Not So Happy Hour

Kate and I tag-team peeing, getting parking passes, obtaining room keys and texting Priscilla. We race to the room to reapply a little lipstick and perfume, and tweak our outfits. Well, Kate's is actually cute and presentable if not for the blob of hummus on her shirt, so she has to find a new one. I had worn my outfit to work and so need a complete overhaul.

Not that I dress like a rare book collector for work and couldn't go out in the same ensemble. But it is not a true and correct indication of how I see my zippy self. It just happens to be a combination of very stylish and hip blouse over cute cami paired with exquisitely fitting cream colored pants. Or slacks as my mother would have called them. That's the kiss of death right there, even if the shoes earned bonus points. I had this same conversation out loud with Kate as we approached the cute guy with the boat. She looked Happy Hour Chic. I looked like a beleaguered office slave who had to conform for professional survival and forgot that I owned a push-up bra or a pair of pink cowboy boots in the first place.

While we primp at neck-breaking speed, we get a profanity-laced text from Priscilla. She had grown weary of the free beer and wine selection (or more more precisely, the portion sizes) at the hotel Happy Hour, and the company along with it, and had taken her fine self to a nearby club. She gives us the name, the approximate global coordinates, and threatens us with facial deformity if we do not get our collective ass to the bar pronto.

We arrive, quite literally, moments later to find Priscilla surrounded by a large collection of Swedish men who may have mistaken her for one of their own. I suppose her swearing in a distinctly American dialect dashed that notion. But they were happy to buy her drinks and chat with her until we arrived, and for some time after. The Swedish Football Team surround Priscilla in a huddle as we approached (Do the Swedish even play football?) but parted like the Red Sea as we skulked in. Backed off as we apologized for our DC-by-way-of-Ogden, Utah road tripping proclivities, and ordered a round of stiff drinks.

The trailer once again leveled, we were off to the races on a fabulous Girls' Weekend.