On Saturday night we hit up Asylum on Bleecker Street for Cheryl's um, 24th birthday (that's her story and I'm sticking to it.) After finding parking on the street (woot), we stopped at a pizza joint so Cheryl could line her stomach with something to soak up the alcohol (in her words, "I'm a cheap date.") As Min and I waited outside, some drunk guy reeking of whiskey staggered up and tried to charm Min out of a smoke. The operative word being "tried" because he was about as charming as an ass pimple. He then proceeded to stand around and chit-chat, which was fine except for the fact that he started gagging and dry-heaving right in front of us. I quickly moved out of the line of vomit fire. I'll go into battle at your back unless the enemy starts hurling vomit. Then I'm out. Peace.
Cheryl and Min were still watching him in concern but I hurried them along. The guy was there with his wife or date. It was her responsibility to make sure he pukes into the bushes and not on random strangers, not ours. I'm known for helping my friends with food and liquor retention issues after a night of partying, but I'm not about to go that extra vomit mile for some fucking stranger. And especially not before I've had a chance to down a few myself.
Cheryl picked Asylum as the spot for her party because it's owned by her friend and she's had fun there before. There was also the added benefit of half-priced drinks. Though I was Min's bitch most of the night (thanks Min), and her co-worker's friend's bitch for a few shots, I bought a round of three SoCos and a Malibu Bay Breeze and it came to $12. IN THE CITY. That's normally the price for one drink. Yes, we who willingly hang out in New York City are stupid, stupid people. I didn't bring a present for Cheryl so I gave her a bright red smooch mark on each boob, and replaced them when they wore off. I'm the gift that keeps on giving.
Not all of us are buzzed, though it surely looks that way.
Me: One of my closest friends lives there.
Him: What's their name?
Me: Paul--
Him: Paul that's married to Jamie? Her brother's name is Jimmy?
Me: Oh my God.
Him: Dude I know them!! Jimmy's one of my best friends.
How crazy is that? Paul is pretty much the only friend I have between Cherry Hill (a suburb of Philadelphia) and Newark and this guy knew him. Insanity. After that we made fun of each other for the rest of the night, having become bosom buddies by sheer association. Oh and also because he's Italian and he has these huge banquets filled with tons of homemade Italian food. Hey, the Food Whore is always on the make. ALWAYS ON THE MAKE.
On Sunday, I was in the kitchen making lasagna and spinach dip and doing the electric slide to Billy Joel's "Oh What A Night." But then it moved to the next song on my playlist and it's a bit hard to electric slide to Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me." So I stopped and looked up and there on top of my fridge were the clothes I wore the night before. Jeans, shirt, undergarments, everything. I stared at it, trying to figure out how the hell they got up there and if I was drunker than I thought when I came in that morning. Luckily Geo strolled by and let me know he tossed them up there for some reason when he was straightening the bathroom. "For some reason" is probably husband code for "to fuck with you."
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