Over the weekend, I went to a Dodgers game. The Man & I met up with some friends that we haven’t seen since we left Camp Pendleton. Which was a LONG ASS TIME AGO.
Because men don’t plan things well, we were sitting in different sections (which turned out to be okay ’cause they were sitting in the blazing hot sun and I burn like a mother fucker and it was 1200 degrees Saturday in Elysian Park). So they had to go in through a different gate and then meet us so we could show them Dodgers Stadium and yannow: eat.
Meeting place: Tommy Lasorda’s. There’s a bar nearby, and that’s where I go because it’s goddamn hot and also, beer.
Bartender (I’m assuming)*trying to be flirtatious*: Are you sure you’re old enough to order a beer?
Me: Ha! I am well over the legal drinking age.
The very nice bartender pours my beer and because I almost never carry cash, I paid with my card and also handed him my ID because I try to make things easy when I feel like it.
Bartender: Looks at my ID. Then back at me. Then back at my ID.
I’m on a horse (I can never resist). Then down at my boobs. THEN BACK AT MY FACE.
Me: *smirks* TOLDJA
Bartender: Whatever you’re doing, keep it up!
Look at me over here aging gracefully and shit.