I LOVE HOTELS. i really do. of any variety. maybe not shitty motels that you can rent by the hour, although i have most certainly been in that kind..., but to me there is nothing better than sitting in a giant bed that i don't have to make when i get out of it, watching cable and soaking up air conditioning that someone else is paying for. i get rooms for myself as often as i can afford it, and my fabulous ass and i get room service and watch all the hbo we can cram into a 24 hour period. or, because i don't want to get suckered into drinking the 12 dollar bottles of voss still (really?!) on the bedside table, i arrive armed with water, diet coke, and the kind of portable food that could survive a nuclear attack.
last april (holy fuck, it's been almost a year?!) my love nina got married and i flew out to san diego and wedged myself into a very chic tea length bridesmaid's dress and before i talk about how much i lurved the hotel, can i just say that i was literally EXPLODING out of the top of that dress? hot, i know, but that dress was total tits on toast and sitting through a catholic mass with pretty much everything but my nipples exposed was a little, um, breezy for my tastes. not to mention that i had this ravaged, hacking cough at the time that i could scarcely control and everyone reading this knows what your boobs do when you're coughing your brains out. they dislodge themselves and threaten to blacken both your eyes. ugh. dudes who love huge tits should try wearing some for a week, then talk about how great they are. as soon as i'm rich i'm getting a fucking reduction.
anyfourclaspbra, i stayed at this hotel that wasn't super fabulous or fancy or whatever, but my room had TWO BEDS and a view of gorgeous palm trees whenever i opened the curtains. plus it was a few steps away from this little mexican spot that had the most delicious rolled tacos you could ever imagine. i alternated which bed i slept in; once i even switched in the middle of the night. what a rebel. san diego is totally my jam. i should live there. i already talk like a fucking valley girl. i mean totally dude! and my SD beezys all have fun, summery names that make you think of coachella and beach volleyball and glass bowls and the white girls in snoop dogg videos: nina, izzy, lindsey, killer katlyn, and carlee. tell me you don't want a cerveza and some hot carrots right now.
but i can't move because i can't go back to a job where i don't get to boss somebody around 100% of the time, and that's presicely what happens when you start a new job in a new city for which you checked "some college" on the application. i haven't spent eight years destroying my allergies and ruling with an iron fist to start over flipping in and out burgers. eff that. (those bitches ARE delicious, though.) so i'll just have to keep saving my pocket change and flying out to get drunk in the sunshine with bitches who swear that only they have the best carne asada in the country. seriously. karen made me take a carne asada burrito home, and it was so flame i ate that shit in the airport. that must have been a sight for sore eyes. totally gross. because i had this gnarly cough and it was right as swine flu was wiping out every third mexican, so people were giving me the "cough one more time and i'll punch you in the face" eye, and i'm coughing and trying to eat this messy ass burrito which was totally worth the death stares. they weren't kidding. california ain't fucking around, mang.
so akilah called me a couple weeks before my birthday and was like, "what are you doing saturday? i got us a room at the W downtown. let's have girls' night."
i feel it warrants repeating every single time it comes up, and fuck you if you don't like it, but female friendships are serrrriously THE MOST important thing to me. and they should be just as important to every vagina reading this, if for no other reason than your boyfriend is NEVER going to sit around dissecting and analyzing last week's episode of gossip girl with you. unless he's a homo. which is AWESOME, but you might want to find a new BOYFRIEND. one who won't notice that you're trying to grow out your layers or that your tory burch shoes are FAKES.
so i was like, "yeah, bitch! let's DO this!" and we got the party ball(s) rolling. she, angie, and i were going to meet at the W, get drunk, get dinner, get more drunk, and cruise for hot asses. well that was MY plan. maybe i shouldn't speak for them.
i came home from work that afternoon and had a couple campari and sodas, because i like to get the party started EARLY. the problem with getting drunk at two in the afternoon is that it's hard not to be sleepy and useless afterward. needless to say my disco nap ran long, but those lovely ladies were sweet enough to drive all the way up to siberia to get me. i really do live far, huh? oh, i know. i did it on purpose, just to piss you off. but here's the thing about the ropa: have you ever looked at the RENTS up here? oh, i know. it's not as hip as logan or wicker or ukrainian or roscoe. no, it for sure isn't hyde p or bucktown or river east. and it's no lp or andersonville or lakeview or wrigley, either. (ew. if wrigleyville is your ideal living area get the fuck off this blog.)
but where else could one find a sprawling three bedroom apartment-estate for 900 bucks?! and i want those of you lucky enough to have gotten a glimpse of my perfect little slice of heaven to remember that my rent is less than your car note. and it's AWESOME. i'm just sayin'. and maya and sarah and julia live up here, too, which just further substantiates my argument. move up here and party with the hippies like we do. come on! come explore the (really fucking far) north side! we'll take you to grupo di amici and then the glenwood, and we'll finish up the evening at the morseland or something. OR we can get dinner at uncommon ground then go to the pumping company (best.bar.name.EVER.) and get underaged loyola dudes to pay for our drinks with their student loan money or textbook stipend or whatever.
