.  I step up to the podium and am given a long legal form to read and sign.

“Just sign this—here’s the short form,” the girl says, pointing to a short sentence in bold face in the middle of the page. 

“I’m a lawyer,” I say, flipping my hair importantly.  “I’m going to read all of it.”  Well, I’m gonna try, considering it has the words “paralysis” and “death” in it and it would be a real shame to screw up my brain after three years of law school, lots of money borrowed and a very important bar exam coming up. 

I have had about eight million drinks, though, so I skim, tell myself I won’t hit my head too hard, and scrawl a barely legible signature.

So, let me explain something.  The problem with staying on the mechanical bull?  Is not the bucking.  It’s the spinning.  Ugh.  For a while, I’m doing okay but I’m pretty sure I will puke if they spin me much more.  Would a real bull spin in this manner?  Being anti-rodeo and a veg-head, I don’t really know.  I let go, slide off the bull graciously—not!—and get a high five from Charles over the side of the bull ring.

And that’s it—I am not hanging at the country bar for any other reason.  The bull ride is done, bucket list item is checked, and it’s nearing two a.m.  We go next door for a drink, and then head to the Triple Cinco for a little after-party action.  MackTate has procured alcohol in anticipation of said event.

“It’s champagne, but more like wine,” he says proudly, pouring me a glass. Shrug.  I don’t really care.  Either one or a combo works!  It’s gone all too quickly, though, and I convince El D’s neighbor NewGuy to get me a drink.  He invites me up to his place, where not only do I get a vodka tonic, but some pita chips and hummous.  Sweet!  This guy did NOT know what he was getting into when he invited me over. 

He also has one of those little vacuum sweeper robots that roll around the apartment on their own while you’re not home.  While fascinating in concept, I am drunk and frightened.  When the robot spins around the room in my direction, I jump away from it.

My phone rings.  “Where are you?” El Dilector asks.

“Upstairs, duh,” I say, like this makes perfect sense.

We wave over the balcony to the group directly below.  Poor NewGuy.  He really doesn’t know what he’s started by getting involved with this crew.  After Party has just begun!

-Shakira 06.10.10