It’s been a long, long time since I “went out” in Greensboro. Normally when I’m in town, it’s all about cramming as much quality time with my fam into each and every second I’m here. This trip isn’t as hectic as usual though, so I had a little time to see non-family peeps.
I caught up with some gals from high school at a bar called Coopers. My beer was $1.50. Let me state that again for (both) my New York readers – MY BEER WAS $1.50. After 7pm. On a Saturday. I felt like I was stealing! That’s about the only upside I can find for going out drinking in Greensboring. Sadly there are two significant downsides – getting home and smelling like an ashtray.
While the photos rapidly appearing on Facebook this morning would have you believe I got trashed last night, I sadly stayed sober. I didn’t live through three months of chemo to die in a twisted heap of Ginny. Had I been able to stumble home, jump on the subway, or hail a cab, I may well have burned through a whole $20 worth of $1.50 beers and $3 shots. I guess that’s why the ‘rents and I usually stick with the box of wine at home.
Had I stopped to think of it, I probably would have expected smoking indoors to still be legal here in the tobacco belt. It kinda sneaks up on you when you’re sitting there for a long period of time. When I got home and pulled my dress over my head, the overwhelming ashtray smell nearly made me hurl. Now this morning my head feels like I’ve been reading about stochastic systems all night and storing concrete mushrooms in my nasal cavity. Even Mom won’t give my stinky self a good morning cuddle.
All the negatives aside, I still had a damn entertaining evening. The girls had set me up with a ridiculous hat and ginormous balloon so the entire bar knew whom to pick on. It only took a few short moments for some drunk ass bleach blond to descend on our table. “Who’s the birthday bitch?” she screamed as she moved across the room towards our corner. The girls pointed as I tried to duck beneath the table. “You need a shirt!” With that she whipped open her bag of tricks and started eyeing my boobs for sizing. It was all rather uncomfortable. Long story short, I am now the proud owner of a black long sleeve “Crazy Bitch, North Carolina” t-shirt. Mmmhmmm, don’t try and pretend you aren’t jealous.
Next the girls somehow talked me into trying the specialty of the house – a shot entitled “Oatmeal Cookie.” Fortunately the name had more to do with the flavor than the consistency. The girls described it as really tasty but with a “cinnamon burn.” The ingredients included Goldschlager, Butterscotch Schnapps, and Baileys Cream. When it arrived, it looked more like mop water than a beverage. It was the kind of fluid I don’t step in unless wearing galoshes. Interestingly, it smelled like Christmas. It did not taste like Christmas. It also did not taste like oatmeal. I don’t see me sitting around and mixing up a batch of those bad boys any time soon.
As we were leaving the bar, the t-shirt peddling “crazy bitch” made a beeline for me and put a hand on each of my shoulders to steady herself. Slurring heavily her eyes rolled back a little in her head as she asked, “Are you leaving already?” I nodded. She sighed heavily. “I sure did like meeting you ya crazy bitch.”
Right backatcha lady.