This is what I pulled out of my closet to wear last night. Rescued from a rack at the local thrift store for no more than $1.50, it is a fabulous bright pink and purple blazer with an obnoxious, yet inviting floral print, circa late 80's or early 90's. Doesn't it just make your shoulders quiver with delight in anticipation of the shoulder pads?
Well, I cut those out, and gave them to my sister so she could stuff her bra with them.
It's not as sparkly as I'd like my 90's blazers to be, the type of sequin-heavy thing that makes it feel like New Year's Eve 1990 EVERY DAY. But last night, it spoke to me. Thus, I freed it from its hanger, and shoved my arms into it.
It was going to be a good night. I could feel it in my phantom shoulder pads.
Indeed, it was a magical night. The man I go around with and I got to the bar with 10 minutes until happy hour was over and karaoke began. Despite our fast indulgence in cheap happy hour drinks, neither of us sang, though we pondered what songs we could bring to the table - could we achieve the high-pitched chorus of Mariah Carey's "Fantasy"? Could we slow it down with a "2 Become 1" duet? Neither of us are karaoke people, and I'm not even a singer, so we got a collective F in participation last night. I've been scarred for life by a music teacher who must have thought that every single person could sing on key and not sound like a cat with rabies, and boy did I show her. She probably saw me as a monster simply because I have subpar vocal talent, but at least my last name didn't sound like a swear word.
We did enjoy my sister's rendition of a Miley Cyrus song (she too had on a fabulous outfit, sans amputated shoulder pad breast implants). By midnight, many of the songs were just being screamed, though done so with magnificent gusto (the Creed song, in particular), so we went around the corner and visited the dance party. That was where it got messy - slowed down by alcohol but fueled by the beat ("Beat the beat up", my boyfriend said, trying to recall the Pauly D quote), we made our usual half-assed attempt to get jiggy with it. When I realized I had sweat enough to permeate my fancy blazer, and I had to work in about seven hours, we left and went home, Skee-lo stuck in our heads.
I retired the blazer to the closet this morning - another successful Tuesday night out. Thank you, floral blazer!
My significant other apparently did not have as wonderful of a morning to follow up the great night out. I could tell, because I heard the bottle of aspirin rattling before the bedroom light was turned on at 6:50. As we were preparing for our day, he walked out into the bedroom, brushing his teeth, then stopped, and turned to me. "What?" I asked.
He paused, then he took the toothbrush out of his mouth, and looked at it.
"This is your toothbrush."
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