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My Weekend: Freaky Friday (no not like THAT y'all, calm down)

Mar 10, 2014

A typical weekend for me goes something like this:

Friday
  • Grab a bite and maybe a drink with a friend around U Street.
  • Catch up on any shows I missed during the week.
  • Asleep before midnight.
Saturday
  • Up by 9.
  • Make breakfast and watch some TV.
  • Work on my blog for a couple of hours.
  • Some sort of activity with someone if the weather is nice -- walk to a park, catch a museum, meet for a coffee, etc.
  • Dinner with a friend, possibly dancing afterwards.
  • Home by midnight.
Sunday
  • Church meeting at 10.
  • Lunch with a friend afterwards.
  • Grocery shopping.
  • Cleaning and cooking for the week.
  • The Walking Dead at 9.
  • Asleep by 11.
This past weekend was atypical. In so, so many ways. I'll have to break it up into 3-4 posts, actually. 

So. Friday night. Here we go.

My friend C and I had planned a happy hour, but both of us got held up, so we ended up meeting at The Fainting Goat a little after 7 p.m. I'm great at finagling seats at a bar, so I got us two. Here's how you do it:



The problem with doing this when you simply planned to meet for happy hour is you get comfy and happy hour turns into seven hours, as in no, Daylight Savings starts tomorrow and it is actually 2 a.m. now.

We were having a great time catching up, making friends with the new bartender, Jason, and letting him make up drinks for us. We had ordered a cheese board and it all felt very sophisticated and cosmopolitan. It was exactly the kind of evening that should not end with you throwing gang signs with a random dude at Buffalo Billiards.

C had just told me she wanted to set me up with her friend T-something when he texted her that he was nearby and we should meet him. I assumed "nearby" meant 14th Street. C told me that I was incorrect, it was in Dupont.

I haven't had awesome experiences in the Dupont night life, so I told myself that I would be reserved and stay for an hour tops then book it out of there. (I just realized I never blogged about my Dupont Near-Death experiences from my first couple of years in DC...I'll have to pull those stories out of the memory vault at some point.)

Dupont doesn't have  to be horrible; it's just that it tends to attract a younger crowd because college students in DC tend to stay around Georgetown, Dupont and Adams Morgan, which just reinforces my desire to only hang out in my neighborhood -- U Street/Logan Circle. But if you go to Buffalo Billiards, you know you're in for a rowdy night.

We stepped inside, showed the bouncer our IDs and entered the large room, filled with pool tables and packed with people. The music was loud but, surprisingly, C and I had no trouble hearing each other talk. I noticed a couple of people sitting at a table and signing to each other. l didn't think much of it until we walked further in and I saw more people signing.

"C," I said, grabbing her arm to stop her. "Am I crazy, or is everyone in here doing sign language?"

"You're drunk," she firmly stated. People have often assumed I'm drunk since college. Before college they blamed my behavior on me being boy crazy. And as a child I was called "a good conversationalist." The point is, I'm usually not drunk -- I'm just an extreme extrovert and therefore find filtering my thoughts highly difficult. Also I like to dance. And sing. No alcohol required.

"I'm not drunk, C," I insisted, stopping in my tracks. "Look!"

And sure enough, I was right. Everyone was signing. I felt like I was in an alternate universe or something. I'd never been in a bar where no one was talking except they were.

We soon forgot about it when we found T and I immediately determined he wasn't my type. Look -- I'm in my 30s and I'm allowed to determine such things quickly if I want to. It doesn't make me picky. I just know what I want...and we'll get to that when I cover Saturday night.

T was with a friend K, and he and C went to get us drinks. K had just moved here from Germany, and I felt really bad that this is probably what she thought American professionals do on Friday nights. We need some better entertainment, pronto. We'll call him Arkansas.

Arkansas had a mustache with little twirlies on the ends of it. He was walking by and I assumed it would be totally find if I touched it. He was game and stuck around to chat it up with me. Ten minutes into the conversation, I'd forgotten about K and I was trying to contain the thrill rising up in me because all I could think was, I am talking to my future husband! I'm so glad I came here tonight! This is HAPPENING! 

I flirtatiously touched his arm. Oh my goodness, y'all, his biceps...I can't even...oh my gosh. "How'd you get these?!" I asked him.

"I play football," he said. I assumed on the weekends.

He was from Arkansas and had a dog named Rhett, as in Rhett Butler. I had pulled out my Southern accent and my drawl was getting borderline ridiculous the longer we talked. He asked me for my phone number and if he could take me out on a date sometime. ON A DATE. Finally! An emotionally evolved man! 

After I'd given him my number, I leaned in and said, "By the way, have you seen everyone signing? It was kinda trippy when I first walked in."

"Yeah, they're all deaf," he said.

"Well duuuuuuh," I drawled.

"I mean, they're here together. Galludet University has a college for the deaf."

"Oh, I didn't know that. How did you know that?"

His mustache wiggled as he chuckled at me. "Because I'm with them!"

"Wait a sec...you're not deaf, are you?" I was so confused.

"I prefer hard of hearing, and yes, I am, but just in one ear."

"Wait...you're with them?!" The horror was creeping up to me.

"Yeah, I told you I play football."

"I thought it was tag football on the weekends or something!"

I'd lost my accent and he was laughing. Whhhhhhhhhhy world, WHYYYYYYYYYYY?!

"Please tell me you're at least 23," I pleaded. Twenty-three would absolutely be too young, so I don't know why it mattered.

"Uh, nope."

"You're 21, aren't you? You're twenty-one."

"Yep," he said. His mustache smile burned into my brain. "Aaaand..." he started, eyebrows raised, wanting to know how old I am but too much of a Southern Gentleman to come right out and ask it.

"Oh I'm 65," I retorted, slumping and scowling. He laughed again and said he was going to get a drink. He did not come back.

But I made the most of it, y'all. I put on some Britney and then some Katy on the jukebox, and I started a dance party in our little section, and then I borrowed a dude's hat and we had a whole conversation on my phone in the text function. It was pretty fun! I hate yelling over music to talk anyway!

When Tupac came on, though, I realized being deaf or hard of hearing doesn't prevent you from recognizing a good beat. And I remembered I do know one sign...



East Coast 4-Evs!

6 comments:

  1. Barbara Kelley FrankMon Mar 10, 03:53:00 PM

    Showing quite a bit of leg there MEP!! Flaunt them while you can, honey. One of God's cruelest tricks is what happens to women's legs after 50 NO MATTER HOW THIN THEY ARE.

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  2. I really love how you go the southern twang in that chart above! Kuddos:) xo

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  3. Hmm...I posted it and my mother flipped out. I've been reevaluating my entire life now because it wasn't even that bad...

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  4. This was pretty damn good - too bad you left, I could have gotten the details at work ;)

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