Bitches in Scarves

Last night's alternatives were to either go home and start packing for my move in one week or to go over to my girlfriend's and drink wine. I chose procrastination, thank you.

I wound up working until almost 7 o'clock, burning the creative midnight oil — jacked up and control-freaking out over a project for which my heart blazes like a new lover. Seriously, the past week has been the kind of week you think advertising creatives have all the time. The truth is, these creative free-for-alls happen once a quarter, if you're lucky. The rest is the stuff of monkeys with typewriters.

Change of plans texted to me on 696, and we're now going to the BlackFinn Saloon in Royal Oak. It's a new Irish bar and I haven't been there yet. My friends insist on calling it the "Blackout" and as soon as I get there I know why.

"You really need to be drunk to enjoy it," they tell me as we walk in.

Uh oh.

Now some of you know about my three long-held phobias — the least of which is my fear of centipedes, which only makes me shriek like a girl and sometimes cry. The other two phobias make me break out into a cold sweat, turn into a bitch and then pass out.

No lie.

Those two phobias are having my blood drawn and crowds. The first time this phobia reared its ugly head was at Disney World. We were all waiting for the final boat out of the park, and the crowd pushed its way in. My eyes rolled back in my head and I hit the concrete. As an adult I have managed not to completely go under, except once at the vet and a few times at the people doctor. With crowds I usually just sweat, hyperventilate and become a bitch. This happens in Vegas with regularity.

Enter BlackFinn Saloon. Not too busy, but pretty busy. Lots of men — way more men than women. I am immediately aware that this is where you go if you need to get laid in Detroit. I do not. The girlfriends and I walk in and immediately they are accosted by people they know. 

The girls and I walk to the bar and I ask them what they're getting.

"Vodka. The wine is terrible here," they say and crinkle their noses.

"I'll have a beer."

We walk past a couple of twelve-year-old boys at the bar, me 6'2" in my new wing-tip style oxford stilettos and my mandatory advertising creative scarf  tightly wrapped several times around my neck. One of the boy-children says for all to hear:

"What's with all the bitches in scarves?"

My friend Susan Lucci burst out laughing. 

"I'm going to have to write a blog about that," I said.

"Why do I always end up in a blog whenever I go out with you?" Susan Lucci shouts, looking panicked.

"I promise not to mention dildoes," I say, helpfully.

We walk back over to the table and join Diva #1. 

"What are you wearing? You shimmer!"

"It's my L'Oreal Glam Bronze and they've stopped making it!" I cry out and touch my cheek.

"Oh no! Product extinction!" Diva #1 puts her hands up to her mouth in horror.

"Production extinction is bullshit!" Susan Lucci nods her head and looks fierce.

We all attempt to drown our sorrows in our drinks, each wrapped up in our own lost products of the past.

"Fuck L'Oreal," I mutter and toss back my beer.

Soon BlackFinn is packed. I mean, packed beyond packed. From my 6'2" vantage point I can watch all the guys scoping out the girls, and all the girls giving the tools sidelong glances. They press in and press in, and I see a line forming outside. 

"I have to get out of here," I say, but both of the girls are busy talking to the people they know. I paw at Diva #1's arm.

"I have to GET OUT OF HERE," I say louder and paw more frantically at Diva #1's shoulder. I begin to loosen the scarf with my other hand. I can't breathe and I feel hives crawling up my body.

"I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE NOW!" I say, my voice lost in the din of testosterone and estrogen. I grab Diva #1 by the shoulder and shake her.

My face must have read Panic Attack or Product Extinction, because Diva grabbed me and shoved me to the door. She gathered up Susan Lucci who was drunk and somewhat unwilling to leave by this point. I stood by the front door and watched girls in shiny shirts waiting to get in. I just wanted to get out.

The evening was saved in the car, as I drove both girls home. We had text consultations over what should and shouldn't be texted to Man of Interest, and berated one of the three of us in the car who shall remain nameless about waiting 24 hours to respond to a text of a man she liked.

WTF!

Girl Who Shall Remain Nameless drunkenly agreed to forward all texts to the other two of us for consultation and approval. She seemed suitably sorry that she had ignored the text of a man she liked for 24 hours. We absolved her of her sin and made her say four hail Peter's.

Man texted her back immediately.

I picked up some Taco Bell and was home by 9:30.

My work was done. The evening was not a wash. My things remained unpacked.