I've been dog sitting, my friend's OOC and super young mix cry baby of a dog and my landpeople's old, stubborn, and hilarious Bassett who shouts at me constantly.
If dog sitting doesn't make someone further appreciate their own dog even more than they already do, I'm not sure what does. I'm so flipping grateful that my dog is a rockstar.
Anyways, I had dog party raging at my apartment last weekend when I was invited to the city.
I was too tempted to pass up the opportunity so I recruited dog sitters, my bro's girlfriend and my sister. I offered them a bottle of vodka and vegetables from my landpeople's garden (who wouldn't be convinced with those offerings, honestly).
So I headed to Boston for a night out. I dressed in shorts and a tank, but had back-up attire in my backpack, as I wasn't sure of the actual plan and corresponding dress code.
I arrived and hung out with your typical city-ites. There was a chunk of discussion on how different I was from them. I mean I guess it's weird I go haying for fun and don't know what on-demand is. The discussion more or less resulting in them dubbing me Pocahontas (which I found to be epic).
After chilling for a bit, the decision of where to go out to was made. And the dress code was going to be uber classy. Sweet, take a hippie chick who rolls in moccasins, cut-offs, and baggy tees, and expect her to have appropriate attire for uber classy.
I wore jeans, and not like slim fitting, dark denim jeans but rather a worn in, faded out pair of Joe's Jeans. I'm 100% positive that a vast amount of girls at the bar eyed me with disdain (I'm fairly certain I was a topic of conversation for a number of the groups as well).
Whatevs.
So drank some drinks and had a mellow, uproarious time.
Then we opted to head downstairs in the bar, because there was country music downstairs, and well I am a lover of country.
I wasn't even drunk. Tipsy yes, drunk no. But I was wearing flimsy flats and not my typical moccasins or crocs.
I should have known that I would only make it a few steps down the stairs until there was a major slipparoo.
Down I went, beer in hand.
Honestly, I must say it was the most mother fucking classy fall I've ever had.
Seriously, it was a minor slide down several stairs, after which I righted myself and took a sip from my still full beer.
It must have looked horrendous though, because those people going up the stairs all gasped, pointed, and shouted.
The guys I was with, all laughed, as did I.
When mildly embarassed, laugh. It's your best bet, always.
For real though, if I fall in a bar again in the future, I really hope it's that mother fucking classy.
