Wednesdays used to me the night that Spliff and I would get home from work, stay there long enough to say hello to the cats, and then head out to Happy Hour for too many half-price martinis. I’ve missed that. And driving home from work yesterday, I wanted nothing more than to stop and have a nice, big Bellini (or two…but not three because that’s when I fall down.) and forget the day. Unfortunately, Spliff had plans for dinner with Party Boy and Jennagiraffe and I were knee deep in evening plans of our own so the idea quickly vanished and I instead poured a rum and coke and played with my new toy. Stitch-witchery. Because I am that much of a dork and I have entirely too many hems that needed to be fixed.
Needless to say, the night ended up much like the Wednesdays of yesteryear (without the martinis). We started out at one place and then got the craving for super expensive draft beer and the same old reggae band. And it felt like we were home again. Rightly so, I suppose. It was our first trip back to the Irish Pub with the Wednesday Reggae night. The home of the Psycho Rasta, the crackhead lady who sells roses (“You wannaaa buyya roooooose?”), and the cocky little blonde kid who desperately wants to hang with the cool kids (so he took a job there and went from punk rock to a Rastafarian in a matter of days). Luckily, there was no Psycho Rasta there and Cocky Blonde Kid stayed mostly to himself only stopping once to make some stupid comment after Spliff called him a tool.
It really seemed like we never left our little beach town. The faces were the same ones we used to see every week. The “Bill Cosby Butt Guy” (don’t ask, I couldn’t even attempt to explain the nickname to you) stood in front of the stage, his long legs moving up and down in time with the music. Iman was there with his girlfriend, laughing and illuminating the room with his smile. King Eddie sang a few new songs but managed to belt out “Red, Red Wine” early enough that Spliff and I could be dragged out onto the dance floor by Party Boy and Marcus and then mid-song decide that dancing with them really wasn’t that great and escaping to spin each other in circles and giggle while they stood motionless and confused. Who needs to dance with boys? I have Spliff.
We’ve been joking about being life-partners. Not because we want to make out (seriously people, head out of the gutter) but because we keep saying things like, “WE like decks.” And “WE love reggae music.” And because we have cats and have lived together now on and off for several years and we finish each other’s sentences (even really ridiculous sentences that I am surprised either of us dared to say aloud). It’s actually kind of sad. But shit, at least MY girlfriend is hot.
(Don't worry JGJ, you really are more my type. I dig your lack of...breasts.)