Another time, Noreen tried to teach me to dance on a stripper pole and, of course, I failed, mainly because i am tall and it was awkward. The is photographic evidence of me in a pink shift dress and pearls trying to shake it. So not cool.
The coolest thing I probably do regularly is order the occasional jack and diet just to throw my bartenders for a loop and, occasionally, con my friend Kate's boyfriend into shooting Four Horsemen shots with me. This is always good sport.
About a month and half ago I completed my second marathon and, naturally, like any good party girl, wanted celebrate by gallivanting around Scottsdale wearing my medal as my main accessory. I figured it would be a great way to lure males to buy me drinks and to relive my race day glory for a few more hours.
That night we went to a club called Pussy Cat Lounge that is supposedly more exclusive (though you wouldn't know it by the looks of some of the clowns mucking around in there) and has super creepy pictures that move. One is a picture of a girl who winks at you and then proceeds to blow out candles. This is basically the most entertaining aspect of PCL, and i usually find myself staring at the optical illusions than what lurks yonder on the dance floor.
As usual, we got bored after about 15 minutes and decided to hop a cab to another club that we thought might be open on a sunday. We squeezed through the meat press crowded around the entry, coughing and wheezing from the fumes of really awful cologne.
To our great fortune, a cab pulled up out front and popped out two new cattle that needed branding. One man had a terrible receding hairline and the other had no memorable qualities, so I have no idea what he looked like.
"Where you going girls," heckled baldy, "don't you know the party is just getting started in there? I got a bunch of Cardinals coming. Where are you going?" As he stepped into the light, i realized his situation was far more tragic than just want for a little rogain. Did he really expect me to believe that a man in cheap jeans and an ill-fitting graphic t-shirt could possibly be in cahoots with NFL? nuh uh, gramps.
"No thanks, sir," one of use retorted gingerly. The man, obviously inebriated and probably living a pretty dismal existence, muttered something under his breath. Pretty sure I heard the word 'cunts'.
We hopped into the cab and met our driver. For one, I love meeting cab drivers. This is a love I have garnered since college when we had a professional cab driver named Uncle Rick. Uncle Rick was a total bad-ass. He had a raspy voice, a side part and wore woody allen glasses. He was probably about 50 or so, give or take. We even had "I heart Uncle Rick" t-shirts and he was always there in a heart beat. It never occurred to me that it might not be safe to get into a cab alone with him. Then one night, when i got lost from my friends as per usual, he picked me up off the curb of some frat. I was going through a phase of loving Russian literature and Russian vodka and was babbling on about Anna Karenina (what goes better with Popov vodka than russian literature?), when Uncle Rick asked, "Do you know what my favorite russian novel is?" We were pulling into the driveway of my sorority house. "I dunno, something Tolstoy?" I said absently, fishing around for enough singles to pay him. Uncle Rick gave me a grin, "Lolita. Nabokov," and took my money. Yikes! Uncle Rick had gone from an uncle to just another pedophile in about five minutes. The only thing that could have made it worse was if George Michael's "Father Figure" was playing on the radio. I skittled out of the cab faster than you can say Lolita and never called uncle rick again.
Following Uncle Rick, who was the creme de la creme of Ann Arbor cabbies, we sought the services of Robin, a kindly drug addict who would make us special playlists and eventually left the industry to go into pizza, and sometimes a crass man named Richard, who was a hard-ass and possibly bi-polar, but always prompt and really good on black ice.
Out in Arizona, I had to start all over and find new drivers. Noreen has been a very useful tool in this process because a great deal of cab drivers are religiously muslim, as is she, so she immediately fortifies a deep connection and usually a sweet discount. Erin found another one named Vinnie who likes to tell us stories and looks like he rides harleys. He knows a lot about South Phoenix gangs. I feel pretty safe with Vinnie.
The best driver, perhaps, was Rodney. Kate discovered him on streets of Tempe last January when he pulled over his shiny white Hyundai (leather interior) and offered Kate and some visiting friends a ride. When Kate told us about Rodney, we had to try him out. Rodney would text kate frequently to see if she needed a ride, often also saying, "and whatever else you need, just let me know" We were pretty sure that a) rodney was a drug dealer b) rodney began driving the night he offered kate a ride and c) there was an untold story to rodney.
All in all, we loved rodney. He was a good friend, driver, and never outright tried to sell us any sort of drugs so this suspicion remained speculation. Rodney would tell us about his relationship troubles with his woman, who, to me, sounded like a heinous wench and we would tell him that in so many words. I mean, Rodney was a pretty great guy with a decent car-- he could do better than just be some bitch's bitch.
This new driver was a woman named Tammy. She just emitted an aura of cool from her, something, as i said before, that i will never be able to claim. Getting a good look at Tammy, i noticed she was covered in tats. She even had one in her ear. Erin reached over the seat and poked her ear, "sorry am i invading your bubble? I've never seen a tatoo in someone's ear!" i was too awestruck to interrogate tammy too much about the tat in her ear, or the tats all over her body. She casually told us stories about the tatoos and how she was getting a new one over the one that she got when she was 16 on her arm. I couldn't imagine the pain tammy went through to get those tatoos, especially the one in her ear. How bad-ass was that? She turned her body into a canvas of all the things she believed. And when her beliefs changed, whatever, she could just re-tat it. Tammy obviously didn't view tatoos as permanent or as scarring. She was confident, candid, and not afraid to live-- she didn't need a white hyundai. Tammy was a bad bitch.
Rodney, on the other had, had all of the looks and moves but couldn't stand up to his woman. When she would call and nag him about leaving her alone ( to drive us) Rodney asked us to be quiet in the back so she wouldn't hear. Woman was suspicious that Rodney was guilty of infidelity when, in fact, it was really just the opposite. One night, Woman got ahold of Rodney's phone and saw Kate's text. We happened to be at PCL (god only knows why) and she got a frantic call from Rodney to ignore Woman's pending call to her. Woman called Kate's phone to leave a snarling message (or maybe it was a snarling text) and we knew then and there it was over with Rodney. A few days later, he texted to say he was going to Chicago for a while. We knew we wouldn't see him again. We were also suspicious about why he would just pick up and go to Chicago like that.
Unlike Tammy, I don't think Rodney would casually get a tattoo, but he was still more of a bad-ass than me. I mean it's pretty bold to pick up strangers off the street and offer them a ride. I don't think i would be all that convincing.
These are things i've come to accept. I am not an adventurer and my idea of a fine outdoor adventure is drinks on the patio. I just really don't understand why people don't fine pleasure in loitering on patios with a solid Savignon blanc or equally charming cocktails. Then again, though, I was the kid who didn't like to slip 'n slide because i hate the feeling of wet grass in my toes and always thought i would break my arm. When Noreen wanted to go skydiving for her 24th birthday, I shook my head sagely and said, "you're going to die.". In portugal, I sat on the beach drinking 50 cent boxes of wine (the same type the vagabonds drink) while my friends jumped off cliffs. "You're going to die!" I screamed, in between swigs from the sandy box of white wine. Later that day, a new friend invited me to a rave in the forest. Again, in between swigs of boxed wine, I retorted "you're going to die!". I still can't decided whether the rave in the forest or jumping off cliffs would have been more dangerous.
