the pieces of my life

The kids come home this Sunday. Which means time is running out for my husband. Every night we have this conversation:

Him: What do you want for dinner? I can pick something up.
Me: Mega Stuf Oreos.
Him: Indian?
Me: Mega Stuf Oreos.
Him: We could do Thai.
Me: I want Mega Stuf Oreos. I will settle for Double Stuf if you can’t find Mega Stuf [and yes, “Stuf” has just one “f”].
Him: Maybe I’ll just make us pasta.

Why does he even ask me?

And of course, as those of you know me on Facebook, know that Adam and I had a weekend in New York. And while I can assure you that all of Adam’s posts about how inebriated I was were definitely exaggerated (almost), we had a lovely time. We had a fabulous lunch at Eleven Madison Park, spent time with the Tweedle Twins, rode bikes on Governors Island, saw the Degenerate Art show at Neue Gallerie, drank with friends, drank more with friends, drank a smidgen more with friends, and then I was forbidden from having a 2 a.m. “free conversation” in the middle of Cooper Square*, was appeased with pierogies from Veselka, and then felt a wee bit ill the next day.

As a result of my maybe overdoing it on Saturday, I declared this a week of “clean living.” Which Adam has been throwing back in my face. From yesterday:

Him: I can pick you up dinner or make you something.
Me: Mega Stuf Oreos?
Him: Clean living.
Me: Mega Stuf Oreos and a bar of soap?

I cannot believe I haven’t yet gotten my Oreos. I’ve gone since Saturday night (well, technically Sunday morning) with no booze, no sugar, and no coffee (I haven’t given up caffeine; I’ve just switched to tea because I have less of a tendency to overdo tea like I do coffee). And you know what? I don’t feel one iota better.

Bring on the damn Oreos.

*And just so you don’t think that this was some oppressive move by my husband, forbidding me to speak my mind, it was actually the work of my (free speech-teaching, political science professor, baby) sister.

We passed by and I said, “Oh, look, a conversation on comfy sofas in the street!” and the Tweedle Twirp said, “Oh no!” and I said, “Oh yes!” and the Free Convo person said to my sister, “She can join us!” and the Tweedle Twirp said, “No, she cannot!” and she led me away by the arm.

The next day, I texted her to ask if I had hallucinated the whole thing (as well as the “booby room” in the bar–I asked, “Did we sit in a pink booby room?” and she said, “Actually the boobies were white, the walls were pink.”), but she assured me the conversation on couches in Cooper Square at 2 a.m. were most definitely real. I said, “I cannot believe I missed out on a free convo! Do you have any idea how much I have to say?”

She replied, “Yes, actually I do have some idea.”

As if! Tip of the iceberg, people, tip of the iceberg.

Two old ladies walk into a bar. No, it’s not a joke; it was last weekend. With Doodles still at camp (a representative letter: “Send me more books. I ate a hot dog and a hamburger today. I’m having fun”), and Adam continuing to do this thing he calls “work,” Pie and I snuck off to New York for a few days to see my parents and to visit with T Rex and Pad, who were on vacation there from San Francisco.

On Sunday night, though, my college roommate, Jax, and I went out to tear up the town. And by “tear up the town,” I mean we had dinner and then a drink. Jax and I were a force to reckon with once upon a time, but not so much anymore. Now she had to get back to Westchester to her two kids, and I fall asleep before the Late Show goes on. But we headed to Bathtub Gin for a drink before she went home. Bathtub Gin is one of these swanky bars that you can’t tell is there. No name, no sign, no nothing. It’s behind a coffee stand, and you have to enter the coffee stand and then go through the back door of the stand to enter the bar. Oh so chic. As we walked in, Jax was most impressed with me. “Oh my God!” she screeched in a high-pitched New York-accented voice. (She really does talk like that. I think if they ever did a “Real Housewives of Westchester,” she’d be a righteous contender.) “How DID you find this place?” I think I broke her heart just a smidgen when I looked around, leaned in, and whispered conspiratorially, “Google.”

We were clearly the oldest by a decade or two. We were definitely the only one bemoaning kids’ soccer schedules. But what upset Jax the most is when I pointed out that pretty much everyone in the bar had been born around 1990.

“NOOOO!” she yelled.

“Even our bartender,” I said.

“NOOOOOOOO!” she yelled a little louder.

So we asked. “Hey bartender, what year were you born?”

He told us to guess. “1987” was my opening bid.

“Close,” he said.

“1988?” Jax tried?

“Closer.”

Our lovely bartender was born in 1989. The same year I graduated college. Jax howled for a good five minutes, but we had a nice chat with our young man, and before you know it, I was handing over a phone number. True, it was Adam’s number–our young man had a good friend who wanted to work at Adam’s company–but hey, I was out at a bar in New York, passing out phone numbers.

