I know you were all looking forward to the tell-all entry detailing the dirty little assignations I got up to this weekend while out of town.
I didn’t go out of town. My sister and I decided that going next week is to our advantage, and we intend to stick to the plan – right up until the moment where we decide that acting on a whim is never in our best interest, and staying in town is the right thing to do.
But that’s another therapy session. Let me tell you what I did do instead.
On Friday, while Teacher and I were emailing back and forth trying to figure the logistics of a weekend away, she mentioned that she had been in touch with Sleyefox, who had been looking for something to do that night. When it was ultimately decided that leaving Toronto would be postponed, and I wouldn’t have to conserve my energies or my funds, I touched base with The Sly, and proposed an idea.
“I think we should go out tonight,” I said, using smoothly persuasive tones. “I want to sit in a sophisticated little lounge, where handsome men will looks us over and say to themselves, 'They are too gorgeous and independent. We're not that lucky. They must be lesbians’.”
She got my meaning, and that night, Mint & Menthe became our bitch.
We worked it; we earned it; we owned it.
The place is tres cool. The beds-as-chairs seating arrangement that they had a few months ago is no longer there, which saddened me, as I thought that that particular set-up was really conducive to conversation. (And sex. Not that I look for that sort of thing, but you know. I’m just saying.) There’s no cover, but the drinks are sufficiently and pretentiously expensive enough to keep the riff-raff out. This is also conducive to sex, but again, that’s not the sort of thing I look for. Much.
There is also no dress code, but it’s the type of place where one does not want to look unkempt. One just knows. It was full of beautiful, fearless, stylish people that knew how to dress, with a few token examples of what happens when silly people have enough money go nuts on bad couture. Oy, I can’t help but wince when I remember That Broad that walked in about half an hour after we did. With her ironed, bleached out locks with ringlet ends, she was a cross between Donatella Versace and Nellie Olson. You couldn’t help but hear her coming – her black and white trouser suit with 36-font Dolce & Gabbana scrawled all over it was loud enough to make me cover my poor, broken ears.
Regardless, it was a delicious, delectable, dizzying kind of night. It was like Studio 54, circa 1979, except the snow stayed outside and there were no open displays of sex.
Sly and I got fabulously pickled. I was winning friends and influencing people all over the place, spreading the charm like a warm pate` on the toasted Melba that was the throng around me. The DJ’s came a callin’, as we were holding court more forcefully than they were. The owner came a callin’ and our drinks were comped. It was his honour; it was our pleasure.
Earlier that afternoon, I had told Rather Handsome 35 Year Old Greek Piranha what our plans are, as he, having met her once, holds a small torch for Sleyefox. He ended up not showing, which was his horrible loss, and is something I will casually (yet gleefully) share with him over the water cooler at some point today. She turned her mojo onto Auto-Pickup, and managed to entrap a Rather Handsome 32 Year Old Greek Hottie.
We spent the cab ride home amusing our driver. I’m assuming he was amused. Wouldn’t you be amused if you had two drunken loons in the back of your car who did nothing but assure each other that they were indeed hot?
Yeah, I thought you would.
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