I should start by saying I wasn’t in the best of moods to go out. I like to argue with my body when it tells me that I don’t want to go out, and force it to go out anyway. Makes me feel like I’m fighting depression. The exception is when I feel like I really need a drink, I try to make sure I don’t have one because that would be giving into depression. And when my body tells me that should totally shag the hot boy I just danced with, I don’t argue, cause, hey…hot boy. Or when it tells me that I should sleep in on the weekends because I stayed out drinking… Ok, so I’m inconsistent. Whatever.
So I went out to a charity party that benefitted a battered women & children’s shelter. Never mind the irony of going to The Ranch to party, which can lead to drinking, poor decision making, conceiving children and getting battered. That’s not the point. The point was to be seen at a charity function with other classy people.
I have heard that this bar is an incredible meat market. I have heard that the douchebag factor is through the roof (oh, except the place doesn’t HAVE a roof—it’s too cool for that). I read the reviews, and thought “Hey, I can take it. It’s for charity.” Stupid me.
I wandered upstairs, and while doing so, pondered the panties that the woman in front of me was wearing. I could see them. Her skirt was that short. At least they were clean. It appears that the unwritten dress code for this joint was tight, short, and tottering. The higher the heels, the higher the hemline. Nothing like a bunch of inebriated, war-painted, foundation-spackled, silicone-enhanced stilt-walkers to make me feel inadequate. But at least all my parts are real, I was relatively warm, and I could walk back to the car under my own power while still wearing the shoes I wore in.
I waded through the douche to the bar and ordered a drink. The upstairs bar pours weak. When you want a real drink, go inside. Just be advised that the manly cologne assault is much worse when you’re indoors. Maybe that’s why they have no roof upstairs? They’re venting the fumes. You’d think the synthetic shirts were flammable enough without the accelerant cologne. And these fools were smoking? Pinhole burn to conflagration in seconds…way to die in a fire (h/t Wil Wheaton).
I fought my way back through the throng of thongs to see the catwalk where the Bachelor/Bachelorette auction would take place. This was something of a mistake. When former Mayor, Will Wynn, decided to strip off his shirt and twirl it over his head, I was grateful for the frat fuck that was blocking most of my view. I got a shot of Wynn’s pecs, and somehow managed to keep my drink down.
As I averted my eyes from the horror that is Will Wynn’s chest hair, I noticed a woman spectator to my left. She had finely quaffed hair, and was wearing all black. She was standing awkwardly, and I wanted to get a look at her face to see if she was ok. Turns out, using a deeply plunged neckline to distract men from noticing that your eyes are crossed is marginally effective. Too bad I’m not into boobs. And, sister, if your heels are so high that you are physically incapable of standing upright, they’re too tall. Ballet boots aren’t meant to be worn while standing. You’re already fighting the eyes, don’t add a ridiculously swayed back to the mix, even if it does present your cleavage even more. Yes, it makes your ass look big.
I think I talked to two people the whole night. One of those was because he had just stepped on my foot, the other asked me if I was in line to get in. I guess my long pants and sensible flats made me uninteresting. Or maybe they were distracted by the cross-eyed boobs to my left.
To their credit, the whole event raised upwards of $60,000 for SafePlace. But next time, I’m giving straight to the charity.
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