barbie was a bitch who never worked

Christ. Wake up to one of those ‘Oh dear God, what happened last night?’ scenarios this weekend.

That hasn’t happened in a while.

Evidence pointed towards the Barbie paraphernalia strewn about my shag rug.

Ah.

We went to a Barbie party – 50th anniversary of Mattel’s longest legged toy – the party was whoreganised by a friend of mine, so us girls who went got VIP passes and went clubbing. There was pink everywhere. And the cocktails were cold.

I haven’t been to a club in fucking months.

After some due dance floor antics, tried to walk out with the life-sized polystyrene Barbie propped up on the bar.

Someone recognised that I was the Mushy Peas author (seriously?) and instead of the Barbie, I got a Barbie press pack, which is great – since I couldn’t flash any tit under my destination t-shirt for that – so I was rather flattered to say the least.

On destination t-shirts.

I’ve decided because I’m battling to cope with my incessant travelling itch – seriously it’s the gonorrhea of itches – and since I collect t-shirts from the random locations I visit, I might as well use them for something.

The way I see it – wearing a tourist shirt during the day is lame.
Wearing one to a nightclub is hot.

In an uber-cheesy tourist destination shirt – you can be pimping all over the world. Like the song says.

Even if you don’t fit into any sort of acceptable dress code. Do you think my cousin will be pissed if I wear my I Did It In Dublin one to her wedding?

So now I’m at Melrose Arch. Wrong location to be wearing an I Heart Berlin shirt – amongst the micro-skirts and blonde hair – but whatever, don’t care – give me that fucking life sized Barbie cut out, because it’ll look amazing in my lounge.

I had smashed a few Jaegers with the girls prior, so my personal rationality wasn’t at its all time best.

So just when the big CEO of Mattel woman sidled up to me to ask what I was doing prying Barbie off the bar counter, one of my very sweet celebrity friends stepped in.
Suddenly they took my number and acted interested, hilarious.

And now they’re gonna call. And deliver me 1 x polystyrene Barbie for my house. It’ll look great next to the TV. Thanks to my friend and her clever negotiation skills at 2:00am – I love you, you know who you are. You looked smashing, by the way.

My friends and I broke an egg on the dance floor like the good old days – except that I needed to take my heels off from the sheer strain. Luckily this was a venue devoid of vomit and glass, so as someone who battles to cut shapes in stiletto’s anymore, I was thankful for the cleanliless of the dance floor. For a change.

Caught up with a lot of friends this weekend. Like Dove (who is off to Nepal for a month to teach the monks English); Poen (who leaves again soon), and E (who is back forever! Yippee!) and the brothers that I now visit every weekend.

We all hung around in a hungover stupor devouring Chicken McNuggets and Kath & Kim.

Quality.

One of my colleagues has just left, so having a good thrash this weekend to override the stress and angst about to come, was apt.

My workload, from today, has just doubled. And it's a pretty swampy workload as it is.

I fly to Italy on Wednesday. Maybe I won't have the nervous breakdown this week. The preparations for that have been arduous – I’ll explain tomorrow. That deserves a post of its own.