And I Hereby Dub Thee "Bad Ass Bitch"

Disclaimer: This was originally written for publication in April 2017...I am totally not the diligent blogger I set out to be...

"WOW, you're a bad ass bitch!" 

And this children is how you properly deal with a club creeper.

One of my more recent fantasies I have had is being a local foodie guide with the Mister for Anthony Bourdain's televised grub expeditions and last week my television guilty GUILTY pleasure was Gordon Ramsey's "Kitchen Nightmares." Neither Mr. Bourdain or Mr. Ramsey would have had a non expletive laced tirade when I speak of the "pub" known as Rosie McCann's.

I have been there now three times and I can say with the utmost confidence that the third time is a "charm." The first time I had gone I had forgotten everything from the taste of the food to the decor, even layout of the establishment except that there was a vague, "Oh yeah I think it becomes a club." Yes, this sad excuse for an Irish American pub does in fact become a night club at 9 PM on weekends (and recently I learned on week days evenings), and even more sadly, has a steady stream of patrons once the sun sets on Santana Row.

The bottom line? Don't expect much except for some pretty "interesting" memories from Rosie McCann's. All in all, my dancing days at clubs are mostly retired with the very seldom occasions I shake off the throes of #adulting in favor of ill-fated decisions which usually involve:

• Wearing heels I should not have bought 
• Blisters from the heels I should not have bought
• Easily avoided situations involving creepers
• Getting sick the very next day due to not being prepared for the sheer amount of noise and bacteria from the mouth breathers and various scum present at the establishment

Needless to say, I have produced quite a few stories of interest from each of these ill fated events. This, being one of them.

Lady Kat, who I have reconnected with over the past three years, and I are practically inseparable these days. I am extremely thankful for the incredible life changes that have enabled me to be there for her. Even with my own issues that plague me: body dysmorphia, depression, social anxiety, sleep apnea, fatigue, etc, every day is easier knowing Lady Kat is only a text or phone or even 20 minute walk away. I know there is a part of her counting down the days until she can move back from our hometown to So Cal, but I think both of us independent of one another wonder the same thing: "What am I going to do without her?"

"What am I going to do without her?" 

So when Lady Kat's high school friend who I was familiar with from our girl scout days and our shared experience in Middle School was throwing a Farewell/Birthday Bash and Lady Kat wanted a wing woman, who was I to say nay? Well, the Rosie McCann's of my memory was over four years old so I naively supposed, "Maybe it hasn't gotten worse?" I am a sucker for a good time and more importantly, I am even more so always wanting to support my friends, so off we went. After two independent clothing mishaps, Lady Kat and I each were disappointed to discover that the first outfit we tried on, didn't work. Though for opposite reasons: Lady Kat lost weight, I gained went. Off came the outfits and corresponding jewelry and makeup...until we were finally at nearly 6:45 PM...ready to go. Despite the slight setback, we were the first to arrive, even ahead of the birthday girl so we took it upon ourselves to secure a table in the back of the restaurant to avoid the risk of being politely asked to "shovel your food faster, we need to clear your table for the dance floor" at 9 PM. 

There is nothing Irish about Rosie McCann's. Ironically, the birthday girl was moving back to the United Kingdom and I have to say that after watching Gordon Ramsey send back a Shepherd's Pie at Finn McCool's on the latest episode I had mindlessly devoured last week...I don't know what any UK resident would have to say about the food. Lady Kat and I ordered our first drinks of the evening, both cocktails. I made the mistake of ordering an Irish Mule which tasted like watered down ginger beer. The fish and chips were mediocre and severely overpriced not unlike most food at Santana Row, but not nearly as tasty as the creations at Roots & Rye. I ate the food mainly as the anchor to keep down my drink and keep my mind as clear as glass.

There would be NO funny business this night...or so we thought.

"There would be NO funny business this night." FAMOUS LAST WORDS. 

