I took a train to NYC before the rest of my friends in order to see my folks before they headed out of town. I hung with the ‘rents, the Tweedle Twirp came up, and we chilled till the haus fraus made it to Manhattan. Our first stop? Pedis. Down to Dashing Divas where the treatment is a bit different when you don’t come with a four year old in tow. For starters, I had time for the “all out diva” treatment. Second, they don’t bring you cosmos when you have a preschooler with you. We sipped and pampered and laughed and enjoyed ourselves. After, we went by the Strand, walked through the Limelight Marketplace, and headed back to the apartment where the HF all changed clothes. “Seriously?” I asked them. They’d been in town for mere hours. The clothes were fresh. But apparently they went to the Pie School of Fashion, which requires a change of clothes for every new thought. Once they were all decked out, we headed to Bar Pitti in the West Village, where the gracious host managed to find us all a table outside within 15 minutes.
Back story: A high school friend of mine is now a big-time DJ and I found out he was going to be [playing? spinning? performing? what’s the correct terminology?] in Brooklyn while we were in town. But the club he was playing… well, it was a bit out there. I e-mailed the haus fraus ahead of time about the show, including a couple of links to reviews of the club (this is probably the most accurate) and a note from my friend from the club that included the instructions about “not pissing all over the sidewalk as soon as you get around the corner – which, incidentally, does attract the police and they will write you a summons.” I think it was “naked” that pushed things over the edge for them: “Not for me.” “Think I’ll pass.” “Yikes!” But I was intrigued and the Tweedle Twirp had agreed to accompany me.
So at the end of dinner at Bar Pitti, HF1 and HF2 ordered cups of decaf. I turned to Tweeds and asked, “We still going?” “Sure!” she said, so I ordered a regular coffee.
“Where are you going?” HF2 demanded.
“Brooklyn.”
“To the naked club? Without us??” No biggie, I assured them. They had keys. I’d be quiet when I came in. But I wanted to check it out.
“Well,” HF2 said in a huff, “if you’re going, I’m going!”
Next thing I know, four haus fraus are accompanying me on a train to Marcy Ave. in Brooklyn. The walk from the subway to the club is not-quite a mile. But it’s an odd walk, passing through an ultra-Orthodox neighborhood in Brooklyn, one where the street postings are all in Yiddish, the school buses have Hebrew on them, and we pass men in shtreimels. It’s Shabbat. We’re wearing little dresses. I just had a cream and bacon dinner. I’m feeling a little “going to hell”-ish. But after a few “are we going the right ways?” we make it. We see a few folks standing on a street besides a random building. Suddenly a door opens. “Why are you here?” the bouncer asks.
“For Ursula 1000,” I say. We are let in to this cavern of… well, you’ll have to use your imagination. There are multiple rooms and crazy art on the walls and cheap booze and music everywhere and movies on the rooftop and couples making out and….
The haus fraus made it till about 12:15 or so. Tweeds and I stuck it out till Ursula 1000 came on. It was well worth it. But the whole night, I kept thinking I was approximately twenty years too late to the club. How much more fun could I have had then. I can only imagine….
22-year-old self: Hey, come to the bathroom with me!
41-year-old self: What the hell are those three people doing in that one single-person bathroom?
22-year-old self: I love how disorienting the decor is. You can’t tell a door from a wall from a ceiling…
41-year-old self: Where the hell is the Exit? Why isn’t it marked? Isn’t that a safety violation? Does anyone else remember that Rhode Island club?
22-year-old self: Cool! I can smoke in here! I so hate the “no smoking in bars” rule. I love  that this place flaunts that.
41-year-old self: [cough, cough]
22-year-old self:Â Wow, a rooftop! Showing movies! Chill!
41-year-old self:Â Are you serious? One rickety ladder to get up and… oh shit, an even more rickety ladder to get down? If there is a fire….
22-year-old self: Hee hee! My dress is totally billowing as I climb down this ladder!
41-year-old self: Oh shit. My dress is totally billowing as I climb down this ladder!
22-year-old self:Â Absinthe! I’ve always wanted to try absinthe!
41-year-old self:Â Dear, lord, what are those two people doing out there? Is either of them carrying condoms?
22-year-old self, upon hearing a guy exclaim that he got a cast for whacking off too much: Ha ha ha ha ha!
41-year-old self, upon hearing a guy exclaim that he got a cast for whacking off to much: [silent eye rolls]
22-year-old self, after getting “advice on ice”–italian ice that comes with a dose of advice… from a 23 year old: Yeah, you’re totally right! Only do what your passionate about! Working a job you’re not excited about is just a waste of time. And seriously, if you’re not have wild sex every night, it’s just not worth living!
41-year-old self, after getting “advice on ice”–italian ice that comes with a dose of advice… from a 23 year old: [muttering about how I, the Jewish mother, should be giving the advice, accented with plenty of eye rolls]
22-year-old self: Wow! Two vodka tonics, one rum and coke, one whiskey on the rocks, two beers, one juice, three waters for $34 in a New York club? Amazing!
41-year-old self: Wow! Two vodka tonics, one rum and coke, one whiskey on the rocks, two beers, one juice, three waters for $34 in a New York club? Amazing! [Because, really, that is amazing, no matter how old you are!]
Made it home just after 2. And I’m glad I went. Even if I wasn’t sure about it on Saturday morning’s run, it was definitely worth it. Yes, I’m almost 42 years old. But, damn. I can still party like I’m 39!
