The Cadillac margartia is the gift that keeps on giving. And I need to write about my evening so I shame myself into not repeating it.
We last left our hero dealing with a mortgage. The situation reached critical mass yesterday (which was incidentally Cesar Chavez Day) when Nora the loan officer called me (no exaggeration) eight times regarding a 401k statement. Apparently the first 14 copies of the documentation she needed were not sufficient and she needed a 15th. I, of course, was speaking at a conference and unavailable to readily fulfill her every need. My stomach was in knots attempting to deal with her and meet my impending closing deadline ... all while staring down the fucking barrel of a socialist bank holiday.
At about 4pm I head to the rooftop bar with a colleague. While searching for a seat and debating whether to sit in the sun or shade, a skater-boy offers me his chair. So I accept. And kick back two very strong margaritas. Incidentally, we all have our flirt-with-but-don't-marry types -- and tattooed, skater-punks happen to be mine. (As are bartenders. If he had been the bartender, I probably would have had sex with him right on the spot.)
As you can imagine, the rest of this ends pretty badly. Specifically, it ends with me making out with the skater-punk at the bar. In front of co-workers. I then proceed to call two other co-workers who I assumed were dying to talk to me. (They weren't.) I then called new-boy that I'm seeing (who also -- not dying to talk to me. Really. Because after six or so times, he picked up the phone and said, "please stop calling me.") I then proceed to lose my wallet. In my own car. Which I don't realize until I go back into the hotel to look for it and involve all of hotel security.
All of this would have been par for the course if I were in college. But I'm not. I am a professional grown up who (let's recap): 1) committed PDA; 2) harassed co-workers. And hotel security; and 3) annoyed the hell out of newest-boyfriend. ...and likely ruined that avenue for ever having sex again.
Obviously this is Cesar Chavez's fault. And the bank's. Please just allow economic recovery to happen without excessively rigid loan standards. The world would be a classier place.
We last left our hero dealing with a mortgage. The situation reached critical mass yesterday (which was incidentally Cesar Chavez Day) when Nora the loan officer called me (no exaggeration) eight times regarding a 401k statement. Apparently the first 14 copies of the documentation she needed were not sufficient and she needed a 15th. I, of course, was speaking at a conference and unavailable to readily fulfill her every need. My stomach was in knots attempting to deal with her and meet my impending closing deadline ... all while staring down the fucking barrel of a socialist bank holiday.
At about 4pm I head to the rooftop bar with a colleague. While searching for a seat and debating whether to sit in the sun or shade, a skater-boy offers me his chair. So I accept. And kick back two very strong margaritas. Incidentally, we all have our flirt-with-but-don't-marry types -- and tattooed, skater-punks happen to be mine. (As are bartenders. If he had been the bartender, I probably would have had sex with him right on the spot.)
As you can imagine, the rest of this ends pretty badly. Specifically, it ends with me making out with the skater-punk at the bar. In front of co-workers. I then proceed to call two other co-workers who I assumed were dying to talk to me. (They weren't.) I then called new-boy that I'm seeing (who also -- not dying to talk to me. Really. Because after six or so times, he picked up the phone and said, "please stop calling me.") I then proceed to lose my wallet. In my own car. Which I don't realize until I go back into the hotel to look for it and involve all of hotel security.
All of this would have been par for the course if I were in college. But I'm not. I am a professional grown up who (let's recap): 1) committed PDA; 2) harassed co-workers. And hotel security; and 3) annoyed the hell out of newest-boyfriend. ...and likely ruined that avenue for ever having sex again.
Obviously this is Cesar Chavez's fault. And the bank's. Please just allow economic recovery to happen without excessively rigid loan standards. The world would be a classier place.
Pure awesome. That's why I love San Diego. Sun, margaritas, and chill women who know how to have a good time. Bravo.
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