Siddity in the City

Lest one believe that all my days are spent moping about and dragging myself from apartment viewing to apartment viewing, I should probably point out that I’ve been having some pretty good weekends, lately.

Last Friday, I had a late afternoon interview in midtown and then caught up with Stolie and Bro for dinner and drinks at Republic–seaweed salad and curried duck noodles and berry mojitos, oh my. Quote of the evening:

“Oppressed white dick is okay. Oppressed or imported.”

How wrong is it that I later make this a drinking toast?

After dinner, we pile into a cab and head to midtown for a little Dutch gathering that I think we are going to leave around 9:30, when the drinks special ends. We all have some place to be early the next afternoon, and really, who has time, cash or energy to be out all hours with a bunch of foreign guys on a Friday night?

*Snort* Yeah. We really should have known better.

“Mijn brein is gestolen.”

Things to know about the Dutch: 1. They are tall. 2. They are insane.**

Fearing an Heinecken shortage, we rush over after dinner and find we are among the first to arrive. We are so early, in fact, that our very presence brings the ratio of black women to Dutch people to about 1:1.5. We meet a very cool older fellow in magenta and black tiger-striped, eighties metal band-approved spandex pants and leather jacket, who tells us he plans to convince others to buy all his drinks. We tell him we’ve come for the beer and bitterballen.

The party fills quickly, and before we know it, the ratio of Dutch person to brown girl is something like 100000000:1. Or 50:1, whatever. It is not nearly as awkward as I expect, being a mini brown girl in a room full of gangly Dutchies. It is a bit like picnicking under great big blond trees. Kidding. Some of them are brunettes and one or two might be closer to 5′9″. For a better idea of scale, consider: I spend much of the evening chatting with a 6′ blond from Friesland who tells me he feels short.

“Je bent niet dronken zolang je op de grond kan liggen zonder ergens vast aan te houden.”
Things start to get a little hazy around this point. I only remember pushing repeatedly through a crowd of chests and elbows to reach the bathroom, and hanging out with Bro, arguing over the nature of the hearts on the flag of Friesland.

Stolie is repeatedly molested by an apparently bisexual brown woman, a balding middle-aged Dutch guy who keeps telling people he is very important and rich and should therefore be kissed, the ex-boyfriend of the crazy brown woman, and other inappropriate types, but she seems, miraculously, to be willing to press on in the great tradition of party and bullshit.

“Alstublieft, kunt u me vertellen of de duivel hier woont?”
Bro, who always seems to have the most sense, decides to head home around 1 am. Stolie and I linger until nearly 3, at which time we hop a cab with some random partier and go to anotherclub.

I really should have discouraged this plan. It was late, we had to be up early, and it would have been easy, as the person who needed to crash on her floor, to be the bitch who brings the party to a screeching halt. I never do what makes sense, though, so I actually temporarily encourage this minorly bad behavior. It is after 4 when we finally get back to her place and pass out.

Not even close to the most trouble I personally have participated in or caused, but surprisingly interesting, all the same.

I spent the weekend before in D.C., celebrating BFF’s birthday and Halloween. I was a drag cowboy at a murder mystery party. I had sideburns and a moustachio. It was great.

The weekend before that I believe involved somebody (not me) dancing on the bar at an East Side cantina, menacing innocent Germans, and threats of karaoke (me) that thankfully never materialized.

*Het was.
**Not true, but someone has to take the blame for my behavior, and it sure as hell can’t be me. Pft.