Last Saturday night my girlfriend turned 40.  Being newly single, she wanted to go downtown, stay in a swanky hotel and be seen.  There is a point in ones life when going out to a downtown night club makes about as much sense as standing next to Gisele on the beach.  I’ve reached that point but it wasn’t my birthday.  So I got dressed while praying please oh please let no one called me a cougar.

After a long day of drinking and fun, we arrived at the rooftop bar of our hotel.  Feeling on top of the world and looking damn good, we were ready for some fun.  We stepped off of the elevator to these words, “You can’t take your drinks in ladies.”  At least the didn’t say ma’ams.  So we dumped out our drinks and headed off to look for a table and a waitress.  

We noticed right away that the only place to sit were the little roped off sections. I approached a “bouncer” (do they still call them that?) and asked him to give us the lay of the land.  He introduced himself as Alaska, and pulled out a menu with the dreaded words Bottle Service written across the front.  For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, here is how it works.  You pay a ridiculous amount of money for a bottle of alcohol.  For example, Grey Goose runs about $450.00. That’s right, $450.00.  Not wanting to further distance myself from the tight assed, high boobed 20 somethings that were every where I looked, I refrained from saying, “I could buy two weeks of groceries for the price of this bottle.”  

But wait, you get more than just a bottle of vodka.  All of your mixers are included in that price and you are served by a waitress in an outfit that makes the Hooters Girls look like nuns.  Most exciting of all, you get to sit in a tiny little area roped off from the rest of the party, signally immediately to every one that you are VIP.  Apparently buying the bottle also gives you blinders and you don’t notice that every other person in the bar is receiving VIP treatment.  I’m not kidding, there were as many roped off sections as there are booths at Chuck E. Cheese. 

We politely decline and ask where we might otherwise sit.  He leads us all the way across the rooftop to a place where you can’t even hear the music.  Sucking it up, we position ourselves on the cushy bench and ask Alaska (seriously with that name) if he would mind asking a cocktail waitress to stop by.  “We don’t offer service in this area.”  Are you fucking kidding me? Let me get this straight, either I bend over and pick up the soap with your $450.00 bottle of vodka or I can walk up to the bar every time?  COME ON.  I can’t even tell you how much money we spent at this hotel and now we had to suck it up and walk to the bar all night and get our own drinks.  

The section we were sitting in had about eight padded benches lining the wall.  We faced the party that didn’t invite us.  Behind us was a view of the city and though it was beautiful, I couldn’t help but feel like I was on the Island of Misfits. 

Shortly after plopping our uncool asses down, we were approached by a couple of men.  What girls night would be complete without the goofs hitting on you?  Being that it is southern California, we asked what they did.  One said he was in the music industry and the other a writer.  The only thing missing was the “actor”.  Being a writer myself, I asked with interest, “What are you currently writing?”  He told me he was writing an article for Cosmopolitan magazine and that he was there to do research. Right.  Moving on.

We spent the next two hours drinking, laughing and dancing and completely forgot about the fact that there was another party happening around us.  With great friends it doesn’t matter who is standing around you or where you are.  We WERE the party as far as we were concerned. It is a good reminder during these mid life crisis years that life isn’t measured by the height of your ass, but by the years of laughter with good friends.