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On Saturday night after too many Pink Panty Droppers and numerous failed attempts to secure chow mein (don't ask . . . for whatever reason, I was desperately craving the stuff. My dear friend S was unfortunately on 'elise duty' as my roommate had gone home gravely ill and my boyfriend was out of town. So he was forced to suffer through my whimpering cries for greasy noodles. Eventually S was able to shut me up by providing me with mediocre (at best) frozen pizza), the evening was coming to a close and I was obviously acting as such. While nursing a 40 of PBR (apparently I was pretending to be in college again . . . I know that my cousin D is judging me heavily for publishing this, as he is the ultimate beer snob, and looks down upon drinking such revolting liquid) I secured my seat on the bar stool by anchoring the heels of my 4-inch peep-toes on one of the rungs of the stool. A few minutes later, my friend C showed up to the bar, who I had been unnecessarily freaking out over because he was nowhere to be found (for all of 15 minutes . . . which is basically an eternity in drunk elise time). I, of course, decided that I had to hug him immediately if not sooner and leaned forward to give my best hug ever. In doing so, I clearly neglected the fact that my heels were still wedged on the stool and the red sea departed and I proceeded to fall (in what seemed like the slowest slow motion ever) on both my knees on the floor, with nothing and no one to break my fall (which is pretty amazing considering how packed the bar actually was). Immediately blood seeped from both my knees through the fabric of my white dress. A throng of people suddenly surrounded me to help me up, and all I could say in response to their 'are you okay?' inquiries was, 'it's fine . . . this has happened before.' And with that I give you . . . The Kells Chronicles:
1. The barstool:
Really I should just say 'see above' but that would be boring. So indulge me. Last February, my girlfriends and I fell in love with a local Irish bar called Kells. It is fantastic. If you ever want to hear live Irish music and see a hot little Irish girl dance (our friend M is amazingly good at this and has actually been approached while dancing in the bar to join a Women's Irish Dancing Group), you should go here. Anyway, pretty much the same thing that happened above, happened here. Except I was leaning over the bar to give the bartender my phone number and then fell. Yeah, I was real classy that night. Oh- of course he never called. This was also the same night that I yelled at a man for wearing a Hawaiian shirt and proclaiming him as 'old.' Q was super embarrassed and kept telling me to stop. One thing about drunk elise . . . she really doesn't listen- so you have to actually force her out of a situation, rather than just tisk-tisk-ing her.
2. Sweat and napkin glitter:
A few weeks later, Q was in town so we went back to our favorite abode to get more free drinks (the bartender there is way too good to us) and try and pick up hot men . . . but basically we were there for the drinks. Anyway, most of you should be well aware of the fact that my body overheats much more than most. And when you are freezing, I am most likely opening up the window and sticking my head in the freezer while exclaiming, 'omg it's SO HOT in here!' I like to joke that I'm premenopausal . . . but seriously, I think I am. Either that or my body temp is just off the charts and I am somehow able to survive. Anyway, as a result of this over-heating issue, I have a tendency to perspire in crowded, sweaty, dancing bars . . . a bit more than most. This of course happened this evening (see photo) at which point I just had to ask the bartender, Joe, for some napkins with which to soak up the brita filter that was choosing to pour out of my head. As a result of the dabbing, and completely unbeknownst to me, little pieces of these napkins chose to remain plastered to my face and neck, thus enhancing my outfit and making me look that much better. Q and Mac eventually realized this and saved me from looking like a complete moron the entire evening, but not before openly laughing at me. When we walked into Kells the next time, upon walking though the door and waving at Joe, he greeted me by waving napkins at me. Bastard.3. 'Ew, what is that smell?!':
About a month later we were perched at our usual spot at the bar with our favorite bartender, when I decided that it was really important for me to lean over the flaming tea-light candles on the bar in order to get Joe's attention. In doing so I apparently caught my hair on fire because Joe made a very surprised and scary look on his face and then proceeded to clap his hands multiple times over my hair. The result looks-wise wasn't bad . . . the smell, however, was horrific and naturally multiple inquiries rose . . . 'ew, what is that smell?!' And I was in prime-time drinking mode that night and so very loudly and obnoxiously whined out loud . . . 'IT'S ME!!!!! MY HAIR CAUGHT ON FIRE!!!!!!' :( I think I shut everyone up but at that point I most definitely did not care and felt it necessary to share my story with the innocent bystanders who really didn't give a shit.
I know it's amazing that we kept going back there after all this, but we seriously love it too much to give it up (and I apparently just don't give a damn about what happens to me or how much self mutilation I have to go through to enjoy my time there). Although we've neglected it since July . . . it might be time for a trip down memory lane. Maybe I'll have an addition to The Kells Chronicles come Monday ;)
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