I once had a conversation with my college friends about clubbing and one said, "I'm so ready to just like...like fight someone" in the context of conflict. Conflicts at clubs are usually cringe worthy and the kind of "thank-god-that's-not-me" hilarity type of antics usually seen on reality television. I can only say to comfort a person that at least there's a story for later. Since being married, I suppose the one thing that has changed about clubbing is the fact I have had to perfect my Beyonce dismissive-flippant hand gesture when showcasing to the creep, my wedding ring. The last time I had gone dancing was in Las Vegas and the situation had been carefully avoided most thankfully due to the presence of the Mister. The other time I had gone dancing had been when I had arranged for what I fondly call the "Summer of Break Ups" when I was nursing three friends simultaneously trying to juggle and offset the trauma with boba, puppy cuddles, massive shit-talk-the-ex throwdowns and Pokemon Go expeditions. In a more elaborate attempt to bolster their confidence, I arranged for the four of us to do the D^3: dinner, drink, dancing.

Which I had subsequently vowed never to do again, but here I was. I find it very difficult to not indulge a friend in need. 

That particular night I recall feeling like a cantankerous force to be reckoned with, but I knew I was stupidly dressed in attire not meant for clubs: a long sleeve shirt, hat, leather fringe choker and knee high boots. The hat was perhaps the biggest regret as I regretfully discovered how easy my position could be triangulated by any creepy fucker in the vicinity of the establishment (The Patio). Despite the prestigious university in close proximity (though we all know all too well that a good school does not mean it isn't free of its own controversies regarding sexual assault), all manner of co-eds and their counterparts appeared for a raucous night that I was thankful ended a little before 1 AM.

That night I was cranky, I was tired, my voice was shot and so were my nerves. I remember distinctly being sick of being manhandled while also having to keep my friends from the clutches of lecherous old farts and fuckboys. BUT, it was then that we learned that Lady Kat and I are quite the compatible club buddy.

"BUT, it was then that we learned that Lady Kat and I are quite the compatible club buddy."

So here we are in the present day. Lady Kat and I were well dressed and well fed by the time the party really go started. The guests trickled in as the hands of the clock got closer to 9 PM. The birthday girl later went onto to say that night as the restaurant transformed before our eyes and the club goers appeared, "You are by far the most glamorous people here." And sadly she was right. I will never forget this girl who arrived in active wear clutching her shopping haul while grinding hard on anyone willing to come into contact with her gyrating derrière. The classiest thing she had on were by far her Pumas.  #ThanksRiRi

Lady Kat and I always dress well when we mean to, we do a lot more than elbow grease to look pretty damn good when we want to be...I will say with only slight smugness (I try hard when I put the effort in.) Typical of Santana Row, everybody comes here. There are the mega rich, the aspiring rich and the posers. There are the families, the couples, and the packs of singletons all trawling and trolling for a good bite, good laugh or good Instaworthy shot in front of some mega fancy six cylinder exotic car idling in front of Hotel Valencia. People watching in Santana Row is by far, off the charts. 

After my incredibly disappointing cocktail, I switched to drinking whiskey, neat. I needed something to burn like an antiseptic applied to an open, festering wound that was the dance floor at Rosie McCann's. Strangers descended upon the club because it was the best place to go after dinner drinks, pregaming and whatever else was already done before arriving at Rosie's. That was when a crew of clean cut, obnoxiously stormed in and installed themselves at the table adjacent from our party's. Deeming it not good enough, they set their sights on something worthy of their privilege and apparent lack of taste. Though it was obvious they were going to be real tasteless, patriarchal pains, evident from the way they were pawing at the hostesses and ranking every "piece of ass" they could set their sights on, they proceeded to order bottle service.

This isn't Vegas people. 

I shouted over the music, "Who the hell orders bottle service in a place like this?"

"Those people," Lady Kat could only reply. 

