I know you were expecting a birthday post as usual, but nothing about yesterday’s birthday was usual. Like I mentioned before, what I really, really wanted was a birthday party, but since I came to that realization late. I decided to settle on having dinner with friends. This, too, was a late decision that only came on Wednesday night. I texted people on Thursday morning, and the dinner was on Friday night – my birthday – January, 14th 2011.
Before we went out for the evening, Funmie told me that she went to the store and tried unsuccessfully to buy me that dress, the one I wanted so badly a while ago. I had gone to the store to buy a dress, but I fell in love with two dresses. Not being able to afford two at the same time, I ended up buying one and leaving the other one. It was the other one she tried to get me, but couldn’t find. I didn’t tell her, but when I got off the phone with her, I cried. I thought it was so sweet of her to try to get me that dress. Too bad she’s a woman. We would have been married with two point five kids and a white picket fence by now. A very high, very electrocuted white picket fence. And a Hugh Jackman – looking gate man to boot. Just in case wifey gets bored *coughs* Love you, Funmie. I’ll arrange a small accident for your husband if he makes you cry.
We went to Eden’s Lounge – a place I had never, ever been to before. And I have lived in Baltimore for a decade *bows head in shame* I have been good at blogging and growing my virtual social network, but going out … to lounges … on Friday nights … on my birthday … Downtown Baltimore? Yeah, not so much. No, not at all. Most people didn’t make it. The ones that did, they made me laugh till I cried – literally. I’ll skip the boring details and move to the interesting part.
Time to order. Busola – God bless her heart – decided she’ll only order a plate of chicken wings because she did not care to try anything else. No, make that two plates of chicken wings. Funmie had one order of chicken wings, too, and an order of crab cakes. Chinwe and I had mango chicken qausidillas and chicken wings. And Ibukun had beef springs rolls and fries. I had starved myself all day for this dinner, but by the time I had two mango chicken quesadillas, a few wings, and a handful of fries, I couldn’t go through half of my food. Maybe it had something to do with the drinks.
Oh, the drinks! I first ordered two mango martinis. You can tell I like mango-flavored things, right? Prior to yesterday night, I don’t think I had ever drunk a whole glass of any alcoholic drink. After the two mango martinis, I had two more mango martinis. I still don’t know how I did it. Four glasses down, I started feeling a little funny. Both of my eyes were watering, and I didn’t know why. I think I know why now.
At about 10PM, we were relocated to a different part of the lounge. We didn’t know that the lounge turned into a club on Friday nights. So, there we were … in a club. More people joined us. By the way, if you see Chinwe, tell her I’ll be sending a bill to her for making me laugh like a hyena. This girl danced like no one was watching her. She had a peach martini. Funmi had a peach martini, too. Ibukun had a Long Island ice tea … and four shots of Blue Motorcycle [vodka & gin]. Speaking of Blue Motorcycle, Funmi bought one, told me to close my eyes and open my mouth … and voila, it went down my throat.
My current count: four glasses of Mango Martini and a shot of Blue Motorcycle.
A friend who was there, he bought me a Burberry London perfume set – God bless his heart for enabling my love obsession for fragrances. He had two glasses of Greygoose mixed with pineapple juice. I don’t know if there’s a fancy name for this drink. I had two sips gulps of his cocktail. I didn’t like it cause it warmed the inside of my throat. It took the second gulp to realize that. He decided to buy me two glasses of pineapple juice.
My current count: four glasses of mango martini, one shot of Blue Motorcycle, two gulps of greygoose and pineapple juice, and two glasses of pineapple juice.
Funmie was my designated driver. The chic was so hyper that at some point, I was not sure if having her drive me home was a good idea. The way she was dancing, I was scared for my life. Busola had on flat shoes, yet she danced for a bit and had the nerves to sit down because her feet huer. My four-three-quarter inch heels and I did not part for one second. I fear that if care is not taken, my friends and I will end up getting old before we get old. We need to go out more often.
When the lounge turned into a club, our mouths dropped at the dance moves we saw. One particular chic, her sole mission was to dry hump all the security guys. I had a conspiracy theory: she was doing it to distract security so that her accomplice would do dirt at some other part of the club. Okay, so perhaps, I have watched too many action flicks. The other chic, she was giving away free lap dances like it was a cold virus. For a brief minute, I considered getting one, too. I also had a conspiracy theory for her: she was getting paid. I cannot quite justify my reason for the creativity to come up with this theory.
The way the second girl twisted her body, I was fascinated. Men gawked, their faces begged to have a piece of what she offered. Women stared. Some were jealous, tried to feign their jealousy as disgust. Most – like me – watched with curious eyes, wishing they could do what she did. She may have called what she was doing lap dancing. It looked more like dry-friggin-humpin’ – the musical. And I liked it! *Insert embarrassed Igbo face* At some point, she danced with one of my guests. You should have seen the satisfied look on his face. And on hers, too. I took a picture of them. Babe was anything but camera-shy. She wanted to see the picture, make sure she liked it. Since I wouldn’t want to put my friend in possible wahala, I’ll keep away from posting his picture here. But I am tempted.
Another friend came in with another friend (tautology?). The friend who came in with the friend, let’s call him Mr. Perfect Gentleman. I don’t know if he wants his name mentioned, and since we have mutual friends, I’ll respect his privacy. So Mr. Perfect Gentleman bought me a bottle of Moet Champagne. He didn’t tell me that he did. So when the waitress came to our table with a bottle of Moet and a bucket of ice asking for the birthday girl, I was a little taken back. For reasons I won’t bother mentioning, I thought he did a very sweet and thoughtful thing. The champagne was popped. We drank. I had two glasses. It was my very first time drinking Moet. I had heard so many things about it in songs. At last, we met! Dance, dance, dance.
Before we left [at 2AM], a guy whom I assumed to be African-American, whom I had also never seen or spoken to before came to me while I was jejely sitting down and minding my Verastic business and began to — shall we call this fondle me? He touched me like it was just a continuation from where we stopped. And Funmie decided to take a picture — which he posed for. What was I doing while all this was going on? I was in the errr-???-uhhmmm phase. He got up to leave, and then I thought, why, it’s my birthday! So I called him back and said, “We have to take this picture right!” He sat on me [facing me], his legs wrapped around mine, and Funmie took a picture. We looked like two lovers who couldn’t keep their hands off each other: a fable that I was very willing to live in — even if for the moment.
My current count: four glasses of mango martini, one shot of Blue Motorcycle, two gulps of greygoose and pineapple juice, two glasses of pineapple juice, two glasses of Moet champagne, and a bottle of water.
Exiting the club was one happy, blurry-eyed, exhausted, really, really, happy Vera. You say tipsy, I say happy. Semantics really.