"It's not because he has facial hair."

So, night number three has come and gone. And I'd love to tell you all, my faithful readers, that we went down in flames. And we were taken down not by a big ball of fire but, rather, an inconspicuous effing spark.

But before we get there, let me do a quick [listed, of course] recap of our day.

1. We hung out with a barely one-year old decked out more fashionably than we were. Gotta love a cute baby with already apparent fashion sense (and an insane ability to flirt like a pro).
2. Not counting said fashionable one year old, we were the oldest people (why don't kids around here ever go to school?) at the restaurant where we had our mucho delicious pizza lunch. (Bonus: Sass can cross another "good" restaurant off her DC restaurant list).
3. We became intimately acquainted with all the sides streets in Georgetown [one way signs be damned] as we searched endlessly for a parking garage that was not "temporarily full."
4. La practiced her parking in a small small spot abilities [to all you who know my parking abilities, this was quite a feat].
5. We exercised our facial muscles by consciously and overly conspicuously smiling at everyone who walked by the Starbucks plate glass window as we sat and had our afternoon coffee. Despite our best intentions, we did not [or have not, as of yet] made it into Missed Connections.
6. The weather was so nice that we opened the sun roof, rolled down the windows and let the iPod play all of its favorite ghetto jams [loudly] as we crawled down M Street during rush hour.
7. We learned not to buy "designer" bags off the street, that FCUK shirts look cool folded up but not so cool on actual bodies, and that drivers around here are horrible (present company (ahem, me) excluded).
8. "Cowboy man love is brutal."

So we go out for drinks. And we sit at the bar and order delicious mojitos. We ordered them because (1) we like them and (2) they seemed to be good at this particular venue, as implied by the sugar cane strewn bartop and the myriad "relaxed" fellow bar sitters. We made friends with our bartender, who served Sass even though she couldn't come up with the proper paperwork when he asked for identification. We love him. Since we were being adventurous and metropolitan, we hopped over to another venue.

After finding a spot, we made ourselves comfortable and made some observations. We watched as middle aged people on a date ignored each other. We watched (out of the corner of our eye, we're not rude) as an obviously overweight, overly blonde and overly made up woman sat at the bar, with her pink suede purse in front of her, drinking a beer. We felt bad for her. Until...

We listened as a scrawny scrawny skeevy short goateed man approached her. Her first comment to him? "I don't like facial hair." He then walked away and she called him back, saying she had a question for him.

Unfortunately, it was at that moment that our [until then absent] bartender came up to us to see what we wanted. We ordered and then she had the audacity to ask us for IDs. Sass admitted she didn't have hers. OH, dilemma.

Bartender calls over goateed man and says, "Hey, how old do you think she is?" He looks at Sass and says, "20." Sass, approaching a big birthday this year, takes this as a compliment. "Really," she asks. "Awesome." So then he's like "ID." Um, what?! She offers him other forms of identification that, while they didn't specifically give her age, implied it (um, I'm sorry, but when were 20 year olds licensed to practice law?). No dice. He was actually quite an asshole about it. So Sass and La had no other option but to blow that popsicle stand.

Worldly and mature Sass had been denied alcohol! By a "man" who obviously got his power trip from denying women the one substance that, under circumstances not ever ever involving La or Sass, could get him the one thing he needs and covets the most. We don't need your alcohol, anyway.

And, a man did find his way onto our radar screens. His name is Ronald. Ronald Miller. And he's not a doctor yet, but he will be some day.