I’m a Jinius

I woke up on Monday morning feeling like I had just been beat up. I could barely raise my right arm or bend over to tie my shoes. What the hell did I do to my body this weekend?

Oh, right, I danced for like eight hours on Saturday night and then went to a shooting range on Sunday. Gun control is overrated! But more on that later.

Friday:
My friends and I go to my favorite bar and I FINALLY score a conversation with my hot bartender. Well, I suppose it wasn’t a real conversation but more of an exchange. Of three words. And a giggle.

Bartender: Hey, good to see you again.
Me: Yeah…um…it’s good…seeing you…yeah…lol

That was the extent of our conversation. But it was dripping with subtext!

Bartender: Hey good seeing you again…for the hundredth time.
Me: I’m picturing you with your shirt off.

My roomie suggested that I should just go one night alone and talk to him. Um, right, cause that wouldn’t be creepy! But she does have a point. Hot Bartender is not the chattiest cathy and my friends and I aren’t the most stranger friendly people. I mean, one guy used to call my group of girlfriends The Riot. This was an accurate description because a) we’re a riot and hi-larious and b) when we get together we do resemble an angry mob of people.

But hot bartender will be mine. He just doesn’t know it yet.

Saturday
We all trek to Suffern for our friend Suzette’s birthday. We feasted on fondue, salmon, carrot cake and glasses and glasses of vinho verde. So before you know it we all got hot in the hot tub. There are some parts of the night that are kind of fuzzy but for some reason I clearly remember someone calling me Rainbrow Brite. I think it’s because my bikini looked like Rainbow Brite.

(stretching before my pool table hump dance)

Then we all started dancing and at some point each person at the party started humping the pool table. That pool table got violated more times than Jodie Foster in The Accused.

I don’t know what it is about pool tables that makes them so hump friendly. Is it the pockets? Or is it that you can easily put one leg on the table and still dance?

Not that I did that.

I had an awesome time and it was really good to catch up with my friends. Especially my friend Steve. I told him about my hot bartender crush and he said, “Do you think it’s a good idea to date a bartender?”

Implying that it’s about as good of an idea as a crack head dating a drug dealer.

My friends are such bitches. God, I love them.

Sunday
We decide to cap off the weekend with a totally American experience and go to a shooting range for some trap shooting.

When we first got there it sounded like a Fourth of July fireworks display. Only it’s right in front of your face.

This was my first time shooting a gun. I felt very Child Soldiers. I wasn’t prepared for the kickback and after my first shot I felt as if I had just shot a cannon. The instructor kept telling me to hold still and place the gun right next to my shoulder but I couldn’t feel anything with my white puffy jacket on. Have you seen my jacket? I’m like the freakin Michelin Man. So I kept placing the gun right above my boob which is like not the most comfortable place to hold a ten pound shot gun.

And for some reason I was so shakey bakey. A) I couldn’t handle the actual weight of the gun. B) I was nervous. C) Did I mention I was holding a loaded shot gun???

Sabs said that if there is a zombie apocalypse I’ll be the first person to die. Gee, I think the apocalypse is some covert operation to wipe out all the girlie girls. Whatever, I fully embrace the fact that I am a delicate flower (typing this whilst flipping my luscious locks from side to side.) But would I do it again? Hell yeah. I’m a masochist if you couldn’t tell by now.

I guess this means I’ll have to improve my running time. So while you guys are shooting I will be running my ass to Canada. Eat my dust, zombies!