January 12th, 1989

January 12th, 1989
Orlando, Florida
Mary-Kate’s apartment

Trying to get comfy, in this cramped space, on the pullout sofa, here at Mary-Kate’s. Donna is beside me, snoring. She just threw one leg over the top of mine, so now I’m trapped. Misty is in Mary-Kate’s bedroom, hopefully asleep. It’s been an interesting night to say the least. But, if I don’t start from the beginning of the day, I’ll get confused (and with the amount of white wine spritzers coursing through my system at the moment, that won’t be difficult.)

Went shopping with Miriam this morning, and was tempted to ask her to stop at Winnie’s, but my shorts were feeling a tad snug (major understatement) so I refrained from asking. I did say a silent hello to Winnie as we drove past, and told her I’ll probably see her soon.

Spent yonks, on hold, with Real Talk this afternoon, and was about to hang up when someone finally picked up. In a very thick accent that I think might have been Russian, I learned the daily admission price is $28, which I don’t think is too bad. Let’s face it, if the tickets were $100 a piece, Pamsy and I would still go, because there’s no way we’re leaving Orlando without experiencing Disney World.

Received a lengthy airmail letter from Stephen, filling me in on the Air Europe gossip, as well as his antics at their Christmas party. It was strange reading about people I’m familiar with, but it feels like ages since I left Air Europe, when in fact, I only left at the end of November. Stephen signed his letter with my favourite expression of his, “oh my bridal gowns!”

Donna and Double R are (that just made me laugh) “taking a time out,” so she invited me out with her friends tonight. We went to JJ Whispers, but unlike when I went there with Gabriel, the place was dead. There was much discussion on whether we should stay or go, and by the time Mary-Kate and Misty came to an agreement (two heads with swaying big hair) the crowds began to arrive, so we stayed put.

Misty disappeared for a while, and I assumed she’d gone to the bar to get a drink, or met someone she knew. When she came back to the table, she moved like she was made of rubber. I gestured to Donna, “what’s up with her?” but Donna just shrugged her shoulders, and asked who wanted to dance.

Donna and Mary-Kate made their way onto the dance floor, and I asked Misty if she was ok.
“Oh yeah,” she said, throwing her head back.
“You seem a little out of it,” I shouted.
“You wanna go out?”
“No,” I said, moving closer to her. “You seem out of it. Are you ok?”
“Honey, I’m more than ok,” she slurred, in her deep Southern accent. “You want some?”
“Some what?”
“You know,” she said, sliding down the velour chair.
“I don’t know.”
“You wanna spliff?” she drawled, slowly making her way back up the chair.
I thought she was telling me she felt spiffy, so I said, “your outfit is very snazzy.”
She threw her head back again, and screeched loudly, showing me all her teeth. “A blunt, honey-pie? You wanna blunt?”
I was stumped. Was she accusing me of being blunt?
“A doobie?” she asked.
I held my hands up, and shook my head.
She tried again. “A fatty?”
I was about to say, “that’s not very nice,” when she gestured smoking.
“A joint? You’re asking me if I want a joint?” It came out sounding incredulous.
“Yeah, sugar bear, that’s it,” she breathed, pointing to her bag, while she slid down the chair again.
“No thank you,” is all I could muster.

When we left the club, the stretch limousines were lined up, and I felt excited knowing Pamsy will be here soon to experience all of this. But I’m more excited at the prospect of seeing my best friend, who speaks the same language.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s