Being a newbie to Hollister, there are some things I have been
trying to adjust to.
The less-than palatable water, the absence of a mall and most
importantly, the severe lack of social activity for a gal my
age.
After college at Chico State, I am more than used to a little
fun on the town every now and then, and there are times (mostly
Friday and Saturday nights when I’m sitting on my couch feeling
like a loser) when I find myself yearning for my wild school
days.
Being a newbie to Hollister, there are some things I have been trying to adjust to.
The less-than palatable water, the absence of a mall and most importantly, the severe lack of social activity for a gal my age.
After college at Chico State, I am more than used to a little fun on the town every now and then, and there are times (mostly Friday and Saturday nights when I’m sitting on my couch feeling like a loser) when I find myself yearning for my wild school days.
Don’t get me wrong, Hollister is proving to be a very, um, interesting, place for a beginning reporter – there’s always something going on in this town to keep me busy with work.
But there’s not much going on outside of work and I don’t think I’m the only one who feels this way.
Between conversations I’ve overheard or letters people have written to the paper, it seems other people are fed up with the social scene here also.
This past weekend, two of my friends from Chico braved the wet roadways to see how I was living and they found out how literal I am when I complain about how there’s nothing to do here for someone my age.
First let me give you a little background on these friends of mine.
These aren’t your run of the mill, sugar, sweet and everything nice kind of girls. They’re sharp-tongued, quick witted women who won’t let anyone get away with anything and love to have a good time.
Many a bar top has seen their dancing feet shimmy across its mahogany surface while they deftly maneuver through beer bottles and cocktail glasses.
After a nice dinner at The Vault on Saturday night, these gal pals of mine decided they wanted to peruse the town’s night life, despite my objections about the lack of entertainment.
Our first stop took us by the bowling alley’s bar, The Ticket, but it was a quick trip.
As we drove by, four gentlemen were standing on the bar’s front steps watching one of their friends give an exhibition of what alcohol looks like on the way out.
I believe my friend’s comment was, “Oh my God, he’s puking, get us out of here. Quick!”
Don’t get me wrong, it’s definitely not the first time I’ve watched someone throw up from one too many, but usually people have the decency to do it in a bathroom or off to the side of the building.
It’s just slightly revolting when, to get into an establishment, you have to step over a puddle of vomit.
So we then headed over to Johnny’s, where we were pleasantly complimented by a patron who looked like he was on the fast track to ending up like our buddy at the bowling alley.
“You swee (hiccup) sould be in a (burp) calendar.”
The slurring I could deal with, but the way he started eyeing my purse like it was a barf bag on an airplane made me a little nervous.
After a few cocktails and some much needed hilarious conversation, we decided the night had been about as good as it could get and we took off for home.
We were in our jammies and ready for bed before midnight, which hasn’t happened since I was a sophomore in high school and my curfew was 10 p.m.
The next day when my friends were off and running back to Chico, the consensus they formed before they departed was one of resounding sympathy for my socially defective plight.
“Just hang in there,” they yelled as the drove out of sight.
So I’ll keep hanging while they keep partying, and reminding myself that I don’t need a huge party scene to keep me content.
At least I have my work… and my trusty couch that at least makes me a comfortable loser on Friday and Saturday nights.
