the pieces of my life

Max Fish. Site of many post-college nights that, frankly, they all blur into one drunken night. But Max Fish is where I spent much of my time, and I was eager to go with Scooby and Sunrise. So we walk down to Ludlow Street only to find…

… a line. A line? At Max Fish? Whaaaat? “Should we get in the line?” Sunrise asks. Um, no! No, we do not do lines and we certainly don’t do lines at Max Fish. That is wrong on too many levels to even think about.

Okay, so what to do next. It’s about 2:20 a.m. And, apparently, someone has to go to the bathroom (I saw someone because it was either Scooby or Sunrise, but I was too busy thinking about where to go next to pay any attention). “Fine,” I say. “We’ll go to Tweeds apartment and you can pee and we can figure out where to go next.”

“We can’t go to your sister’s apartment!” Sunrise says. “It’s 2:30 in the morning!”

“Yeah? So? She’s not far. Let’s go.”

We walk over to the Tweedle Twins’ apartment. “You’re not really going to buzz her, right?” Sunrise asks, looking for reassurance, I think, that on some level I’m a person respectful of my sister’s right to a peaceful night at home. “I mean, she’s probably asleep by now.”

I don’t bother answering. Instead, I hit the buzzer. “She’s never going to answer,” Sunrise said.

“Yes, she will,” I said, and sure enough, the buzz came.

Sunrise shook her head in shock the whole way up. “I cannot believe she let you in.”

Upstairs we were greeted by the Tweedle Twirp, who not only let us use her bathroom, but also gave us some of the Tweedle Twin’s birthday cake.

Sunrise & the Tweedle Twirp

At about 3 a.m., we were fortified to continue our bar crawl. “Sophie’s it is,” I said, Sophie’s being the bar I spent the absolute most time in during my underaged college years.

Sophie’s is exactly the same as it was in the late 1980s. The only difference is that someone is standing at the door, carding everyone. Including me! I was so happy, I about kissed the guy. He was so pleased that I was pleased that he let me card him. Yeah, writing that, it doesn’t make must sense, but in the moment, it was fabulous.

We got our beers (by this point, Scooby was drinking Sprites), and sat at the back table, where an artist who was going to be as famous as Jackson Pollack (or maybe he said painted like Jackson Pollack? I really wasn’t paying that close attention) started hitting on Sunrise. Sunrise was quite pleased. He offered us all weed, but then rescinded the offer when he heard we all had children. Never mind that he looked young enough to be one of our children. Somewhere in my Twitter feed it says that Sunrise spanked a man. Must have happened at Sophie’s. I really don’t remember it.

At about 3:40, I was ready to go, but both Scooby and Sunrise mentioned they had never made it to last call. So we stayed. And we had last call. And they were happy. And then they said that they had never been kicked out of a bar at closing. So we stayed. And we got kicked out after Sunrise tried planking on the bar stools (yeah, I had never heard of planking, either, but this is what real suburban haus fraus apparently do for fun). And they were happy.

It’s 4 a.m. The bars in NYC are now closed. Time for everyone to crawl drunkenly into bed and pray that the hangover doesn’t hit. Except. Except. Except this is NYC. The city that doesn’t sleep. The city where anything can happen. And so our night yet continues on….

My friend, Angela, thought I was going to give you the finale (I’m not sure if anyone other than Angela is reading this, but I’m happy writing just for you, Angela!). Little does she understand that one blog post cannot contain the hours of 1 a.m. to 5:30 a.m. adequately. So we’ll call this Finale, Part 1.

Continuing right along…

Just to set the tone for our night, a group of kids was trying to buy tickets for Bridesmaids. “But I am 17!” the girl was protesting.

“Doesn’t matter,” the ticket seller said. “Your friends aren’t and they need someone 25 or older to accompany them.”

What’s a heroine to do?

Villain: “You can’t buy the tickets!”
Minor in Distress: “I must buy the tickets!”
Villain: “You can’t buy the tickets!”
Minor in Distress: “I must buy the tickets!”
Me: “I’ll buy the tickets!”
Minor in Distress: “My heroine!”
Villain: “Curses! Foiled again!”

Look, it was a freakin’ R-rated movie, not a bottle of vodka. I hope someday someone does the same for my children.

Anyway, the five of us very tired haus fraus went yawning into Bridesmaids. And we loved it. I woke us up, rejuvenated us, and made me ready to take on Sunrise’s husband. Pedestrian tweets, did he say? Oh, I’ll give him some tweets!

Sunrise and Scooby took no convincing. Beetle and Keaton weren’t up for a wild night so they went back to the apartment. I immediately began texting my sister. “Where should we go? Where are you going to meet us?”

She called me within minutes. “I just put my pajamas on! I’m in for the night.”

“I don’t think so,” I told her. “You are a late night person. I’m not allowed to call you before noon. It’s 1 a.m. These are your prime hours.”

Scooby wanted a fruity drink. Sunrise wanted a non-naked bar. I remembered the sign I had seen at the Howl Festival (the one I told you to keep in mind?). “Let’s hop a cab,” I said. “First Street and Second Avenue.” I texted Tweeds: “Meet us at Mars Bar.”

