Best Friends Understand Your Rage
Last night, outside of Four Peaks Brewery at about 7:30 (I’m going to censor this for its grossly excessive potty-mouthness, and because apparently my 11 year old sometimes reads this blog):
*Ring*
Rebecca – Hey!
Me – I’M ALREADY SO bleep-ING SORRY I CAME TO THIS STUPID HAPPY HOUR. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? WHY CAN’T YOU HAVE HAPPY HOUR ACTUALLY AT A bleep-ING NORMAL HAPPY HOUR TIME AND NOT AT LIKE MIDNIGHT WHEN SENSIBLE PEOPLE SHOULD BE HOME WATCHING TV IN STRETCHY PANTS?
Rebecca – OK, it’s not midnight, so just take a deep breath…
Me – AND WHERE THE bleep ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO PARK AT THIS IDIOT BAR? THE ENTIRE GODDAMN SQUARE MILE RADIUS IS FILLED WITH CARS AND PEOPLE! WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO GO TO SOME PLACE WITH THIS MANY bleep-ING PEOPLE?
Rebecca – You can park in the alley behi-
Me – NO YOU CANNOT. I JUST DROVE THROUGH THERE AND ALMOST RAN MY CAR INTO ABOUT EIGHT OTHER CARS AND SEVERAL PEDESTRIANS BECAUSE IT WAS SO FULL. THIS PLACE MUST BE A bleep-ING MADHOUSE INSIDE! WE’LL NEVER GET FOOD. I’M NEVER GOING TO GET TO EAT AGAIN. I’M GOING TO WASTE AWAY AND DIE OF HUNGER.
Rebecca – Well, we have a high-top table just inside the door, so I’ll order you a glass of wine right now so it’s waitin-
Me – YOU’RE ALREADY THERE?! HOW ARE YOU ALREADY THERE? YOU TEXTED ME WHEN I WAS HALFWAY AND SAID YOU WERE JUST LEAVING YOUR HOUSE. WHY DO I LIVE SO MOTHER bleep-ING FAR AWAY? AND I DON’T WANT WINE, I WANT A MARGARITA, ON THE ROCKS, NO SALT. AND SOME HUMMUS!!!
Rebecca – OK, see you in a bit. *Click* We need to order Mini* some hummus and a margarita. Find a waitress, quick.
Times like this are when it’s good to have a BFF who’s known me long enough she understands I’m not actually yelling at her. I’m yelling at the broken key to my GOV that means I have to set the alarm off every time I go to unlock the car, completely humiliating myself in front of my dance studio, in the parking lot at my son’s school and at the grocery store. I’m yelling at the short sale closing that derailed late yesterday because the title company, the tax records, the street sign and I couldn’t come to a consensus about whether the address should be Drive or Court. I’m yelling at the insanity of the market that caused me to run around like a kindergartner on meth in an attempt to secure a dream property for a buyer yesterday.
Also? She knew a little booze and food would get my OABS in check. Thanks, Bec. And good luck to Adam, for whom the Happy Hour was in honor, on his departure of the land of cactus and sun. I hope Denver treats you well.
*Childhood nickname I still answer to for certain friends and family.