Ned and Paul were out either partying or working or playing volleyball and us girls were left alone in the apartment. For some reason there just happened to be a box of strawberry Jell-O in the kitchen and a bottle of raspberry flavored vodka in the freezer and we had no plans for the evening. Kari and I mixed the two and let it do its thing in the fridge in a huge Pyrex bowl.
Amber, being the responsible one and also not having been fully introduced into the madness that had become "normal" to Kari and I, had already showered, put on her pj's and was ready for a comfortable night hanging out at home watching the thimble sized TV we had in the bedroom. The TV in the living room, which was an awesome faux wood encased floor relic only got one or two channels....so we were relegated to watching all TV, and rented movies on a 12 inch screen. By the time Amber was fully in relaxation mode, Kari and I pulled the bowl of sinful delight from the fridge and pranced around the living/dining room with it as if it were mana or some other such nectar of the gods. Amber was in trouble and she knew it.
(Bubble, bubble, toil & trouble....a witch's brew being presented to Amber.....and have mercy....I look like the Joker with Beethoven's haircut in this shot....)
So, wet hair, pj's and all she was coerced into sitting at the dining room table with us as we spoonful by spoonful emptied the entire bowl of vodka jello. You can imagine that by this time we are all warm & fuzzy and ready to be anywhere but in the confines of the apartment. It being a Wednesday night we knew that there would be a great party down the street at the club formerly known as Bar Room and most, if not all, our friends would be there. So we ran to the the closet to get ready and...somehow....ended up all wearing the exact same outfit. Black turtlenecks, jeans and sneakers. Obviously the vodka was telling us that this was the cool thing to do.
At one point, one of us called Jean Paul, or maybe he called us and we invited him to join us. While waiting for him to get there so that we could go out Kari starting busting out break dance moves that will make her go down in history as America's Next Top B-Girl Model while Amber and I cranked the music and pulled our best Naomi Campbell runway impersonations. At one point, we broke out our cameras and started taking pictures of ourselves as Charlie's Angels. Poses, faces, everything. Next thing we know, JP is at the door completely sober and taking in all this girly mayhem....much to his delight. At one point we started doing jumping jacks (FULLY clothed, thank you very much) and comparing bra strength notes....why? Blame it on inebriation....thank God JP was such a cool guy.....and thank God this was before the advent of YouTube and video cameras hidden in cell phones. Have mercy.
(Kari bustin' a move.)
(JP sneaking in some glutes...Amber and I had no idea he did this until we developed the film. Durrty boy!)
So we leave, or should I say hang on JP and stumble, out of the building and walk down the street to the club. On the way some college guys in a convertible yell out props to JP for having three hot chicks hanging on him. The boy is pimp, and the fact that he was Charlie to our Angels fit him like a snug wet T-shirt. The rest of the night was a blur after we were let in past the throngs of tourists and locals trying to get in and through the velvet ropes to our tables in the VIP were then top model, Tonga was hanging out looking dreadlocked and unhappy. I know we danced. A lot. Probably reliqoured ourselves and danced some more. Then back home for general pukeage and room spins. God, I hated the room spins.....
I've never again touched jello shots since that night, nor have I pretended to be a Charlie's Angel while going out. It all seems so terribly, mortifyingly embarrassing now.....but back then, in the good ol' rockstar model days it was just another night. And fun. So very, very fun.
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