That night, Cori and Kacy go out to dinner with Whitney and Sara, who they’re meeting for the first time, through mutual friends. They’re at Street, the excellent restaurant owned by celesbian chef, Susan Feniger, and sitting at the very table where I had my birthday dinner last year. (In lieu of caring about this year’s extremely compelling storylines, I’m amusing myself by identifying shooting locations.)
As they taste the kaya toast and Brazilian acaraje, Whitney gushes, “It’s like flavor bursting in my mouth.” Oh, if she had a dollar for every time she said that.
Whitney is fascinated by the “unicorn couple” that is Cori and Kacy and listens with amazement as they regale the story of how they met at here!, the emphatically punctuated bar on the same street as the Abbey and Haute.
I, too, am amazed they met here! because it’s so incredibly loud, it should be renamed “what?”
Cori says she was charmed by Kacy’s come-on, which is brilliant in its efficiency, as both an invitation and a demonstration.
PS. Let’s give it up for Kacy and her mind-boggling combination faux hawk, hoodie, no make-up, plaid shirt, white undershirt and wrist cuff. Kacy’s a walking stereotype, but she totally owns that s–t. Later, she’ll produce a Rainbow Visa from her fanny pack and drive home in a Subaru.
As the table bestows Corcy’s 2-year marriage with an admiration usually reserved for kidney donors, Whitney glances at Sara, wondering if pleasant domestic torpor is possible with someone who wears a nose ring and two pounds of eyeliner. Um, no.
Whitney and Sara are a very different animal. Cory can’t even figure out if they’re actually together. Whitney says they both have intense feelings, but are used to having their own s–t. Translation: One spends her time bed-hopping for fun, the other spends her time dry humping for profit. Unicorns, meet the jackasses.
Later, Sara and Whitney are cuddling under a picnic tablecloth, wondering if they’ll ever be “normal.” God, I hope not. Normal leads to matching outfits, coupon clipping, and finally, an early death brought on by sheer boredom.
In an undisclosed location, Sajdah is hosting a birthday party for Chanel at a fancy, for-hire house, managed by her friend, Natasha. Sajdah and Chanel share the same burfday, but since Sajdah is trying so, so hard to be the dude with mad stacks, she’s made it all about Chanel and invited her family and friends, to meet them, impress them, and hopefully, get laid for her thoughtfulness.
That’s right kids. For all her racing toward the U-Haul counter, Sajdah has not slept with Chanel yet. This is a close as she gets.
Sajdah is about ready to bust a nut, so she picks Chanel up and carries her into an empty bedroom. But instead of hiking up her tight dress and introducing Chanel to Prop Ate, Sajdah presents her with a journal to write down her innermost feelings and thoughts.
Sajdah: I was, like, trying to think of the perfect gift to get her, so I bought, like, a journal where I promised to write in, as well. It’s somewhat of a tool, where I could learn to express myself to her a little better.
Guess who else is somewhat of a tool?
Chanel sips chardonnay and impassively admires the quality of the paper. Sajdah begins the journal’s first entry, and before she realizes it, she’s writing that she loves Chanel, as hot tears roll down her face. You know how sometimes you buy her a gift, but it’s really for you?
Chanel wipes Sajdah’s tears away and says she loves her, too, although I’m pretty sure she means it in a completely differnt way. After allowing Sajdah nine seconds of full-body contact, Chanel gets up, straightens her dress, and says she has to get back to the party and her guests.
Sajdah adjusts her pants, groans and crawls after Chanel. Happy birthday, kiddo. She got you blue balls. And they’re just your size.