Following the debacle that was shopping for groceries (and unmentionables), I stopped to have my car washed, as it had formed an outer crust to rival that of our home planet. In fact, I believe a mighty oak had already begun to take root somewhere near the front end. But I washed away a few weeks� worth of dirt and grime, and my car gleamed prettily underneath.
That evening, our friend M, who works in an art gallery, was having an opening. N and I arranged to meet there and be her support team. Unfortunately, as I drove there, I realized that I had not yet eaten all day long. By the time I arrived (this was a considerable drive), my stomach was attempting to pull itself out of my torso through my mouth, so it could hitch a ride to the nearest Burger King. As it turned out, N was in the same boat as I, and together we struggled to keep our stomachs in check. And that was when our eyes befell�Sandwich Guy.
Yes, the gallery was offering up complimentary hors d�oeuvres, which, as anyone knows, are the starving man�s best friends. Of course, this was an art gallery, and we weren�t exactly anonymous, so although we were able to take some of the edge off our hunger, we were still beholden to certain social proprieties that prevented us from acting upon our true desires. By which I mean, we wanted to open N�s purse, tip the tray into it, and run out the back�but we couldn�t. So we did the next best thing.
When no one was looking, N and I snuck into the storage room where they kept all the trays of hors d�oeuvres, and we proceeded to eat like we�d just been voted off the island. At one point, as I had my craw stuffed to the bursting point with cucumber sandwiches, and N was attempting to pack one more leaf of radicchio into the complete tossed salad she was building in her mouth, the knob on the door turned. We froze and stared at each other, both completely aware that there really wasn�t anywhere to hide, and we couldn�t very well pretend that we had mistaken the room for a multi-media art display, but it turned out it was only M, come to share in our found bounty.
Anyway, after we�d had our fill (and taken a couple for the road), it was time to go. I headed my way, and N hers, and we vowed to meet again under more auspicious circumstances. As for the rest of my evening�well, I was going to hit the pub with the ladies of the DbF (along with Michael, and some other respectable types).
So to make this portion of our story a short one, I�ll skip to the good part. As we were grabbing a table, some crazy blonde girl leaned all across it, hollering to her friend, all up in our personal space. We recognized this blonde, but it was a moment or two before we put the face to a name (well, it was a moment for me). Jessica and I seemed to reach the same conclusion simultaneously, as we turned to each other and asked, �Was that�Ali Larter?�
And indeed it was. Star of such films as Final Destination and Final Destination 2 and�um�oh wait! She was the defendant in Legally Blonde! Anyway, she didn�t speak a word to Heather all night long, which is truly unforgivable. I mean, really, who does she think she is? So we didn�t speak to her either, and now I think we�re all pretty much bitter enemies, because we�ve got Heather�s back! That�ll teach Ali Larter to mess with the likes of us.
Anyway, that�s it for my Saturday. Tune in tomorrow for�I don�t know�stuff.
Someone Got Here By Searching For: SKECHERS fuck And: Dumbeldore is evil I�m Watching: The OC. It is fantastically bad. It�s bad for epicureans of badness. I love it. Wait, So What About Alias? Relax! The night is yet young.