Vaginas and VD: Another trip to Michigan

I spent the weekend visiting my cousin M in Michigan again. We had a wonderful time (as always) but I had to share her briefly with the new man in her life. Seeing as I'm a bit selfish, I'll admit I had more fun when I had her all to myself. Here's the weekend wrap up.

Friday night I arrived to an empty parking lot because M and Silas (what I've named her new lova, since I thought this was his real name the past couple weeks...not even close) were having a "quick bite." By quick bite I'm pretty sure they skipped the sorbet and after dinner drinks of their 12 course meal. "Hi Silas, I'm Rachel." [Insert some inappropriate discussions about bodily functions, my dating experiences and profanity which I can't seem to wriggle out of my vocabulary.] "Nice to meet you Rachel." *shakes my hand then secretly wishes he had some hand sanitizer.

We get ready and M calls a cab to come get us...30 minutes later a party bus arrives. As the 3 of us pile in, I can't help but wonder if M anticipates picking up a dozen hitchhikers to party with? I had called a friend to meet up with us at the bar so I could avoid the third wheel scenario I had envisioned. Thankfully he showed up and the 4 of us spent the remainder of the evening dancing, drinking and wondering why M was in the bathroom so long. Hehe...

Saturday I woke up to an empty apartment because the lovebirds had flown the coop, leaving me just enough time to struggle with a NASA engineered coffee maker. The remainder of the day M and I went shopping. Most notably, our experience in Armani Exchange. Or as I like to refer to it, Armani Lite. We tried on our clingy fashions, sweating in the same fitting room, oblivious to the fact we were not in a soundproof cubicle, for about an hour. I'm pleased to note that if you spend enough money in this store they will not ask you to leave even if you insist on walking around the fitting room hallway with your pants around your ankles or discussing vaginas. At one point I felt M and the sales clerk were in cahoots because she remained in the fitting room agonizing over camel toe inducing skinny jeans while I was left to "browse" the displays near the register. I use the term "browse" lightly, because I just fondle the baubles for a moment, if the weight and texture is pleasing in my grasp it goes on the counter with all of my other purchases. The sales clerk was rather crafty about stashing my bounty behind the counter so I could not mentally keep track of my ever growing pile of goodies. That is, assuming I would mentally keep track in the first place. Not my style. By the time we left it felt like Christmas, as I had no idea of the contents in my bag. I'm pleased to announce that when I did open my presents, still giddy with excitement, I found that the only questionable purchase was a black leather cuff that would only fit a large strapping man. Note to self: find a large strapping man before Christmas.

We ate dinner at 10pm and finally went out to the bar at midnight. In all of Lansing, we happened to be at the same bar as the married cop who had handed M the phone to speak with his wife a few months back. [See Tolls and Trunk Pizza: My trip to Michigan post]. A rather bold (read: sloppy drunk) joined us for a bit towards the end of the evening. He introduced himself and I asked the obvious, why was he wearing his wedding ring on his right hand? "Oh, thish riiing? Myyy mom gavsh it to meh." Umkay. We're talking thick platinum band, diamonds, the whole nine yards of wedded warranty. Fellas if you're going to try this slick maneuver, at the very least, put the ring in your pocket or wallet. Eventually you'll get busted anyhow, but a woman might at least flirt with you a few moments longer. That is, unless the woman is a VD-toting hussy who doesn't care what finger or pocket your ring is on or in at all. To this woman, I say, best of luck with the inflammation and rigorous ointment application, you model citizen.

As M and I were discussing highbrow topics of hair, makeup and fashion, we were treated to a Britney Spears look-a-like crotch peepshow. I'm talking full on crotch shot. This young skank girl was attempting perhaps a yoga split on some dude's lap in a dress that barely covered the offending crotch even if she had been standing. He seemed to sort of prop her up in his lap as she drunkenly slithered towards the floor. Her skanky clone girlfriend beside her was molesting another dude while standing and trying to wriggle her own dress (maybe dress is an overstatement, long-ish tee perhaps) up another few inches. Not even subtly I might add. Just grabbing the hem and yankin' it up. Sad thing is, these girls were very attractive in an overly processed, Girls Gone Wild-inspired sort of way. They didn't need to get sloppy drunk and rub their VD all over the place. Alas, I'm sure they'll make some middle-aged banker very happy for a few years before their faces crack and their greatest assets look like little Ziploc bags of pudding. This sort of behavior makes me re-think procreation. If I ever had a daughter like this I'd be looking into underground clinics that specialize in aborting 22 year olds. To date I have never seen anyone protesting this particular brand of abortion so I can avoid the awkward fetus posters (see, I'm definitely becoming a closet optimist).