Texts from last night, i.e. New Year’s Eve

My theory thus far for the new year is that 2012 hasn’t been off to a good start for anyone. A few cases in point? On new year’s day, my mother’s car battery died; a family friend lost her brand new iPhone; and another friend was mugged. More on that later.

As for me, the very onset of new year’s was wrought with broken official—and unofficial—resolutions. I suppose I should start with a quick run-through of my resolutions (in case you were wondering, I figured a shorter list would be that much easier to keep track of successfully):

1. focus on self-improvement (or in other words: no dating, no being self-conscious, and no mourning my age),
2. whittle down to 110 pounds by year’s end (part of the plan involved drinking less),
3. read more,
4. write more,
5. in general, just be a good person.

#3 went out the window pretty much immediately when I tossed aside the book I’d resolved to finish before the clock struck midnight PST (A Storm of Swords) and joined Sharon, my beautiful dancing partner-in-crime, in a NYE expedition out to The City. (The real one. On the West Coast.)

Here’s how I was faring so far on my resolutions.

1. self-improvement,
2. lose weight/drink less,
3. read more,
4. write more,
5. in general, just be a good person.

So far, I was scoring a fat A- (90%, right?) on the new year (I figure making resolutions at all immediately scores me a 50%). I figured this was okay since, as part of pursuing #1, I had decided to upgrade even the level of weekend partying I would indulge in this year, purposefully selecting a NYE shindig that, though cheap (older –> more expendable cash –> more chic party?), based on its description seemed it would cater to an older—and hence more refined—crowd (they asked for upscale attire and preferably a 25+ crowd). Also as designated driver, I figured I was pretty much guaranteed I’d be sticking to my guns with resolution #2.

Drink #1 occurred around 11:50 p.m. on NYE, when I tried to allay my annoyance that, against my advice, Sharon brought a jacket and forced us to have to wait through the most long coat check line with the most incompetent, inane coat check girl on the most crowded night of the year. We very nearly missed the 2012 countdown itself, even though we’d arrived at 5a5 Lounge much earlier at 11:25 p.m. This, obviously, was a frustration drink, brought about by the urgent urge to make the most of the last half hour of 2011 before it was gone for good. The drunkards attempting to hit on us in line (“Hey ladies, you checkin’ coats? Us, too! Let’s dance later.”) were not improving my mood.

Despite my go-to excuse that I’m generally quick to feel the buzz of alcohol and quick to sober up, I unfortunately didn’t feel the effects of the first Red Bull-vodka. Having sworn to Sharon that I would not pay for any drinks this night but already broken that by having to pay for mine and hers the first round, I was now doubly, triply on a mission to find free liquor. (Judge me all you want. I was broke. So there.)

After rushing to the dance floor just in time to catch the last 15 seconds of countdown, Sharon and I decided to take a walk around 5a5 to “check out the venue.” We surveyed our pickings. We could fight white girls wriggling around on the dance floor in cut-out booties and excessive satin and spandex for squat, overzealous Indian men. We could soldier our way over to the bar to try our luck with the Rolex-toting douchey-looking forty-somethings weakly waving their credit cards in the direction of animal print-donning Latina babes. Or we could saunter on to the back where short Asians dutifully dressed in dress shirts and khakis stood around pretending their awkwardness was only because they were too cool to dance. I glanced briefly at the one Asian guy in a red plaid shirt and dark jeans, wondering if I should try catching his attention later on. (More on that later.)

Seeing a stairwell, we decided to explore the downstairs instead. We found a tiny, quasi-private dance floor with a tiny, quasi-private bar right adjacent to a vast, practically coed bathroom. If nothing else, it made for an amusing study of bad interior design. As we turned to retreat back to the upstairs, we heard a voice calling to us.

“Hey, wanna take shots with us?”

We looked over and saw two Saint Mary’s types holding up a pink-faced, slightly plump Chinese girl and five glasses of what looked like Kamikaze. I immediately turned to Sharon.

“You know those guys?” I asked her.

“No, I thought you did,” she replied.

I raised my eyebrows at the three in front of us and shook my head. “Not, at, all,” I said with each shake.

We considered whether to simply ignore our suitors and or to accept their offer. Regardless of the spirit of NYE and my night’s vow, we decided to do the right thing.

“Sure, why not,” we shrugged, and walked over.

“Cheers!” we all shouted, raising our glasses in the air. After four of us had knocked back our shots, Sharon—who was still clutching the Red Bull-vodka I had bought for her at the beginning of the night—held her drink out me.

“Want the rest of this? I’m still working on my first one.”

“Rhetorical much?” I said, speeding to drink #3.

