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On Friday night, my friend Alana accompanied me to a party at Stage 8 in Raleigh Studios down on Melrose. I had been invited to the party by the director of "Cult," a feature film to be released.
Long story short (to skip to the good part) - loud music, open bar, passed appetizers, open bar, fashion models wall-to-wall, open bar... oh, and open bar.
Now, my friend Alana has never been known as the girl who knows when to quit. Two, three, five, seven trips to the Bacardi hosted bar.
She was fine when we left - just a lot of giggles.
But let me just say that the minute we got to the parking garage outside of the studios - great big college nightmare.
First, Alana tried to convince me that she, between the two of us, was in the better state to drive. To prove this fact to me, the former UCF cheerleader attempted a hand-spring in the parking garage. When she landed on her rear end, she called it a fluke and, in the mindframe of 'if at first you don't succeed,' she tried, tried it again. No better luck on the second round... her arms gave out beneath her and she crash-landed on the concrete floor next to my truck.
Next, Alana brushed off her elbows and tried to walk the white line that separated parking spaces. Not quite a crash landing, but certainly no more a success.
After getting her to sit in the passenger's seat, I drove us out of the garage at Raleigh Studios and hit the Hollywood streets heading to the valley.
Nearly two blocks after leaving the studios, Alana announces she needs to go to the bathroom.
Fine, I see a Denny's.
We walk into Denny's... well, I walk into Denny's. Alana sways into Denny's. She goes to the ladies and then decides she would like to sit and eat something to help sober her up.
We take a seat at a booth near the center of the dining area and order two hot chocolates, some toast and hash browns.
Shortly after the hot chocolate arrives at the table, Alana looks at me sadly... she shakes her head a bit... raises her hand to her mouth... and proceeds to puke into her hand and all over the table.
Great.
After a minute or two, Alana manages to gather the strength to walk to the bathroom... but not before stopping to look around in the dining room and ask, "Are you laughing at me!?!?"
Okay. So. Breathe.
Seconds later, I follow her into the ladies room. Beneath the stall door, I can see that Alana has ditched her britches.
"Alana, please put on your pants. We have to go."
No response.
"Alana, we are in public. Put your pants on."
No response.
"Alana!!"
I hear a click as the door is unlocked and she slightly pushes the door open for me to enter.
After a whole lot of convincing, she has decided that she can in fact put her pants back on and leave the restaurant. However, she wants to put the pants on inside out so that people don't see the puke all over her britches.
Fine by me. Didn't want the crap in my truck no way.
With her pockets sticking out, she mosies back out of the restroom and through the doors of the restaurant.
I glance at our table... the food has arrived. Deciding to take Alana to the truck and then return and have our food boxed to go, I walk out of the restaurant.
Security follows me out. Six-foot, 4-inches of burly black man is waving a bill at me.
All I can think - "I am entirely too old for this."
Annoyed with my pantless friend and the toast that is now getting cold on our table, I snap at the security guy telling him, "Excuse your rudeness and take a look at my friend. Can you NOT see that she is in absolutely no condition to return to that eatery? Do you NOT agree that it is in the best interest of all involved that I get her settled and THEN return? Excuse you again, but you can take that check in your hand and get out of my way until such point as I am free to pay the check. By the way, perhaps you should worry more with the girls smoking pot in the bathroom, huh?"
There were no girls smoking pot in the bathroom. But it got him out of my face.
I locked Alana into the passenger's side of my truck and went back inside the restaurant. Our table had been cleared and new people were sitting there (likely unaware that their elbows rested where puke had rested only moments before).
Now I am just mad.
I go to the register where my bill waits (guess the security guy left it in good faith - ha). The guy behind the counter begins ringing my total.
"Um... where is my food?"
"We threw it away," he answered.
"Well, if you want me to pay for that food, then I suggest you cook it again, box it nicely in styrofoam, and bag it in one of those adorable plastic bags."
Eight dollars later, Alana and I are on our way home.
Yes, she took her pants off again.
When I got her to her apartment complex, she refused to put her pants on. Deja vu.
So, with her purse in one hands and her pants in the other, she walked from where I parked on the street up to her apartment wearing only black heels, a black thong, and a black satin shirt. Lovely.
When she called me the next morning, you can imagine her first words...
"I'm never drinking again."
.
.