Yeah, I’ve still got it. If I can only remember where I put it.

Last weekend was my almost-annual girls’ trip to New York City. The weekend was relatively tamer, but no less fun, than previous trips. On Thursday morning, before I left, I was in the shower, which seems to be Pie’s favorite place to have a conversation with me. Adam was in there getting ready for work.

“You need to send me LOTS of pictures while you’re gone,” Pie told me.

“Of what?” I asked her. “This isn’t a sightseeing trip? What am I going to send you pictures of? Everything I drink?”

Adam snorted.

“Yes!” Pie said. “Send me a picture of everything you drink! Everything!”

And so I did. And in the ultimate cop-out, I decided that instead of blogging about my trip, I’d tell you about it through the drinks I drank. So, bottoms up!

While the Acela offered such delights as beer, wine, and hard liquor, I opted to stick with a Perrier, as I wanted to make sure I didn’t fall asleep before seeing my family.

Even though I didn’t arrive till past 9, I made it awake long enough to have dinner with my sister. Second drink of the night, with the Tweedle Twirp, at the sushi place near my parents’ apartment.

This was drink #3, 4, and 5, and probably #12, 23, and 42. I always complain when I’m at my parents that they prematurely wash my water cup, but as they left town shortly after this drink, I knew my water glass was safe.

Coffee. With my parents. At my new favorite breakfast place, the Cookshop.

Lunch was midtown, and a lovely little Turkish place, Taksim, with the most amazing bread and tzatzki. My lunch mate was a college friend.

Friday night brought me the first alcoholic drink of the day, if you can believe I waited that long. Another friend from NYU, Brian, was reading from his book at this nifty performance space, Dixon Place, on the Lower East Side.

Of course that drink led me to be late to meet up with Scooby and Lilith who were arriving from home, but I found my way to them, and in the pouring rain we headed to Barbuto where I had a Sazerac.

From there we met up with the Tweedle Twins and headed to Louis while we waited to be called for a table at Death and Co. While there I pissed off the bartender by asking a few too many questions (probably not a good idea to ask him, when he referred to the drink menu, if I should be concerned by his lack of confidence in my drink; the man was clearly no bartender, but a mixologist, and he was not amused by me, not one bit), but my drink, a Presbyterian, was delicious. That’s a clearly tipsy Lilith behind me.

Death and Co. never called. We walked by and were told that they didn’t have any tables for six, and they closed in about 45 minutes at 3. So the Tweedle Twins went home. At which time the bouncer told us we could have a table for four. And with only a smidgen of guilt about basically ditching the Twins, we took the table. I asked for the spiciest drink they had, which turned out to be an East River Underground. Of course it was so dark, you could barely see it.

The next morning came quickly. Waaaay too quickly. And while I had been looking forward to a mint julep at Schiller’s Liquor Bar, all I could manage was coffee and a burger.
.

I continued this healthy drinking right through my cupcake and milk…

…though I threw in the towel when we headed to Broadway to see Kinky Boots. At the theater, one may purchase a sippy cup of wine, with the choice of a single or double. I ordered a single, which was still a full 8 ounces of alcohol. And truth be told, it was gross enough that I dumped most of it in the toilet at intermission.

But the wine at dinner redeemed the fortified grape industry, although dinner at 11:30 p.m. is tough for an early bird like me. But the food at Lavagna was worth it.

After dinner, the Twins joined us again, and we went to Ace for beers, but it was so freakin’ dark that none of my beer pictures came out. Instead this is a picture of me and Tweeds killing moose. I was initially excited because I thought the game involved killing cows–and as you all know I have a long history with cows–but it turns out killing cows is a mistake that loses you points. And it led to a long and pointless conversation about the lack of wild cows and my insistence that at one point, before they were domesticated, there had to be wild cows and perhaps somewhere there was a colony of wild cows and we could find it and shoot the cows. By this time, everyone but Lilith had left me, so I just shot moose and then Lilith and I walked back to the apartment.

The next morning, despite getting home around 3 a.m., Lilith and I were both up early so we grabbed drinks–iced coffee for me, iced tea for her–and took a walk on the High Line. Unfortunately I was hazy enough that I forgot to take a picture of my drink before I finished it, so this is Lilith’s drink, which I was holding while she found a bathroom.

The final drink of the morning was a rather tasty, tart grapefruit juice, of which I partook at brunch at Markt, where they still giveaway matches (and yes, I took, one or twelve).

And then I hopped the train back to Boston. Where no one cares what I drink.

On Monday morning of Memorial Day weekend I woke up feeling great. Which means that either I have the stamina of a twenty year old… or I was still drunk. I’m sticking with the former (although I fear it was the latter).