1. self-improvement,
2. lose weight/drink less,
3. read more,
4. write more,
5. in general, just be a good person.

Even before all of drink #3 had reached my stomach, the pink-faced girl lumbered toward us.

“I’m Angela,” she screeched, linking arms with Sharon and leaning against her shoulder. “You guys are so cute.

“Um, thanks?” We laughed casually, meanwhile seeking our exit.

“I mean, you’re way cool!”

We gently extricated ourselves from the clutches of groupie #1 and headed back upstairs toward the dance floor, where we promptly found ourselves basking in the spotlight gaze of a Chinese guy walking toward us from the bar. I was about to respond with the roll of an eye, but as I glanced longingly at the gin tonic a bartender was passing into the hands of a panting overaged jock nearby, I thought, Ah, why the hell not. I threw caution to the… well, ventilation.

“Hey,” I said, dropping my chin, batting my lashes, and brushing the back his hand with a sly fingertip.

After drink #4, Sharon and I excused ourselves and headed toward the VIP area in the back. On the way, we walked past Plaid Shirt.

“That guy seems kinda cute,” I said casually, lifting my chin toward him for Sharon to see.

Sharon followed my gaze and smiled. “You should go talk to him. Want me to be your wingwoman?”

I shook my head vigorously. “I can’t do that. Guys don’t like girls who make the first move,” I insisted, thinking of all the friends who in the past month have been advising just that to me.

“Oh, come on. Are you sure?”

“Maybe later,” I say, sneaking one more look at Plaid Shirt.

We spotted a table where most of its occupants had vacated its seats and instead were staggering about the vicinity, dancing or otherwise attempting to socialize with the occupants of the other tables nearby. Did we notice the bottle of vodka sitting in an ice bucket? No. Maybe.

“Hi, do you mind if we sit down for a bit? Our feet kinda hurt.” We flashed our best puppy dog looks and pointed toward our stiletto heels.

“Of course!” the guys said, using the opportunity to check out our legs as their eyes made their way down to the heels. Then, as soon as we had taken our seats, someone shoved cranberry vodkas into our hands. We looked to the mystery server to see a giddy Chinese girl beaming at us.

“I’m Lily,” her mouth said, but her eyes screamed, “I’M YOUR SELF-APPOINTED NEW BEST FRIEND!” It was flattering but slightly terrifying.

“Heyyyy girl…” We embraced the moment.

“Have you met this guy? He owns this place,” Lily wailed, pointing at a tall Chinese guy carrying around a full bottle of Belvedere equipped with a pour spout and everything. Feeling our eyes on him, he lumbered over to us.

“I own this place,” he slurred. “Want a drink?”

“Sure?” we answered uncertainly.

“Here open your mouths, I’ll pour it in,” he declared, lifting the bottle.

We made a hasty retreat. To our surprise, Lily followed suit.

“Let’s go dance,” I suggested to Sharon.

“Yeah, let’s go dance,” Lily cried.

By now, drink #5 was raging in my blood. “2. lose weight/drink less” flashed through my mind again as my alcohol-laden vision caught sight of Plaid Shirt again.

“Look!” I said, grabbing Sharon by the arm. “It’s Plaid Shirt again!”

“Who’re we looking at?” Lily said, craning her head to see what we were looking at.

“It’s that guy over there,” Sharon reported before I could stop her, pointing in his direction. Then she turned to me. “Want me to go talk to him for you?”

“That’s so lame,” I cried. “If I’m going to spit game, I should at least do it myself!”

“So are you going to talk to him?”

No.” There was a pause as I wavered in my defensiveness. A moment later, I abandoned pride. “Alright, go talk me up.”

Before Sharon could do a thing, Lily stepped up to the plate. “I’LL GET HIM FOR YOU,” she declared. Then she grabbed Sharon by the wrist and dragged her off in Plaid Shirt’s direction.

While Sharon and our groupie was off hunting for me, I leaned against the bar, pretending to look pensive yet jovial, unavailable to anyone not wearing a plaid shirt yet still friendly. The positives would have dissipated immediately with chagrin if I had known that at that moment, Lily’s idea of smooth approach was the following.

“HEY,” she shouted and grabbed Plaid Shirt’s arm, according to Sharon. “THERE’S THIS GIRL YOU HAVE TO MEET!”

Five minutes later, a flash of red and white to my left caught my eye. Lo and behold, there was Plaid Shirt, buying me a drink.

“So, I was told I had to meet someone today. Is that you?”

An hour later when the club closed down, I was in the bathroom for a quick pee, and Sharon and Plaid Shirt were outside the club. Plaid Shirt ran up to Sharon while I was gone.

“Your friend won’t give me her number,” he told her.

