It's official - I'm a Texan. And by "official" I mean only for the next 5 weeks, still with my Kansas DL, Kansas plates and an apartment sitting in St. Louis. If you're feeling a little out of the loop - quick update - I'm dong an elective rotation at Children's Medical Center Dallas in the emergency department with my fabulous friend PA Fisher. Last week was my "vacation week" which constitutes the only week during clinical rotation year that you get off - as in not work, not sexually. While some of my fellow classmates spent theirs in Mexico and Florida, I spent mine moving down to Hot as Balls Dallas, TX. My mom, Marley and I made the 7 hour trek last Tuesday in my jam packed TSX and spent the rest of the week running errands for my procrastinator Uncle - whom, bee-tee-dubs I adore...just sayin'. Apparently men don't like to furniture shop and assume just because women love to shop, we must also love to shop for bedroom furniture...for someone else. Wrong. I enjoy shopping for myself and myself only...oh and for all my friends who have babies (that shit makes me teary eyed). After two days of driving around Dallas/Plano searching for the perfect dresser, night stand and head board, he of course settled on the very first one we showed him (btw, my awesome single uncle is recently divorced from a nut job who took the guest bedroom furniture - hence the unfurnished bedroom).
So, as you probably have caught on to - you smart little cookie, you - I am staying with my handsome and did I mention? fun and single uncle in North Dallas. So far, so good. We've done some grilling out and sipped on a few glasses of wine. Even better, he let me bring Miss Marie who is adjusting rather well to the Texas heat with her butchered hair cut - no making fun.
Friday I dropped my mom off at the airport and spent the rest of the day lying by the pool working on my tan lines before heading to HH. There, I met my first true Texan friend. She's just precious...and I mean PRESH. Picture Texas chick and you picture her. Bubbly and blond. Sarah and I were the first to arrive at the Mexican restaurant we decided to fancy for Skinny Bitch Margs and chips, salsa and guac. All the sudden bubbly, blond Texan plops down in the booth and says, "Oh my God, y'all! It's so f*cking hot out there!" I knew from then on we were going to be friends. I died when I heard her Southern twang and then peed my pants a little when she said the f-word...because if you've ever had a convo with me (unless your an elder to me and I was doing my best to behave) I have quite the potty mouth at times. We had great conversation the rest of the night - much of which I can't recall.
Then, just like that along came Saturday. I again, woke up and plopped my ass by the pool for a little sun as I sobered up just in time to go out again. Saturday night was spent in Uptown with a mutual friend from Kansas City who just made the big move down to Dallas. I randomly ran in to Nathan in KC before I left and found out he was relocating. From that moment on, it was decided we would be Kansas Partners in Crime. And that we were. We spent a few beers catching up on the last few years of our lives in KC. I met him through my ex-boyfriend and you know how that goes - once you break up with the loser boyfriend, you break up with his friends too - so I hadn't seen him too much since then.
We hit up a few bars and after a few vodka drinks my sass started to come out. Weird. Imagine that. We met some random guys and hung out with them for the rest of the night - mostly because we couldn't get rid of the little Cub Scout and his friends. Cub Scout spent the entire night hitting on me. I repeatedly thanked him for the compliments, but no thanks. Clearly (hence the nickname), Cub Scout was a few years younger than me and I tried to explain to him that I wasn't interested in dating anyone who I potentially could have babysat as a child.
We finally made a mad dash and ditched him and hit up another bar. I'm just going to preface this with saying, I was NOT a hot mess. A few cocktails - yes. Drunk as a skunk on the forth of July - no. So as we approached the last bar, I finagled in my Marc Jacobs bag to find my ID. I'm not sure if the door guy was more pissed that he was 20-something and still just a door guy or if he just hates Kansas. I flashed my DL and headed in to the bar. As I was walking in...seriously like FIVE steps, I kind of rolled my ankle - any female who wears heels - especially a short little shit like me who wears at least 3 inch heels at the very least knows how easy it is to slightly stumble SOBER. Apparently pissed off door guy thought I was wasted out of my mind and proceeded to stop me and tell me I was done and had to leave the bar. Seriously? SRSLY?! I couldn't believe him! I wasn't even that intoxicated - clearly because I can fully recall the story. I looked at him with disgust, spit in his face and left....KIDDING. I did nothing of the sort. I tried to explain that I had tripped over my own feet but he was not having it. Whatever dude. Sorry you hate life.
So with that being said - it took me less than one week to get kicked out of a bar. Reallllll classy.
-Stay Sassy, xo