i have a good friend with a part-time barista job who lives in an apartment the size of a shoebox on the gold coast WITH A ROOMMATE and her HALF of the rent is higher than mine ENTIRELY. sure, she can walk right out of her door and into all the hot douchelord bars and hipster restaurants, but she can't afford to eat in any of them. she just sits at the bar looking cute with her stomach growling until some pinkshirt (barf) takes pity on her sorry ass and puts a pinot grigio on his tab. so i may have to pay twenty bucks for a cab home, snotbag, but at least i don't have to jump it at a red light two blocks away from my place because paying my exorbitant rent left me with just enough money to do the laundry and buy a 7 day.
so the three of us get to the hotel and, after a little valet confusion, walk inside and check in. so the W is supposed to be hot shit, right? all young, sleek, cool modernity? mm hmm. granted, the lobby was certainly a little more awesome than that of your average holiday inn, but it definitely didn't knock my balls off. the hotel intercontinental in milwaukee where i stayed when i was up there hanging with my tara was more dope. now, there was no trashy euro-house pulsing through invisible speakers like the W, but i'm pretty sure that's some shit i could live without. there were a few nicely-appointed people tapping away on laptops, looking all busy, but you know they were just checking their facebooks.
maybe i should stop watching tv and listening to random conversations on the bus, but i was expecting to feel like i'd been transported to fabulosity, usa the second we got there. not so. it felt like any other hotel, all insulated and soundproof-y. but with cuter purple striped carpets. our room wasn't anything to shit about either. two full beds, a flatscreen, and other hotel-y stuff. WITH ONE NOTABLE EXCEPTION. the bathroom was, for lack of a better adjective, OPEN. like, it had a cutout window OPEN. no door OPEN. there were wood shutters that you could close over the window, and what was essentially a scrim that was meant to be pulled over the door, but there was basically ZERO way to separate oneself from the pee. or the puke. or the DUMP.
someone please tell me who the fuck this was meant for?! first of all, it was a DOUBLE ROOM. and bed #1 was maybe twelve inches from the "window." what if we had been coworkers on a business trip?! would you really want stan from two cubicles over to listen to you fart? is there anyone you'd want to listen to you fart?! maybe if you're 18 and you never eat and therefore never poo that's some hot business, but NOT SO for any normal adult. you might as well drag a potty into the middle of the room and be all, "sorry to interrupt this episode of cheaters, but i thought you guys might like to witness my grunt face. hey, look! there's a piece of corn in there!"
the only thing i could think of was that maybe one person would be lying bed watching the other in the shower, but i immediately dismissed that because the thought of how awkward and weird that would be grossed me out. and again, if that IS the purpose, why in a room with two beds? just to be "different" and "strange" and "cutting-edge," that's why. because if you're a moron you think that kind of shit is cool. whereas if you are practical yet glam (ahem), you understand that at SOME point in the evening that is going to be a potential point of crushing embarassment.
i am freakishly obsessed with aziz ansari's new stand up dvd (i luh him), and there's one tiny part where he's talking about how awful it is the first time you bring someone back to su casa and you have to crap, and how you turn on the stereo and the sink and the tub and anything else you can find so your new squeeze won't know (they ALWAYS KNOW), and then you hope they don't have to pee or wash their hands or whatever so they won't smell your shit. that was all i could think about for the first FIVE MINUTES we were there, how horrific it would be if your unsuspecting ass got this room with some smoking hot piece and then had baby guts and not only did he hear it, but it was AMPLIFIED. and a foot away from his bed! tragic.
akilah is my kind of whore, and she pulled out a bag not only full of liquor, but ALSO containing a blender with which to mix it all up. WHAT?! that's so next level partying i can't even handle it. take that, amateurs! within minutes of returning from the ice room she'd whipped up some electric orange concoction that got me drunk after two sips. bang up job, sister. DYNAMITE.
i had my party pants on up to my chin, and we finished our cocktails and left to get a cab for dinner. now i'm a champion drinker. really, i have a belt knocking around somewhere in my closet. despite alcohol's depressive effect, getting tanked just makes me stronger. so i was ready to GO. we went to ben pao and were informed that there was a seven month wait (not really, but i felt like i could gestate a puppy in the time it took for us to get a goddamned table) so we sat at the bar. i had THREE super strong "shanghai coladas" (isn't that cute?!) in the time it would take a large man to finish a heineken, and i was starting to feel pretty good. i love that liquor magic. angie and kilah were drinking some martini shit that had big leaves or fruit or something in it (but i might be wrong, i was trashed), and we ordered a ton of appetizers.
some things even fresh-squeezed orange juice can't cure.
and fairytales are for cunts.
viva la girls' night!