adventures in Chelsea

I'm not kidding, we're going to hit every neighborhood in this godforsaken city, and at some point, it will all be worth it!

So last night my good friend and adventure partner got us into an open bar Drambuie party at a really nice bar on 14th and 8th called, um, Metro? Monarch? Mode? Something with an M (help me out here, Thea). We checked our coats (and my nineteen-ton backpack), got ourselves a glass full of sugar (as that's all any drink mixed with Drambuie is likely to be) and assessed the crowd. This was a party whose location was super-secret and only released that day (probably due to the entirely-free free-flowing liquor), and we were a little iffy about who would be in the crowd. Based on some of our less-than-stellar previous adventures, we were right to be nervous. But this group was fairly delightful. AND, in the downstairs part of the bar, they were giving out free spa services -- massages, shaving, shoe shines, manicures, the works!

Our rule for this evening was that we, two considerably attractive and yet almost retardedly shy women, would hold someone's eye contact for long enough to just say "hi." That was the whole rule. And we both had to do it at least once. And after over an hour, neither of us had accomplished it.

But then, our savior came into our lives. Sort of.

Now, imagine if you will a short (i.e. only to our shoulders) man, who, while you looked him in the face, was busy drowning in the happiness of your bosoms. He was telling us about the next party (because you need another drink, Slurry McDrunkington) and asking us to join him. And we're too nice to just flat out walk away. We covered our boobs and umcomfortably began to look around.

Thea had been having an imaginary flirt with a group of four guys behind me. Now, I thought they were the suit-clad gents at nine o'clock, but it turns out they were the adorable-yet-teenaged group of British guys at six o'clock. I didn't find this out, however, until I had begged them for their assistance, and they did less than rise to the occasion.

A note to all the gentlemen in the world: if there are two women engaged in "conversation" with anyone remotely troll-like, and they shoot you eyes that say "DEAR GOD SAVE ME FROM THIS AWFUL SITUTATION" or "IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT YOU SAY, PRETEND TO BE MY BROTHER" or simply "SAAAAAAAAAVE ME," it should take you less than three seconds to be at her side. She will reward you with just about anything you want -- assuming you are less than troll-like yourself.

These boys, however (and, as adorable as they were, they were 23 year old boys) picked up on that like a 1980's boom box picks up an AM station in the middle of the desert. The first look was met with a surprised and quizzical response, with a good chuckle with his neighboring mate. The second look got a laugh, and the third look got a hey-guys-look-at-that-girl-in-danger laugh. So as soon as we dispatched the troll, I gave British Check Shirt Boy the what for.

"What kind of rescue was that?"

"Oh, didn't really think you needed it!"

I hadn't met the eye-contact-until-"hi"-rule so I was ready to flirt with him, despite his complete lack of bar grace, but after about a minute, I was unenthused. He was kind of cute, and had a fantastic accent, but that was about it. Sadly, however, he was sitting right next to Thea's Perfect Cup of Tea, and we were forced to have another drink with them down the street.

Well, Thea was forced to have another drink. I was free to change back into my pants and sneakers and walk myself home.

Next time. I promise! Next time!!