Yes, it was yet another weekend in New York. We hadn’t been in a while, so we took the train down for the weekend. As we walked off the train, Adam was walking with Pie, and I had Doodles. A guy cut between us, and practically ran the boy over. “You okay?” I asked the boy. He nodded and I said, “What an a**hole.” The boy’s eyes opened wide as I leaned down and whispered in his ear, “This is New York City. You’re allowed to curse.”

“I can curse?” he asked with wonder.

“Yep,” I said.

“F*ck yes!” he said. That boy is a Brown through and through.

Adam was just as happy. Not about the cursing. He’s allowed to curse even in Boston. But the first night we met the Tweedle Twirp for dinner at Craftwork. I had mussels. Tweeds had ravioli. And Adam had the special, Pork for Two. For one. Two racks of pork. Pork belly. Pork head. Just for him. He started out happy, but ended up crying uncle and taking a bunch of it home. Adam clearly isn’t as tough as those of us with Brown blood.

The weekend was full of fun: The boy, my dad, Tweeds, and I hit Liberty Island and Ellis Island, while the girl, my mom, and Adam went to the Cindy Sherman show at MOMA (“One room was scary,” the girl told me, “so Nana covered my eyes so we could just walk through it.” I saw the show on Monday. “Scary” isn’t the word I’d use. More like “traumatizing.”)

We hit candy stores: Dylan’s Candy Bar for the girl; Economy Candy for the boy. I love Economy Candy. It’s totally old school, and any candy you remember from your childhood, they have. 

I was looking for a big bag of gummy bears, but they only had them in single colors. In 5 pound bags. I came very close to buying 40 pounds of gummies. I did learn that even I have my limits on gummies and there are some gummies that I refuse to buy. This one in particular:

After the sugar high, we switched children, and Pie, Tweeds, and I went for our regular NYC mani/pedi.

On Sunday, I had brunch with a friend from college, and now I’m plotting how to get to the Galapagos Island with the family to hang out with her (she’ll be moving there soon). Then Adam, my mom, and I took the kids to their first Broadway show, Newsies, and even waited for autographs at the end.

 

After the show, we hit but Strand. But for the first time ever, I messed up at the Strand. Normally I go through the New York Times Book Review for my shopping list, but this time I did some web searches and looked through some magazines and I made a list I was quite excited about (in particular, I’m eager for The Receptionist: An Education at The New Yorker by Janet Groth)… only to discover that the books I had selected aren’t released until the summer. Time was limited, the kids were antsy, and I didn’t have time to aimlessly wander aisles picking books at leisure. So while the kids stocked up, I actually walked out empty handed. Hard to believe, I know, but it’s true. Proof that the impossible is possible in New York.

That night, Adam ended up hanging at my parents’ apartment with the boy, who had a bad headache, while the rest of us went out for a family dinner. We got home at about 8, and I decided I was just too exhausted to go out. But I felt bad that Adam didn’t get to go out, so I said I’d rally for just one drink with him and the Tweedle Twins. Five hours later, we were walking home, my feet were hurting, so I just went barefoot up Avenue A, and stumbled back home to bed. We hit a bar on Avenue C that advertised on its sign “no phone” (too cool to chat with you, I suppose), then we made our way to Death and Co., where the entire time, I wanted to tell the woman at the table next to us that she could do way better than the guy she was on a date with. Of course the drinks were so tasty (and it didn’t hurt that it was my fifth drink of the night) that it probably added to the urgency of the situation, but I managed to keep my thoughts to myself. Back outside, I mentioned to the door person that the woman at the next table was on a date with a guy who clearly was gay, and she said, “Yeah, we get that a lot.” I’m generally happy with my suburban life, but watching that poor girl on that awkward date makes me so incredibly happy I’m no longer in my twenties.

Despite the late hour and the drinks, I was still up bright and early for a walk on the High Line with my family, brunch at Pastis, and a trip to MOMA, where I saw the aforementioned Cindy Sherman show and the others went to the Materials Lab.

And then, sadly, it was time to go. I hate leaving NYC. But we made it home and we dove back in. To Colonial Day. To Daisies bridging to Brownies. To baseball, soccer, track, piano, and drums. It’s been a week. And I’m ready to go back to New York.

Here’s my secret. I’ve been lobbying hard for a move to New York City. I miss New York. When we moved to the East Coast, Adam had to choose between a Boston grad school and a New York grad school. We decided that we could have a better lifestyle in Boston, so when he got into a Boston school, he withdrew his New York applications. It was the right move at the time and I’m glad he chose a Boston school.

But now, now I’m done with Boston. And let’s be clear: We don’t live in Boston; we live in the ‘burbs. And it’s a fabulous ‘burb. I have great friends, it’s a terrific community, and I couldn’t be more pleased with my kids’ school. But that said, I want a city. And I don’t think Boston is a city. Boston is a city lite. Spelling intentional.