Ah, Mars Bar. Mars Bar is a bar from my wanton youth, a stretch of counter, cheap drinks, and a questionable—in the best of ways—clientele. I didn’t get any good pics, except for Sunrise looking boozy (and out of respect for her suburban haus frau ways, I won’t post it here), but others have (here’s a photo of a n*aked man at the bar). New York magazine wrote of Mars Bar, “This dark, scarred hall full of stiff drinks and crazy regulars is great because it’s legitimately terrifying. If you care to look up from your drink, the glass-brick walls facing Second Avenue provide decent people-watching.”

This, my friends, is where I took my haus frau friends. And, dear readers, I don’t need to tell you, that Sunrise and Scooby loved it (or at least they got boozy enough to pretend they loved it). Mars Bar is going to be knocked down (for condos, I think?) in July, so I felt it was my duty to expose my friends to a piece of New York history.

At first, when we were accosted by a bald man who drunkenly hit on Sunrise, they were wary. But once we got inside… well, they were still wary, but they at least they were game. I ordered a screwdriver for Scooby (because that’s as “fruity drink” as Mars Bar gets) and Rolling Rocks for me and Sunrise, because I was feeling nostalgic. Of course, the beers arrived and Sunrise said, “What? Beer? Aren’t we going to do tequila shots or something?” Cue tequila shots. Sunrise had never actually done one before, so I had to get the salt (no cute shakers here–I was handed a canister of Morton’s) and show Sunrise how it was done. The bald guy from outside offered to buy us another round, but we demurred. Another bald guy—let’s call him J1—struck up with a conversation with us, but as he was nice and he didn’t smell, we went with it. In fact, the yenta in me came out, and I ended up giving him the e-mail of a beautiful, single New York friend of mine. I love that I can still pick up men… even if I’m doing it for someone else.

Meanwhile, I’m harassing Tweeds. I’m phoning her every five minutes.
Call 1:
Me: I don’t see you here!
Tweeds: You’re not looking hard enough. I’m there.

Call 2:
Me: Why aren’t you here?
Tweeds: The Tweedle Twin has already brushed his teeth.
Me: He can brush again!
The Tweedle Twin, heard in the distance: No! No, I can’t!

Call 3:
Me: Get your a*ss down here.
Tweeds: Sure, I’ll be right there.

Call 4:
Me: If you don’t come here, we’re going to come to you!
Tweeds: That’s fine! I just don’t want to get out of my pajamas.

Around 2:30 a.m., we decided it was time to say good-bye to J1. After all, one of my favorite other college haunts, Max Fish, is also scheduled to be closed.

Call 5:
Me: We’re moving to Max Fish. Meet us there.
Tweeds: Yep, no problem.

Time to move on to Ludlow Street…

First, let me tell you, the sheet is still on the front porch. It’s moved a little, from the swing to the ground, but it’s still there. At this point, it’s just kind of blending in with the scenery.

Second, I’m feeling a little adrift because my revisions are in, Teacher Appreciation Week is over, Daisies are done for the month, and I haven’t yet started a new project. I have some ideas, but I need to get cracking. A writer who isn’t writing is, well, not a writer. See, if I were a writer, I would have been able to come up with something much more clever there.

Third, I had intended to start a new project today, but as I sat down, I noticed a flagged e-mail (flagging is my useful way of saying, “Hey, remember to do this!”). When I looked at it, I saw that summer camp forms were due… May 2. Oops. (In defense of the flags, I did remember eventually! Without the flags, the forms never would have been done.) So I spend half the morning tracking down immunizations and insurance cards and looking up phone numbers and that sort of exciting stuff, because if I don’t, I’ll have a summer of, “What can I do? But what can I do? No, what can I dooooo?”

Fourth, the ants are back. I was most disturbed when I saw Adam just crush one in the middle of the kitchen. “What are you doing?” I asked him. “Killing ants.” I demonstrated how we lovingly catch the ants and then take them outside to live free among the grass and trees. Adam looked at me like I was crazy and then stepped on another ant.

Fifth, I cannot figure out this blog. I’ve tried to make changes, move things, add things, make things pretty in my side bars. But it foils me. Having a self-hosted domain (as opposed to a blog-hosted domain) really screws you. It’s frustrating me. To the point where I’ve decided the only way to reclaim my photo blog is to go back to Blogger and simply use a blogspot address. So it’s there in the sidebar (that I could do), and I now have the ability to update it from my phone the old-fashioned way. Not that anything you can do from a phone could be considered remotely old fashioned, but I think you know what I mean.

Sixth, I have no sixth. But I do have a…

Seventh, there’s a school dance on Friday. A school dance! Who has a school dance for elementary school kids? Granted, it’s being billed as a “family dance,” but as you all well know, I dance no where sober unless it’s my kitchen and I’d say it’s a good bet there will be no bar.

