Last night, I went to a black party. How do I even describe the night... let's see. I got home from work and announced I had an invitation to this event, which caused my roommate Christina to scream "go get changed!" and announce she was even going to blow dry her hair. Clearly we were destined for trouble - and good thing the leg brace is the proper color for the dress code.
After bargaining our way into a taxi (but then relenting and giving the driver the amount he originally wanted because he really turned up the schmooze factor and it was like $2 we were talking about here) and getting slightly lost at a plaza where apparently the young Dominicans with money hang out, we arrive at the Key West Bar and because we are two rubias, do not even have to to show our invitation to get beyond the velvet rope. At this point, we realize that despite our best efforts to arrive fashionably late, it is just us, a handful of Dominicanas, some bar and event staff, and 20 or so male models, all wearing matching sheer shirts. Glorious. A few are rocking David Bisbal hair which I really want to touch. Several are butter faces, but what can you do. Again, being rubia pays off - because we are the palest in the room, clearly this translates to "hottest" and earns us some conversation time with a couple of the models and some photo ops and phone number exchanges.
After watching the models pose and gyrate around for a while, we decide we can't take much more of the ridiculousness - plus we have the munchies. Venturing over to the "Don Jose Taco" or whatever it was called to get some nachos, we run in to my coworkers (who invited me to this locura in the first place). Clearly it is now time to go back to the party. There is a fuller crowd, we are ushered around as we glow under the blacklight, and the models have a little runway walk action, and we park it in the karaoke lounge. More photo ops ensue, and the models take the time to unbutton to flex their abs for the lovely gringas with luminous white skin, because you know we couldn't see through their shirts already. Tú sabes, just a typical night in my life.
My luck balanced out this morning, though, when I woke up with fifty billion mosquito bites (at least it was probably not a dengue-infested mosquito as they like to feast by day), my trip to the field was canceled, and the full-length mirror fell off my door and is now lying shattered on my floor because I didn't have time to deal with it before coming to work.
After bargaining our way into a taxi (but then relenting and giving the driver the amount he originally wanted because he really turned up the schmooze factor and it was like $2 we were talking about here) and getting slightly lost at a plaza where apparently the young Dominicans with money hang out, we arrive at the Key West Bar and because we are two rubias, do not even have to to show our invitation to get beyond the velvet rope. At this point, we realize that despite our best efforts to arrive fashionably late, it is just us, a handful of Dominicanas, some bar and event staff, and 20 or so male models, all wearing matching sheer shirts. Glorious. A few are rocking David Bisbal hair which I really want to touch. Several are butter faces, but what can you do. Again, being rubia pays off - because we are the palest in the room, clearly this translates to "hottest" and earns us some conversation time with a couple of the models and some photo ops and phone number exchanges.
After watching the models pose and gyrate around for a while, we decide we can't take much more of the ridiculousness - plus we have the munchies. Venturing over to the "Don Jose Taco" or whatever it was called to get some nachos, we run in to my coworkers (who invited me to this locura in the first place). Clearly it is now time to go back to the party. There is a fuller crowd, we are ushered around as we glow under the blacklight, and the models have a little runway walk action, and we park it in the karaoke lounge. More photo ops ensue, and the models take the time to unbutton to flex their abs for the lovely gringas with luminous white skin, because you know we couldn't see through their shirts already. Tú sabes, just a typical night in my life.
My luck balanced out this morning, though, when I woke up with fifty billion mosquito bites (at least it was probably not a dengue-infested mosquito as they like to feast by day), my trip to the field was canceled, and the full-length mirror fell off my door and is now lying shattered on my floor because I didn't have time to deal with it before coming to work.
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I'm coming to visit.
So this is my announcement to the former egpaffers from young punk alley -- I'm fed up with the new boss-lady I got and am meeting with someone from Georgetown this Wednesday to talk about a new job there. Yay! So stay tuned. Oh, and the reason for the post here, other than try to boost ratings on Hezzer's bloggy-blog, was because we all think out email is being tapped these days. So you can use my Georgetown account now. DALLL@georgetown.edu. (three L's_ So -- what do you think?
LTD
this guys are wearing more makeup than you two. are they all pretending to be straight?
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