Cultural Anthropologie

One of my favorite past times, a close second to lusting after barmen that don’t want me back and drinking their booze, is shopping with other people’s money.  God how that brings me joy and a sense of completion.  Today, just such an opportunity arose.

One of my favorite places to peruse the racks and pretend to be able to afford things is Anthropologie.  This shop has some of the cutest stuff that I’ve ever seen.  The problem is that the the prices are as high as the clothes are cute.  While I’ve shopped there in the past, I try to control myself.  This is pretty easy as shopping there on a frequent basis would require that I either sell one of my limbs, or bj’s on the street corner. 

This afternoon was different-I found myself at Anthropologie with my mom and her wallet.  She insisted that I try on a few things, and the next thing I know I’m walking out of the store with:

• this jacket
• this shirt and this other shirt
• this skirt (which ironically enough is called the “Welcome Wagon” skirt)
• these pants

You know what this means, right?  It means that I can make it the entire Memorial Weekend with a different Anthropologie outfit.  AND it means that I have a new outfit to wear for my date with booze tonight.

Fill ‘Er Up

I can picture it sitting there in front of me, just out of reach.  There are beads of sweat on the glass, and the black straw is calling to me.  I can see all the herbs floating in glass, mixed in with the pulp from the freshly squeezed lime juice and topped off with some ginger beer.  Here’s the hardest part, the drinks that I really want, the really delicious and fabulous ones, I cannot have.  Not ever again. 

I could weep for the sadness I feel about being torn away from my delicious booze.  Oh the desperation!!  Sadly, I shall never again be going to the place that shall not be named.  Here’s the good news: I watched them make the drink so many times that I could do it myself-but it’s so much better when someone makes it for you.

Newmie, One Date Wonder and I are on a mission (and we’re wishin’ someone would cure our lonely condition).  Our mission is to find the perfect cocktail served by the hottest barman.  This time, I’m only going to look at the barman and the only conversation we’ll have will consist of what I want to drink and the cost of said drink.  No flirting.  No chatting.  No having crushes on them.  And definitely no talking to any owners.  From here on out, I shall be an anonymous customer who drinks their booze and takes up real estate in the form of a stool at the bar. 

You know you have a problem when you’ve just rolled out of bed and you’re already wondering what kind of booze you’ll be consuming later in the evening.  That’s it!  I’m totally going to go on a drinking hiatus, but not until after Memorial Day.