12-Mar-2007

I have a disease.  It is called Foggy-Headed, Heart-Thumping, Groggy Anxiety Disorder.  Because that is how I have felt for the past two days.  It's kind of like I'm getting a cold, but will my body let me just go ahead and get all-out sick?  Oh, no.  I have to hover in this kind of half-assed, wishy-washy limbo, wherein I can't really get out of bed, it seems, until after two in the afternoon, and, when pressed to attend social engagements, I stare, cow-eyed, at the wall until I fall of my chair/bar stool, then someone pronounces me "No fun!" and I am carted off home. 

I don't mean to complain.  All in all, it was a lovely weekend, with hiking and brunch and cleaning and laundry.  One horrid thing did happen.  So, remember the POC?  What?  You don't?  Well, she worked with me on PD, and held her birthday at a swanky club downtown, one at which I do not belong, but I thought, hey, why not?  What are the chances I'll ever get to go again?  And Cliffhanger was down, so after dinner with The Hottie, we set out on our expedition.  First problem:  The club had no sign and was located in a dark alley behind a Chinese restaurant.  Interestingly enough, if you look up "exclusive" in the dictionary, it is defined as "a club with no sign located in a dark alley behind a Chinese restaurant."  It goes on to state "Does not accept Discover Card or Melissa."  However, at this particular exclusive hotspot, the line was a mere two hos deep, so Cliffhanger suggested we circle the block to see if we could find street parking.  We did, but to no avail.  "Let's just valet," Cliffhanger finally sighed, but she sat up straight when she realized that not only was the valet wearing a tux, but said valet was also no longer accepting cars, and the line that had contained only two scantily clad women a mere five minutes ago now held forty-five people, all in cocktail attire!  Cliffhanger looked down at her jeans, then over at my frizzed hair.  "What are you thinking?"  I asked her.  "I'm thinking this looks like a clusterfuck," she answered.  I was inclined to agree with her.  I love the POC, but I'm not sure we would have fit in, with what we were wearing.  And isn't the point of living in LA to be able to wear jeans ANYWHERE?  That's certainly why I moved here.  Regardless, we ended up at Royale, a new place at Wilshire and Rimpau (Cliffhanger, am I making up that cross street?), and it was all high ceilings and chic decor and Turks having a party.  In fact, we were hit on with that line - "So, are you two Turkish?"  Cliffhanger could pass, what with her long dark hair and withering smile, but me?  Come on, dude.  I'm as girl-next-door as Elisha Cuthbert, sans the porn career. 

And now back to my mysterious disease...