Breakfast At Tiffany's

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« A Slice of my Life | Home | Hunky Santa »

The Witch from American Rag

Part of: LA

Last night I was waiting for a friend at Room 5, the bar on La Brea above (?) where Farfalla used to be. The bar was crowded, and I figured someone was having a birthday or holiday party. Everyone was wearing black and had the hair stylist hipster look. I was standing at the bar drinking water. I looked around the room and noticed there were three platters of food. It was nice they had food at their soiree.

Finally a seat opened up. I asked the couple beside me if the guy was coming back and the blonde woman said, “Go for it.” So I did. I noted that the woman was acting with forced niceness, which was odd. The only person who seemed friendly was the bartender--the most attractive man in the room. I got a refill on my water trying to wake up more. The man came back with a plate of food.
“Did I take your seat?”
“No, it’s okay,” he said.

There was a lone stool by him anyway.

My friend finally showed up, while simultaneously an older woman with straight black hair accusingly said, “Are you here for the American Rag party?”
“No,” I said honestly.
“Well, we’ve rented out this place and it’s a private party. You’ll have to leave right now.”
She was acting like I was a crazed homeless person who had wandered into her fancy dinner party.
“Do you mind if I finish my water first?”
“Yes, go downstairs right now!”
“You don’t have to be so rude, and I didn’t take your husbands seat. He said it was okay.”

We both looked at her husband for confirmation and he just chewed his food and acted like he was invisible. I know some women wear the pants in a relationship, but this was like a SNL sketch.

Now I could sort of understand her reacting this way if I had taken food and drinks—I don’t know if it was an open bar. Also, it’s not like there was a sign anywhere saying there was an event going on there and I ignored it. I figured this Grade A bitch was the store manager. I really hope she wasn’t the owner. I can’t imagine the owner being that miserable and un-evolved.

My friend and I went to the downstairs bar. He said he wouldn’t have been so civil, and his response would’ve been, “Fuck you.” Now I really needed a drink and ordered my old staple: Absolut Citron and soda.

Later on in the bathroom, two girls from the party were conversing.

“Do you think Jeff really minds if we come over?”
“He wouldn’t have invited us,” the girl in the stall said.
“Well even if we go to some dive bar, it would be better than being here. This party is so boring.”
“I know, I’m about to die.”

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