Mr. Morocco and Toothpick Barbie

Let's face it, I've been out of the game for a minute. My cute high heels cause my corns to hurt, and I can barely fit my post-baby hips into...much of anything. (I say post-baby, as if I just had babies.) Even more, it takes a very special person to pry me from my instant watch netflix, out of my sweatpants, and into a club.

It was the spontaneity of it all that really got my juices flowin'. I was about five episodes into season two of Arrested Development, fully content with the idea that it was just going to be me and Forrest for the night, when I got the call. Me? Salsa dancing? Now? At first, panic. I haven't brushed up on my Shakira moves in weeks. My Beyonce outfit was at the cleaners. And then, of course, there are my aching corns to worry about. Would they hold up in my clear stripper heels? Or should I go with my platform Lady GaGa shoes? Must. Pull. Myself. Together.

As it turns out, not much has changed in the past five years. Roughly two minutes after my friend and I sat down at the bar to enjoy our martini and cranberry/vodka, respectively, I was poked. One chubby Moroccan finger, square in the middle of my back. I turned to see what was on the other end of the chubby Moroccan finger, to find a chubby Moroccan man. Go figure. Shaking his Moroccan hips, he mouthed to me, 'wanna dance?'. Aw lawd. I declined, as politely as I could after being poked, and turned back to my friend. Mr. Morocco was not deterred. Oh no. He proceeded to wedge himself between my friend and myself, order another Bud Light and coffee, and strike up conversation. He apparently needed to sober up for a big trip to Ocean City. Did we want to go? My friend, much more kind than I, carried the conversation for a while, until Mr. Morocco tired and retreated...but not before he thanked me for shutting him down. Awkward.

Shortly after Mr. Morocco headed to Ocean City, Toothpick Barbie arrived. You might be inclined to think she earned her nickname because she was waif-like. Not so. She literally rolled into the club, five inch heels, sequined dress, teased up blonde hair, blackened eyes...with a toothpick hanging out of her mouth. First of all, if you know me, you know that the thought of anything wooden in or around my mouth gives me the heeby geebies. No, I cannot eat those popsicles on the sticks. Having just typed that sent a chill down my spine. Secondly, could she not go with gum? I find popping a piece of Wrigley's not only serves to clean your teeth, but leaves you with minty fresh breath. Win-win, really.

I'm neurotic today because...
...in my haste to transform myself from couch potato to super model, I completely trashed my bathroom in search of my long lost 'going out' makeup and accessories...which didn't even matter, since by the end of the night I was a sweaty hot mess.