Eighth, which leads me to the very important question, which I ask just about every year: Why do I still not own a flask? (Hey Adam! Someone has a birthday next month! Hint, hint!)

Ninth, why does my second-grade I-hate-girls want to attend this school dance? I will be taking him—and his sister—but I fear I will live to regret it, as I’m guessing it either means he has some devious scheme to set off a stink bomb in the cafetorium (yes, it’s called a “cafetorium”) or he’s going to eye the girl he has a crush on from across the room and then leave in a grouchy fuss when he doesn’t talk to her at all. Note: I’m not completely sure about that crush thing, but I have a very strong suspicion that the boy has a slight crush (or rather,in second grade parlance, he “likes likes” someone) on a girl we know, but of course, it’s not a subject I’m allowed to even think about, never mind ask him about. I’m not sure which of the outcomes is the more scary; I think a flask would solve whatever problems may come up.

Tenth, well, I would have told you the tenth, but the girl is being dropped off from ballet and she’s whining about a hurt leg and she’s hungry and can’t she wear a party dress to synagogue tonight because it is Israel’s birthday!, so I’ll have to leave you all wondering what the tenth thing was going to be.

Oh my gosh, if they had this in a Tanakh version, I’d be all over it! It would be the perfect birthday gift for the hard-to-buy-for suburban haus frau (hint, hint).

The object of the board game Pretty, Pretty Princess is to get the crown, two earrings, bracelet, and necklace (look, it was a gift!). You can’t win, though, if you have the black ring. We were playing, just me and Pie. It’s Pie’s favorite game (surprise!). Pie had everything but one earring. She landed on the black ring. “No!” she shrieked. “I don’t want that! Here.” And she moved her piece one extra spot to get the last earring. Very pleased with herself, she announced, “Now I’m a pretty, pretty princess!”

***

Reason #326 I love my neighborhood

Yesterday, at kindergarten drop-off on our first frost-bitten day, one of the moms brought a Thermos of hot chocolate. And the real stuff, made with vahlrona chocolate. None of that Swiss Miss crap. She topped everyone’s coffee cups off with the stuff. What a heavenly way to start a day. Yes, that’s right folks. I have nothing snarky to say here. I just really thought it was a nice moment that I’d share. Don’t worry–this moment will pass quickly. Oh wait, there it goes…

***

Me: Why didn’t you put away Doodles’s Leapster when you were done with it?
Pie [whispering, arms held wide]: Because I didn’t want to.

Oh, silly me. Of course.

***

In the car ride home today from swimming class, Doodles said to me: Mom! You won’t believe what happened today!
Me: What?
Doodles: During snack time, Mae (not her real name) came up to me… and she kissed me!
Me: She did?
Doodles: Yeah! On the forehead! For no reason at all!
Me: No reason at all?
Doodles: No reason at all! Mae kissed me on the forehead. And then all the girls laughed.
Me: Oh, they did?
Doodles: Yeah. Why did Mae do that?
Me: I have no idea…
Doodles: It was so strange!

So here I am, mentally picking out his senior prom outfit, when I report this to his mother. Only Doodles apparently is back-up guy. Because Mae told her mother that she was in love with another boy in class, Z., only another girl, J., was going to marry him. Ah, the complicated romances of kindergarten…

***

Time to start planning for next year, when I have my yard back. I’m TOTALLY hitting the after holiday sales for one of these.

***

Reason #327 that I love our neighborhood:

I love Pie’s preschool. Love, love, love it. And I really, really love the moms and dads I’ve met there (and I think it’s so nice that I have gotten to know dads–they’re definitely an active part of the life there). I’ve made some really good parent friends. But the thing is, at Pie’s preschool, I feel like I’m the bad influence. I’m always the one saying, “My daughter did what? Oy. Time to hit the martinis,” or “Damn, why don’t they serve wine at these things?” or, “It’s a Wednesday! That calls for bourbon!” And I have to say, I get shot down every time and I feel like I’ve somehow gotten a reputation for being the juvenile delinquent mom.

But kindergarten–ah, kindergarten is a whole new world! Today I did my volunteer stint in the classroom. Workboard. I helped kids find words that started with the letters in “G-I-V-E T-H-A-N-K-S.” I prompted them to write a sentence. I supervised some serious coloring and cutting. Two other moms and the teacher were also working the room. After the kids were on their way to lunch, I made the comment, “Let’s go get our martinis now.” One responded, “I’m more of a margarita person,” and the other one said, “I make a mean gimlet. Let’s go back to my place for drinks now! Seriously, I can mix up just about any drink.”

Friends, let me tell you, it was painful being the responsible adult, but I pulled through, knowing I had just an hour till I had to pick Pie up from preschool. I apologized profusely, not wanting to be that mom, you know, the mom who doesn’t drink (aaagggg!). The mom understood, and she promised me that anytime she’s happy to mix up a drink.

“It’s true,” another mom said. “It doesn’t take much to get her to pop the cork.”

“It’s always five o’clock somewhere,” she assured me.

Be still my heart. I’ve found my home. And it is kindergarten. Let the drinking begin.