Shittiest night ever...

Okay maybe it wasn't the shittiest night ever... but since I'm always writing about how wonderful things are, I thought I'd give some insight into the fabulous life gone wrong.

After working a long week and injuring myself in the way only I can, self induced disability, (by slipping on dripped water in my own home!) I sprained my foot. So this whole week in production for a concert series during the superbowl I was limping badly through the Jackie Gleason Theater.

By yesterday morning though I was back at 95% slight pain but nothing that stopped me from working out. Things were looking good as I got ready to attend the 2nd party that I chose to go to. You see i had all these invites for parties and I chose a certain two, because of accessibility and timing, as well as the open bar and type of event. I rsvp tell the folks that I'm coming and bringing my plus one or two and voila! So I'm set.

I get dressed, its a great night and I'm off to meet a friend to go to the Vice Party with Pharrell and Miri Ben Ami, blah blah blah...

I park far so that I can walk around south beach in my snazzy little coach shoes, and take my ipod because it makes things so much nicer. Upon getting to the Cameo (no longer Crobar) we stand with the huddled vip masses who are insisting that they are on the list, in wait to get in. There are 4 lines.

VIP Tables
VIP
Guest List
General Admission

I did mention huddled masses right? It was just that, but I'm used to it. My friend (being a man) was telling me to push my way to the front tell them my name already and get us in. I explain that no one is getting in and that they are making us beautiful people stand outside to draw attention.

So stuck between the 40 something year olds ESPN guys and the barely 20 year old models we wait.

Finally I get someones attention and she's checking my name on the list. Apparently I'm not on ANY list. Apparently the crazy publicist who sent me the invite, the press release and personally invited me has nothing to do with the event. I try not to take off silly door bitches head as I tell her that I have a personal invite from one of the largest PR folks in the country and she gives me the door in headlights look.
"I don't know what to tell you, you're not on the list"

I'm mortified. I got dressed! I left my house! I braved traffic to drive my ass to South beach and hang out with the insanely inappropriately dress H&K crowd! I'm livid. I also had to tell my friend (who left a bunch of his friends going to Diddy's party) that it was a bust.
I argued with him to go back to his boys and leave me next to the orange ferrari. I would be fine. 5 minutes later he's off. I walk across washington and realize, that my vertigo pants are ripped along the seam halfway up my leg. How did that happen?

I call Barbara who lives on the beach and is a hermit, and she comes to meet me with her dog. She's in her PJ's. We chat for a bit, I stop by her apt. I bitch and moan and then say "okay I have to go, thanks for the veggie corn dog."

I begin to walk to my car,
It begins to rain, I am limping again.
I can't catch a cab.
I have two blisters on my toes.
I'm now soaking wet.
I try to call Barbara, the battery on my phone goes dead.

AND amidst the ripped, pants wet dog, limping mess that I am! I am still cat called! and silently followed along Meridian by 4 rather large men in some type of truck hollering such nice things as

"Mama, let me dry you off"
"You need a ride sugar, let me take you home"
"Lemme go home with you?"
"Hot damn mama!"

Ad nauseum....

Thank you for reading and now you know why some nights its just better to stay home!
xo,
Michi