TC is here in DC. We had the worse New Year’s Eve dinner in record history. DC is a city that is universally unappealing to me at all levels. At midnight we were somewhere on I-66 driving back home. I struck back at this chic restaurant the next day by uber-blogging on the horrible service we had. Don’t fuck with me.
I felt bad for the Snow Tiger and there’s only one way to make a Tiger happy. So off to New York City we went. An entire city filled with cute boys who all like to chat. All sorts of squeeky toys to get me in constant trouble. This is a city with no attitude. But I’m out shopping in SoHo. Or perhaps better, I am the official bitch shopping bag carrier. TC has gone nuts in all sorts of specialty stores. I’m fading fast.
We’re at a British shop. No waist size larger than 32, just my kind of store. Black seems to be the only color. The very cute sales guy notices my accent, “where are you from?“. I’m from North Carolina, shit howdy, as I spittle some chew into the trash can. “You look tired” and rolls out a chair for me to sit in. Worn out is better. I bury my head into a 3 foot high stack of jeans. TC is busy trying on everything in the store. The sales cutie starts laughing me. “How long have you two been together?“. Nestled deep inside the stack of jeans I murmur, forever. He laughs.
Dinner at a Spanish restaurant in Chelsea, fantastic food and service, less than what I forked out for New Year’s and then off to G-Lounge (a cool spot in Chelsea as well). I (always) forget that New York bar’s pour some strong ass drinks. I’m shit faced and back into the hotel we go, no idea how, but I awaken early splitting headache, purring brown tiger there all curled up. Ain’t life great?