Wednesday is the new Saturday. Here's the premise: Get all dolled up mid-week, and head out to a trendy venue that would be tiresome to try to get into on a Friday or Saturday. Why wait for the weekend?
Eric doesn't read this, so he may never know what a genius idea I think this is.
So I find myself at Opus for the second time in a month. Someone please tell the universe that my life isn't really this fabulous. And for the second time, I find myself having to spread a little more love about Opus. Specifically this time, the fabulous bartender. There must be men all over the city who are in love with her. This is a woman who once told Brad Pitt he'd just have to wait for his drink like everybody else, while mixing drinks so fast "her hands were a blur," according to one fairly reliable bystander. I just really appreciate her perfect Cosmopolitan. I had almost given up on the Cosmo. Popularity has turned the Cosmopolitan into a watery, sweet concoction sloshed out at every bar and club, and sloshed back by every stiletto-heeled 905er who's ever had an intense discussion with her friends about which one of them is Carrie. However, Mary mixes up a cocktail that is tart, boozey and actually makes you feel glamourous sipping it. So worth it.
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