Wednesday, May 04, 2005

Oh. My. God. Becky.

Last night, in celebration of Kai's very last nursing school clinical and my regular paychecks (let's keep on the bright side of my continued tenure at my current company, eh?), we decided to really cut loose, really let our hair down, really show the world that we're young and fun and still lustful for life despite all its lemon-dispensing.

We went for an almost early-bird dinner at Chili's. Girls gone wild! Girls gone wild! I'll have the buffalo chicken salad, please! Girls gone wild!

Somewhere between noticing the margarita oh-so-invitingly named "El Nino" ("It's like an eight dollar strawberry Gulf Stream coursing down your throat and out your urethra!") and the arrival of our Classic Nachos, a couple of girls were seated in the booth next to us. They couldn't have been older than sixteen. Upon sitting, both girls immediately shed their clothing down to tank tops, reapplied their lip gloss, and propped their manicured, flip-flopped feet up on the booth in a way I was shocked their pelvis-crackingly tight jeans permitted.

I kind of loved them, even though I could peripherally see one girl's toes wiggling all come-hither on the seat throughout my entire entree. They succeeded in shit-talking all of their mutual friends, including their waitress, before even ordering their drinks. When their friend the waitress returned with their iced teas, Toes connived her into talking to a looker over at the bar on her behalf. "It's just," she explained loudly while adjusting her boobs, "I'm way too shy to go over there."

"Now go tell him you have a really hot shy friend sitting in your section, and I'll be standing by the bathrooms, and then you come and get me, and then I'll take over. Got it?"

I didn't see how the love connection panned out. My salad proved kind of distracting, and besides, a big wall between the dining room and bar thwarted any attempts to eavesdrop on Toes McWallflower. She returned to her booth looking bored at best, so I can only assume that nothing notable happened. Their appetizers alone turned these girls into raving shriek factories; if anything fantastic or tragic had happened, it would've been broadcast like the evening news.

Then the soccer team invaded. Twelve sporty girls still wearing their knee socks annexed the three booths surrounding Toes and friend, who seemed to be acquainted with and disdainful of all of them. The soccer team sent a goodwill envoy to Toes' table, and after a few minutes of negotiations and small talk an armistice appeared to have been reached between the subtly warring factions.

Then Toes rolled her eyes at the soccer girl as she returned to her booth, and the latter unabashedly whispered about the former to every teammate within earshot.

So much for the promise of the great Pax Chilis Adolecentana.

Amidst our obvious, Jane Goodall style observation of both groups, Kai and I realized we were in the presence of both ends of the high school popularity continuum, the yin and the yang, the slut and the jocky prepster. Rave versus American Eagle. Thong versus "boyshort." Sneaks-into-clubs versus organizes-the-dance. "Want a beej?" versus "I was gonna wait until marriage, but I really love you, and it's prom night."

I was envious of both the sporty girls and the slutty girls when I was in high school. They were equally popular, but I could never decide whether I'd rather be at the Gap after school modeling khakis for the captain of the lacrosse team, or sneaking cigarettes and making out in the woods with a nineteen year old sophomore. I still can't quite decide (though my heart kind of leans toward the too much mousse, not enough clothing hussies), but watching their skirmish over territory in a chain Mexican restaurant makes me glad I'm neither them, nor me, at age 16 any more. I just don't have the energy. I'm too tired for every meal, every trip to the mall, every excursion outside my bedroom to be a battle.

I'll leave you with one of three fortunes I got in one single fortune cookie over the weekend. With three fortunes packed inside one cookie I was convinced that there had to be some kind of cosmic truth in there somewhere, but I'll leave it to you to decide. The fortunes progressed from banal (something about my journey) to untrue (something about my kind nature) to outright absurd:

Maybe, one day you will walk on the moon.

5 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

If you write a book, so help me God I will purchase 10 hardcover copies just in case 9 of them get stolen or eaten by dogs. Write a fucking book! Don't make me sic Scott Savol on you.
-Clare

2:22 PM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

Speaking of: I think his "On Broadway" was really good last night. Doesn't forgive the fact that he threw a phone at the mother of his child, but he definitely sang the crap out of "On Broadway."

Federov's GOIN' HOME tonight.

2:39 PM  
Blogger Kunaxa said...

:(
I was planning on asking "Who Goes Home Tonight" yet again. However, that just sounds stupid right now.

I'm afraid it'll be Vonzell (I will be very, very sad if so) or Carrie.

4:45 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I will concede that Scott was not as horrible as usual last night, although his ego seems to have inflated even more. Which is odd, since the nationwide explosion of votefortheworst.com would send any sane person into an inescapable shame spiral.

Either Vonzell or Anthony is definitely going home. Sadly, I think it might be Vonzell, because Anthony was dissed so handily last night that his fans may have worked extra-hard to keep him around for another week, Scott has a nation of haters cheering for him, and Bo and Carrie's fanbases are impenetrable to the degree of (shudder) Clay Aiken.
-Clare

4:58 PM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

Ciao Mr. Savol. Honestly, I'm a little surprised. Anthony HAS to go next week. He's atrocious.

8:59 AM  

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