On Friday night, my friend Alana accompanied me to a party at Stage 8 in Raleigh Studios down on Melrose. I had been invited to the party by the director of "Cult," a feature film to be released.
Long story short (to skip to the good part) - loud music, open bar, passed appetizers, open bar, fashion models wall-to-wall, open bar... oh, and open bar.
Now, my friend Alana has never been known as the girl who knows when to quit. Two, three, five, seven trips to the Bacardi hosted bar.
She was fine when we left - just a lot of giggles.
But let me just say that the minute we got to the parking garage outside of the studios - great big college nightmare.
First, Alana tried to convince me that she, between the two of us, was in the better state to drive. To prove this fact to me, the former UCF cheerleader attempted a hand-spring in the parking garage. When she landed on her rear end, she called it a fluke and, in the mindframe of 'if at first you don't succeed,' she tried, tried it again. No better luck on the second round... her arms gave out beneath her and she crash-landed on the concrete floor next to my truck.
Next, Alana brushed off her elbows and tried to walk the white line that separated parking spaces. Not quite a crash landing, but certainly no more a success.
After getting her to sit in the passenger's seat, I drove us out of the garage at Raleigh Studios and hit the Hollywood streets heading to the valley.
Nearly two blocks after leaving the studios, Alana announces she needs to go to the bathroom.
Fine, I see a Denny's.
We walk into Denny's... well, I walk into Denny's. Alana sways into Denny's. She goes to the ladies and then decides she would like to sit and eat something to help sober her up.
We take a seat at a booth near the center of the dining area and order two hot chocolates, some toast and hash browns.
Shortly after the hot chocolate arrives at the table, Alana looks at me sadly... she shakes her head a bit... raises her hand to her mouth... and proceeds to puke into her hand and all over the table.
Great.
After a minute or two, Alana manages to gather the strength to walk to the bathroom... but not before stopping to look around in the dining room and ask, "Are you laughing at me!?!?"
Okay. So. Breathe.
Seconds later, I follow her into the ladies room. Beneath the stall door, I can see that Alana has ditched her britches.
"Alana, please put on your pants. We have to go."
No response.
"Alana, we are in public. Put your pants on."
No response.
"Alana!!"
I hear a click as the door is unlocked and she slightly pushes the door open for me to enter.
After a whole lot of convincing, she has decided that she can in fact put her pants back on and leave the restaurant. However, she wants to put the pants on inside out so that people don't see the puke all over her britches.
Fine by me. Didn't want the crap in my truck no way.
With her pockets sticking out, she mosies back out of the restroom and through the doors of the restaurant.
I glance at our table... the food has arrived. Deciding to take Alana to the truck and then return and have our food boxed to go, I walk out of the restaurant.
Security follows me out. Six-foot, 4-inches of burly black man is waving a bill at me.
All I can think - "I am entirely too old for this."
Annoyed with my pantless friend and the toast that is now getting cold on our table, I snap at the security guy telling him, "Excuse your rudeness and take a look at my friend. Can you NOT see that she is in absolutely no condition to return to that eatery? Do you NOT agree that it is in the best interest of all involved that I get her settled and THEN return? Excuse you again, but you can take that check in your hand and get out of my way until such point as I am free to pay the check. By the way, perhaps you should worry more with the girls smoking pot in the bathroom, huh?"
There were no girls smoking pot in the bathroom. But it got him out of my face.
I locked Alana into the passenger's side of my truck and went back inside the restaurant. Our table had been cleared and new people were sitting there (likely unaware that their elbows rested where puke had rested only moments before).
Now I am just mad.
I go to the register where my bill waits (guess the security guy left it in good faith - ha). The guy behind the counter begins ringing my total.
"Um... where is my food?"
"We threw it away," he answered.
"Well, if you want me to pay for that food, then I suggest you cook it again, box it nicely in styrofoam, and bag it in one of those adorable plastic bags."
Eight dollars later, Alana and I are on our way home.
Yes, she took her pants off again.
When I got her to her apartment complex, she refused to put her pants on. Deja vu.
So, with her purse in one hands and her pants in the other, she walked from where I parked on the street up to her apartment wearing only black heels, a black thong, and a black satin shirt. Lovely.
When she called me the next morning, you can imagine her first words...
"I'm never drinking again."
posted by Doris @ 12:43 PM
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