A combination of natural instinct and our party's decision to head to the dance floor, made our collision course with the douchebags imminent. Traveling single file through the narrow corridor from the back of the restaurant, when it was our turn to to slide past the group, one particularly douchey group member sporting a 90's boy band spiked hairdo and button up, trained his focus on us both. With a lewd grin, he blocked our path and without warning reached to pinch Lady Kat in the stomach. Glaring at him venomously, she slapped his hand away repeatedly to deflect his strikes and managed to muscle her way past with me at her heels. Knowing what was to come, I tried to just shove past him, but narrowly missed his prodding fingers poking me in the boobular region. 

I felt the onslaught of regret leeching in, not because I wished I was tucked up in bed watching YouTube and eating frozen food from Trader Joes, but regret because yet again my wardrobe decision had proven to be not ideal. My cute slinky little black dress with the plunge neckline, my blue lipstick and chunky jewelry - was evidently not creep proof. Though Lady Kat and I have exchanged our lion's share of street harassment stories and knew all too well that it didn't matter if you were completely covered up or had denim cut offs: men would scream anything at you. And why the hell couldn't I wear a boob-tastic dress without a guy trying to do anything but stare?

Now joining the fray of our dancing friends, my full size purse that I was precariously balancing off my shoulder, was whacking the unfortunate passerby and had me worried the whole evening I may lose my worldly possessions to carelessness or pickpockets. As I struggled to keep my dress up, my purse close and a good eye on any creepers on the prowl, one penetrated our lines of defense. The circle had been breached by a man old enough to have fathered me at least twenty five years ago. He pawed my shoulder suggestively, his eyes feverishly glued to my body from the shoulder down.

So I flipped him the ring. 

The Queen has spoken.

(So believe you me, this whole situation gets my feminist panties in a knot. I believe that anyone should be able to wear sexy, slinky, slutty clothing confidently and be safe from nonconsensual touching or slut-shaming opinions. I also believe that nobody should have to use martial status to deter unwanted advances.)

His reactive was priceless.

His face was twisting and his expression contorting in disgust and resentment. It was as if I had no business being there. I was unwelcome. Seriously? Disgust? Anger? Rage? This was not the reaction I had predicted. Disappointment maybe, but to act like I was unwelcome or supposed to be chattel to house and home as a married person (aka men's property) seemed about as delightful as discovering after a long hard day that your dog had vomited on your bed. 

He slunk off, pushing past us, his ego probably further bruised by the cacophony of cackling that erupted after his departure. Peals of laughter came from our entire group who had never seen me in action before. Oh, little did they know that there was a lot more to come from Lady Kat and I. 

After quite some time passed and the DJ's consistent disappointments in music choice, Lady Kat suggested that to me "to go grab some air." We had been idling by the bar as the was a terribly long wait for the group's drinks and nobody was willing to risk a drink getting stolen off the counter, so everyone had taken to waiting in the front of the restaurant, throngs of people trying to shove past us or starting cuing up for their turn to scream an order over the deafening noise of chatter and music. 

"I'm right behind you."

Not only did it seem like a good idea at the time, I knew all too well that a person on their own, particularly a femme appearing person on their own in an environment like this, was the very last thing that should happen. I ran after Lady Kat who had grabbed my hand as together we plowed through the crowds. Being short is an unfortunate byproduct of bad experiences at clubs. No joke, when you stand at 5'2 you run the constant risk of being chest and even almost crotch level of the more typical giants that seem to appear at clubs, either armed by sheer genetic luck or rising to lofty heights with the help of heels. We made it outside and conveniently found a bench right outside of the building, on the patio.

"God this place is a dive," I said to her. "I'm so glad we didn't pay cover."

"Yeah, this is really bad," she wholly agreed.

Our momentary tranquility was very short lived. 

The douche crew burst out of the club, saw us and promptly whipped out cigarettes and settled down for a smoke. Scowling to one another, Lady Kat and I exchanged looks. I am never surprised by the complete lack of tact and creativity that fuckboys and pick up artists stoop to when trying to artificial engineer an opportunity to corner a femme into an unwanted conversation. Trying to make the best of it and occasionally coughing, we continued to talk in hushed whispers, turning inwards towards one another as if we could somehow generate an asshole-free-zone in our little corner.

