Another Weekend

I went out tonight. If you've watched my tweets, you know I have mixed feelings about "out." I always feel like I want to be there, and I want to be shakin' my booty on the dance floor, but I can't STAND people! James had graciously offered to take control of Andrew while I went out with my sister and her "person" (a.k.a. best friend), so I was determined to make the best of it.

We're at the lake, and the thing to do here is a lakefront restaurant with an outside bar and dance floor, which could be really cool if they didn't charge so damn much for a cover charge, they always had a decent band, and if there weren't so damn many idiots allowed in. I was all excited when we got there because the bouncer/door guy collecting cover charges let me in free when I whined about the cover. I was SO excited---ten bucks is a lot to pay just to walk down some steps!

We were there just long enough to order one drink and venture onto the dance floor when some a-hole decided to dance up behind me and be stupid for his friends. He was a tall, goofy moron, and I took care of him by turning around and giving him the "death stare" well known to family and friends. He backed off, and we continued to dance. Not five minutes later, I kid you not, a drunk moron who was all of five-foot-nothing sauntered up behind me (my sister saw me and failed to warn me) and started to grind himself into my rear end. I don't want to be graphic here, but I felt...things. And I was pissed. He didn't announce himself...hell, I hadn't even seen him. I didn't know him, and I was nowhere near drunk enough to not care that I didn't know him, and just....ugggh!! My response? Turn around ('cause I'm still pissed about the other guy) and say, "Are you ALWAYS an a-hole?" His response? "It's a dance floor, I didn't see a sign not to touch you!" With a look that SHOULD have killed, I said, "DON'T touch me," and went back to my dancing, still furious. He turned to his also-drunk moron friends and proceeded to talk trash, probably about how fat my ass is and how I should be grateful that drunken trolls who escaped from the set of Miami Vice (because he was wearing WHITE pants, a Hawaiian shirt, and sunglasses attached to his head with a LEASH!) feel the need to rub their tiny little wee-wees against my huge butt while I'm minding my own business. I didn't hit him, but, boy, did I want to! What I did do was talk to my friend the bouncer (a different one), who "took care of my problem," as he told me later. Yes, I tattled, and I'm proud of it.

So, I had inspiration for this post while on the dance floor, then couldn't really remember what I was going to say when we got home. I remember thinking that, while I like going out, I HATE other people that ARE out, and it usually ends up not being worth it. I don't know when going out dancing turned into going out to be a stripper on the dance floor. I guess it makes me old, but I miss the old days when girls and guys didn't touch while they were dancing. It definitely makes me old that I want to at least know someone's name before they touch my rear end with ANY part of their bodies. Morons go out and turn into bigger morons after they've had a few drinks, and I just want to scream and, politically incorrect or not, sterilize people before they can reproduce.

The band played "Billie Jean" tonight, and it made me sad. Poor Michael Jackson. Say/think what you will, but his music is so much a part of my growing up and part of the soundtrack of my life, and...I almost cried on the dance floor.

Tomorrow night is the 4th, and we're going to watch the fireworks with family, then stay home and have some good, wholesome fun by playing drinking games with my family. Rick Springfield will be in the CD player, the only morons I'll have to worry about will be relatives, and there's NO cover charge.