Sharon looked at him with disbelief. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Plaid Shirt apparently pulled out his phone. “Here, how about I give you my number, and you can have Irene call me.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking her yourself?” Sharon supposedly told him. She took his number anyway.

Right around then, I appeared, and Plaid Shirt and I exchanged numbers. Then he left.

I delve into the rest of this night only to illustrate my dismal initiation into 2012. I was too drunk to drive. Sharon was picked up by two guys on the street while I’d been gone. Said guys invited us to hang out at their “super close” hotel room. We walk 10 blocks from North Beach to their hotel in SOMA. I engage in infuriating, exasperating argument with one of the two guys about Occupy Wall Street. We hang out at the hotel for an hour or so. A married friend of said guys offers us a ride back to our car. We ride comfortably back to the garage, only to discover the garage is locked up for the night. My car is in the garage. My keys are with the valet, who is not at said garage. I remember I never wanted to park in a garage in the first place. I remember I was an irresponsible DD. I try to figure out how to crash in The City so I can retrieve my car the next morning, calling up one particular friend whose phone is continually turned off. (More on that later.) We all end up getting home around 6 in the morning.

The next morning, I woke up feeling very hungover and on the verge of crossing resolution #1 permanently off my list for the year. But as long as I could get my car out of that damned garage and back down to Fremont, I figured I still had a chance. I picked my phone up to dial the number posted outside the garage. That’s when I saw this:

Plaid Shirt
5:59 a.m.
How you doing home boy?

I imagine my confusion made me look like something of a guppy. After ignoring the message for the whole day, I decided to poke back a bit.

Me
4:21 p.m.
home “boy”? I’m slightly taken aback by that.

Plaid Shirt
4:56 p.m.
Lol why?

Really?

Me
5:31 p.m.
I’m slightly more feminine than a boy, aren’t I?

Plaid Shirt
6:02 p.m.
Lol why bc you wit 5 girls? U’s a pimp!

We had indeed been surrounded by our groupies last night, but… no. I decided to change the subject.

Me
7:28 p.m.
have fun last night?

Plaid Shirt
8:49 p.m.
Haha yeah it was good night. I’ve caught a lot of flak from Angela for picking up that older girl last night… Lol.

The previous night when I finalized my list of resolutions, I had been feeling pretty good about myself, especially when it came to age. As I read the text over and over again in disbelief, mouth agape, I saw how easily Mark had ruined an chances of resolution #1 for me. I cringed as that fat red line slowly struck its way through what I thought would be my first and foremost theme for the year.

1. self-improvement,
2. lose weight/drink less,
3. read more,

4. write more,
5. in general, just be a good person.

Any response on my part would have just made me seem petty. I forwarded the text along to Sharon instead.

Sharon
8:50 p.m.
how fucking dare they.
I have his number, I can find out where he lives and where he works.

Objectively speaking, I felt my reaction was probably more reasonable. I ignored her offer and went back to telling him off in my own way.

Me
8:56 p.m.
if you’re talking about me, that’s not very nice

Plaid Shirt
9:05 p.m.
Huh? Wait what? Is this Irene? I thought this was Andrew other guy in our group… Haha. Awkward… No wonder that string of texts didn’t make much sense

To my amusement/consternation, he kept going:

Plaid Shirt
9:06 p.m.
Would it be more appropriate to say that your friend found me? Lol

Needless to say, his attempt at recovery was pathetic at best. Suddenly, my head exploded in heated debate. Snappy remark or let him off easy? I had several options. I could be the nice girl and send a quick “it’s okay, nice to meet you.” I could sprout crazy eyes and send an accusatory, “don’t you ever check area codes before you call up random numbers?” or “don’t you ever store names with your digits?” I could pretend to be passive and nonchalant and not reply at all.

I tried to give him a warning of sorts:

Me
9:21 p.m.
classy move. at least it makes for a good story

In response, he finally apologized.

Plaid Shirt
9:23 p.m.
sorry…

I thought briefly of resolution #5, and being the bigger person, being classy, letting things go. If there’s anything reading more and writing more—and generally trying to be linguistically pretentious and snooty—has taught me, it’s useless vocabulary. So I decided to defenestrate it all. I texted him back.

Me
10:05 p.m.
it’s okay, i have an appreciation for epic failures.

1. self-improvement,
2. lose weight/drink less,
3. read more,

4. write more,
5. in general, just be a good person.

(Hey, at least I got one down.)

By the way, remember that friend I was trying to call? Turns out he was mugged at knife and gunpoint. On NYE. So in the end, my new year really pales in comparison.

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One thought on “Texts from last night, i.e. New Year’s Eve

  1. Pingback: Looking forward for 2013 « Love Games, or the Lack Thereof

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