Bitch! That’s My Jacket: Episode #1

18Feb10
I never would have guessed when I got a Canada Goose jacket that I would have to watch over it like the protective mother, that I so clearly am not. Like, when you go to a bar that’s really packed and doesn’t have coat check and everyone just flings their shit everywhere, resigning to some form of communal trust because we are all drunk and “in this thing together man!” Well I don’t buy it. Maybe at The Beaconsfield, but not this time.
Case and point: My first jaunt up to Le Petit Castor. If you have not been there. It is stupidly packed on Thursdays. Packed to the point that you are sardined into the cramped space, and you can’t even move to let the busboy go by. Ah, the eternal question, “Do I give the ass or the crotch as he shoves his way by?” I’d rather not have to make that decision and have my little space bubble violated, but this is the price you pay for going to a bar with overpriced drinks, and all the fabulous people you pretend you don’t see at every other stupid party.
But I digress, so there we are- looking for places to put our coats and there are none. I not-so-cleverly tuck mine in-between two of the booths as we sip our martinis, holding them away from our chests so as not to have them spilled all over us by passing drunkards. We polish them off and agree to bounce. I lean in to grab my jacket and as I stand back up, I see one of the cougars situated in the den *ahem* booth getting all fired up as she announces to her cougar friend loud enough that I can hear, “OH. MY. GOD. That girl is stealing your jacket.”
“Come again?” I say
“I believe that jacket belongs to my friend.” She hisses
“Uh, no, it’s not. It’s mine. But thanks for making that gross assumption.”
“Well, then she has a jacket just like it!”
“Oh, you mean like every other fucking guy that has a black Canada Goose jacket in this place? Like this one and that one and that one and this one? Keen observation.” The place actually was littered with them. It’s a shame they’re so effing trendy, but man, are they warm.
Their whole cougar pack is giving me cut eye at this point. Mind you, you wouldn’t be able to tell from the obscene amount of Botox injected in their leathery faces, thus removing any evidence of expression. It’s gross how women who have plastic surgery and shit don’t look younger, they just look like women who have had plastic surgery. All pulled and stretched and taut like that. Ick.
I bid them goodday and turn to leave in some dramatic, poignant way, only the place is so goddam packed that I hit a wall of people, and am left awkwardly negotiating my way to the door.
When we finally push our way out of the front door, it feels like LPC literally shat us out of its bowels. Fun times had by all. On to the next one!
Stay tuned for Episode #2 in Montreal
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