Another round of happy hour with the coworkers

I've been holding off on updating this, because I was a little bit embarrassed to admit that two weeks in a row there were these things that pass for happy hours. The main thing is that it's just not fair to the rest of the world that we're allowed to have this much fun on a weeknight. Granted some fair better than others at these events. Some make wiser decisions. There's P.W., who always seems to know the precise minute that a lady should take her leave. There's me and the nick named J.Lo (not to be confused with anyone ever referred to as Jenny) who really like to take hold of the night and throttle it for all she's good for.
We started out having a couple of Lemon Drop martinis at Dixie's on Calhoun. This is my new favorite drink. It tastes just like lemonade, not overly sweet and there seems to be a lemon syrup in the sugar dipped rim of the glass. They're simply marvey for Babs and Midge after a strenuous spinning session. Personally, I find they're a good way to warm up. I downed three and was feeling pretty festive. The happy hour food at Dixie's always seems so out of sync with the atmosphere. We're right next to an athletic club and their food options are mainly fried. I don't really care for any of the appetizers except for the fried maccaroni in the State Fair special. You only get two mixed in with other fried monstrosities, but these are... so right, how can it be so wrong!?
After the sun started to dip below the rollerbladers circling the lake we decided it was time to move on. No, not go home, as some people who'd been drinking for about three hours right after work would assume. Oh, no. We needed a change in scenery. There was much discussion and disagreement about the next venue. Rocket was in favor of Britt's lawn bowling. I don't know why, but I'm guessing the twenty-something clientle plays into that. I refused to go. I'm kind of a wet blanket that way. I just can't handle downtown past a certain hour. I do not own a tube top and I will not go to downtown Minneapolis after 9 o'clock at night. That's just all there is to it.
We ended up at Chino Latino-- clearly a compromise on all sides. I did remind Rocket of the Chinopolitans that he so adores, helping ease the move. That's their version of the usual Cosmo. It's served with blood oranges hand squeezed by Tibetian blessed Imperial mokey's or some such thing that justifies the $12 price tag. Seriously. It's also served over dry ice to up the danger factor. Once my drink exploded on me. No permanent scarring or anything, but that's just a little too Xtreme for my cocktail needs. Also, they garnish the drink with a dendrobium orchid that try as you might will NEVER stay in your hair. Ladies, trust me, we've tried.
At first we were all crowded around this little table in the bar, but J.Lo being the rock star that she is (again, never dated Puffy) sweet talked the hostess into getting us a table outside. My favorite food that they have there is their cheese dip. Probably because it's just molten, spicy cheese served in a little cauldron. Again, with the danger factor! It tastes just like what I would imagine a tin of Frito Lay jalepeno cheese dip would taste like if you left it on the side walk on a hot summer day. So, you know, tasty when you've been drinking.
I was so into my cheese dip that I didn't even look up when some girl asked me for a lighter. ("Can't talk now. Eating!") The lady at the table next to us pointed out that it was none other than Lindsay Lohan. I'll wait and let you collect yourself. Yup. My lighter. I was underwhelmed to say the least, until I turned around and looked at her.
Christ on a Chruch what a mess!! I thought that the tabloids must take advantage of bad hair days, bad angles and over all terroistic photo taking. Not true. She's really that big of a mess! She was wearing teeny little jeans, floppy top and a black, leather newsboy hat. She was trying, with the help of some friends to negotiate entrance into the back seat of a Rainbow cab. It looked like this was an extremely difficult task. "Wow, she is drunk," someone said. "But she's only 18," answered an US reading Jane. (She admitted it later.) So, Rocket yelled, "Nice pleather hat!!" Cute. Heckle the drunk kid. And yet, it was just a little bit funny.
So, if you heard the radio show on KS95 that Wednesday, and they were talking to a Jane from Minneapolis confirming rumors that L.L. was indeed in our midst: that was my girl.
As a post script, after 3 lemon drop martinis and a ridiculous amount of Mt. Gay rum and cokes I did not have a hangover the next day. I think it was the cheese dip.