September 2, 2011

Fact is Better: Stop Light Love

After a long drought, The Cake Maker and I decided we should buy skanky Jersey Shore-style shirts and go out dancing. So we did. We got matching obscenely tight canary yellow tank tops that said "SINGLE" in glitter across the chest. With mini skirts and stripper heels, we hit the town.

To find there was nothing worth "hitting."

All we wanted to do was dance. Dance to awesome music. Dance next to other people feeling that awesome beat in their chest and souls. Dance like we had no cares in the world.

But apparently, we were the only ones in our entire county who felt this way.

All the bars were empty. One of the bar owners even told us that "people were chasing people" that's why it was slow. I still have no idea what the hell he meant.

Anyway, as we were going home defeated (after forty-five non-stop-minutes of exhaustingly dancing our assess off by ourselves at a bar) we pulled up to a red light about the same time as another (much more beat up) car blasting rap music.

Me: "Ohhhhhhkay wow, we're actually being checked out by some teenagers."
*The Cake Maker looks through her window to see what I'm looking at: two teens wearing their flat-rimmed baseball caps crooked, leaning really far back in their seats, nodding at us with pursed lips. She starts laughing, having a difficult time tearing her eyes away from their patheticness*
Me: *even though they can't hear me, instinctively I start yelling* "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! YOU'RE LIKE SIXTEEN! That's so gross."
*The red light changes to green and we take off for the next red light, assuming our encounter is over.  But no. The young-wannabe-thuggy-Casanova's switch lanes behind us and roll up on my side of the car. I roll my window down while they continue to attempt to flirt with their head nods and pursed lips.*
Me: "YOU'RE LIKE SIXTEEN!"
Passenger Seat Bro-Dude in Training: "Nuh unh. We're like nineteen."
Me: "Oh, well then, that makes all the differ... WE'RE LIKE TEN YEARS OLDER THAN YOU!"
Passenger Seat Bro-Dude in Training: *obviously unable to do the math* "So, like, how old are you ladiez?" (yes, you could hear him say the 'z' in ladies)
Me: "Closer to thirty."
Passenger Seat Bro-Dude in Training: "Like thirty years old?!"
Me: "Yep."
Passenger Seat Bro-Dude in Training: *pauses to digest this information, then nods his head and shrugs.* "Oh...that's cool."
*Before he could even finish his sentence, he had rolled his window up, punched his friend in the driver seat, and the took off like a bat outta hell.*
Me: "...REALLY!?  Did we just get blown off?  Did that really just happen?"
The Cake Maker: "It sure did."
Me: "Whatever.  They were totally into us until I told them how old we were."
The Cake Maker: "Maybe next time, we should just let them guess how old we are and agree to whatever they say."
Me: "Meh, it was still validation that we're total hotties."

Being closer to thirty than I am twenty isn't so scary when I'm still being hit on by teenagers, I suppose.

True story!

And proof that fact is always better than fiction.