And then more bad luck. "Oh fuck!"

HIDE DAMMIT 

More members of the douche crew paraded out, also popping cigarettes into their mouths and began congratulating one another about their night's exploits. Our favorite 90's spiked haircut appeared with his button up progressively less buttoned than when we had encountered him at the beginning of the night. There was no hiding. He caught sight of us immediately. Waggling his eyebrows suggestively, he promptly deposited his one hundred and eighty pound unwelcome ass onto Lady Kat's lap. As he leaned in to try to lay a fat wet kiss on her lips, he was met with a sudden and well timed back handed slap.

You would have done that same!

BAM. Like a well rehearsed movie stunt in an high powered action scene, she reverse karate-chopped him in the face, whipping his lardy ass off her lap.

We all watched, the douches, Lady Kat and I, with completely mesmerized as he was knocked off balance and tumbled unceremoniously onto the dirty patio ground with the cigarette ash, evaporated spilt drinks and shoe scum. All of his friends watched, utterly stunned and there were a few audible gasps. It was a triumphant moment.

#boybye

As they slowly tried to process what had just happened to their friend, suddenly one of the douche crew snapped out of his momentary stupor and shook his finger in our faces decrying the rejection,

"YOU ARE A BAD GIRLl! You're very BAD girls!"

I suppressed the urge to laugh knowing we were in still a somewhat precarious situation being outnumbered and without our group's safety in numbers AND having also witnessed what very suspiciously looked like a drug deal among the bouncers (they would likely not be of much help)...I knew the odds were not in our favor so I stood up immediately and grabbed her by the arm announcing, "Let's go."

Marching us back into the club, we regrouped with our party who were idling by the bar and upon seeing us greeted us enthusiastically. "Where have you been?" "What happened?" I guess we had been out there as longer than I had thought.

"Welllll...."

Over the eardrum blasting music, we gestured and garbled our tale of hilarity and woe to the birthday girl and her friends who were already in awe of how I had shut down an invitation to dance, but now had grown a much larger appreciation for our tenacity. 

That's when the birthday girl said, "WOW. You guys are bad ass bitches." 

I never considered myself a "bad ass" but I learned to new appreciation and perspective to the word bitch in college by reclaiming power through the acronym Being In Total Control of Herself. To be a called a "bad ass bitch" was an honor. Truly an honor and I mean this with all sincerity, this was a whole lot more fucking meaningful than the damn knighthood. This is why the sisterhood is sacred. The stuff of legend. The bestowal of a title well deserved. I felt infinitely powerful to be acknowledged and empowered by a fellow female. A bad ass bitch is a creature who is both free to say no and to say yes. 

The experience was exhilarating, because what is more addicting than self determination? 

It was way past the twilight hour at this point, the club was starting to look like the overhead sardine tank at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. It was a little grotesque. Strobe lighting and eardrum piercing beats poured over the unwashed masses trawling for flights of fancy. Gaping open mouths, bugged out eyes with deep inset wrinkles and a zombie like trance was falling over some of the schools. 

As we pushed past back sweaty bodies and muscled ourselves out into the night air, a rush of relief hit us. Maybe it was exhaustion, the intensity of the music and cramped space, or just the prospect of a shower and a soft bed that would welcome us back into the comfortable drudgery of our usual lives. Club stories may be very well over dramatic and laden with the prospects for a very, very bad time, but stories are stories. 

And to be honest, the night was not at all a bust. The birthday girl had a wonderful time. The creepers were properly disposed of. Memories were made. Mission accomplished right? 

And as I tucked into bed, face absent of war paint and with showered hair that would inevitably morph me into a Super Sayian come morning, I lay there sandwiched between the Mister and dogs, thinking, "Maybe it is time and experience that a wolf rises from sheep's clothing." 

#badassbitchesout 

Don't piss me off, I'm a writer - xoxo Miss Chinny