Sunday morning tweets:
Sisterella: “I’m starving. Hungover. Need food. Stat.”
Me: “I went back to bed. Hung and tired. Will only get up for something fat and greasy.”
Sisterella: “Hmmmm. Fat and greasy. Zipp’s? Or Ajo’s?”
Me: “Ajo’s. Noon. No, 11:30.”
Breakfast/Brunch/Lunch includes food for twenty-three and a Diet Coke the size of Kansas. The server asks if anyone else will be joining us.
“No,” quips Sisterella. She’s the funny one. “But you can bring it in two stages if you like.”
For only 10,000 calories, enough cheese to feed a car full of circus clowns and sunglasses worn throughout the meal, this girl and her bestie know how to do the hangover tango. With a nap after lunch. And 36 Advil. And no talking. Please.
We revisit the night before. An average night. We met a bunch of chicks celebrating a birthday with various shades of blond, boobs for days, lipo and so much filler I prayed no one lit a match.
Cutie Pie J checked in. We told him where we were and he’s tableside in about twenty. About Cutie Pie J: He’s so cute, he causes a stir with the ladies. They swarm. Happens every time. He could give seminars on flirting, boyish charm and looking deeply into your eyes when he speaks. Then there’s the drawl. It’s just tiny, but it is adorable. He checks all the boxes for a lady. Except the one that says, “I’d rather the pretty one in the relationship be me.”
Oh, and he went to LSU so there’s that little contest every Fall where he says something Tiger stupid and I say, “L S Who?”
Sisterella and I, as always, solved the world’s problems, planned upcoming weddings and talked Ted Baker dresses. We realized far too late that we waited far too long to eat. You know the feeling, Dolls. Too many Pinots and nary a steak, potato or pretzel roll is gonna help.
Made some new friends when visiting The Ladies. We admired the collection of beauty products at the ready and made plans to meet up later. You know, like you do. Girls are never nicer than drunk in a bathroom. Back at the table, Cutie Pie J says, “Girl, I watched you walk away. You are looking good.”
“I know, right? Isn’t it great?” Pinot Noir, evidently, took possession of my powers of speech. And the humility I so carefully packed must have fallen from my bag between the restroom and the table.
Checked my phone real quick. Client meltdown. Social media calamity. Drunken crisis communication ensued. The boob brigade was too loud. Called an Uber. Schooled the Uber driver on what to do in a crisis while we rolled. He nodded in a way I recognize now. “Whatever you say, drunken PR girl. Whatever you say.”
Problem solved. There was still the matter of too many pinots and not enough food; which ended up being a final thought before falling asleep half dressed; a beloved nude pump as a bedmate. And it’s that thought that carried me to Ajo’s looking like that smokey-eyed tramp from the hood.
Full circle, right?
The Duchess Diaries 