My first choice of cities is Paris. The girl is on board. The boy is not, and Adam keeps mumbling things like, “Job. Money. Supporting ourselves.” I’m not sure what he means by that. My second choice city is New York. Where Adam could actually find a job. But here the holdout is, again, the boy. As a child I moved around enough to not want to subject my children to it unless they are willing participants.

“If you want a city, why don’t we move to Boston?” the boy asked. “It’s like a mini-New York!”

“I don’t want a mini,” I told him. “I want the real thing.”

So I’ve shelved the idea of New York, even though I had already lined up a bunch of open houses to look at while we are in NYC (I found a great deal on a condo in Murray Hill!).

Until… the boy gave me a glimmer of hope. My father, the boy, and I went to the Intrepid Museum of Sea, Air, and Space today (although the boy said, “Wouldn’t a museum of air and space be empty?”) and then we walked to Times Square.

And we entered the Toys R Us. The Times Square Toys R Us. And the boy was sold. “Wow!” he said as he walked through Candyland. “Wow!” he said as he walked through the area where they take your photo. “Wow!” he said as he walked through the demonstrations of toys.

“Do you want to move here now?” I whispered in his ear.

And as he eyed the indoor Ferris wheel going around, he whispered back, “Maybe…”

Anyone want to buy a house in the ‘burbs of Boston? I’m sure Adam will find a job sooner or later….

Pancakes. Pancakes is where this story is going to end. (Every blog post reminds me of a song. This time, I’m humming the Sunday’s “Here’s Where the Story Ends.” I should figure out how to post a playlist on this blog so you can get the same damn tunes stuck in your head.)

Pancakes. But it’s not really about pancakes, of course. Leaving Sophie’s heading toward a major avenue to catch a cab, Sunrise declares that she really wants pancakes. Okay. I know a diner. Right around the corner. Open 24 hours. Let’s go take a look at the menu!

The diner is attached to a bar of the same name, and both have menus up. So I pause at the first menu. Attached to the bar. That’s closed. Shut up for the night. Because, by law, bars must serving alcohol at 4 a.m. It’s the law right? Except at just after 4 a.m., the door to this bar opens, and out walks one of the bartenders who says, “Come on it. First round is on us. You can get the next round.”

“There will be no ‘next round’ for us. One more is about all we have left in us.”

“Eh, come on in anyway,” he says.

What’s a gaggle of haus fraus to do, but go in for a round of beers? (Although by this point, both Sunrise and Scooby—proving that they don’t have the fortitude of us old time NYU girls—have switched to soda.)

It’s pretty much the two bartenders—whom we’ll call Chavez and Garfield—and a guy at the bar who will call Bullfrog. We perch on bar stools, and resume drinking. Well, I resume drinking. Scooby and Sunrise silently fret that this is all the beginning of some New York Post headline that reads, “Boston Haus Fraus Look for Beer, Find Death.” (At this point, when I told the story to Tweeds, she said, “Really? They gave you a beer after closing? At [name of bar]? That’s so illegal!” So out of respect for the so-illegal bar and the great time we had, I’ll skip naming it).

Chavez tried to pick up Scooby. Garfield and I discovered that we both moved into the city in 1986, so he let me dictate the songs on the iPod from that era of my early NYC years, starting of course with The Smiths’ Louder Than Bombs. The Bullfrog and I start up a conversation and he seems like a pretty cool guy, plays in a band with the kind of music I actually like, so I made him promise me, as soon as he’s over his ex, he’ll let me know so I can fix him up with yet another single friend in New York (I’ve got a bunch of them!).

Sunrise is still hungry, so Chavez kindly runs next door and buys her a plate of Fried Oreos. Seriously. Beer. Fried Oreos. After hours. I don’t know which is the most exciting for me.

Fried Oreos. Mmmmm....

5 a.m. My beer is done. My memories at this point are turning a little hazy. I think we finally have had enough adventures that I can tell Sunrise’s husband to take his “pedestrian tweets” and shove them up his….

We say our good-byes. We head out to the street. And we finally catch that cab back to the apartment. Daylight is starting to shine through the buildings.

See that sliver of bright sky through the buildings?

We’re back. (Later Beetle tells us she was mildly horrified when she looked at her watch when we came in, and she realized it was bright enough that she didn’t have to turn on the light to see it.)

Sleep for five hours. Bagel run to Murray’s. And then back home again. Needless to say, Sunrise, Scooby, and I all passed on doing any of the driving.

It took me a full week to catch up on my sleep. But it was well worth it. And the best part? We’ll do it again. Next year. Same time. New adventures. I’ll be sure to tell you all about them.

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…

Saturday morning. Keep in mind, I had half a bottle of Prosecco (because no way could Tweeds and my friend keep up with me) and three lemon drop martinis the night before.

So what the’s only logical thing to do on a Saturday morning? Why, go for a six-mile run with Beetle and Keaton, of course! Running in New York is one of my favorite things—we headed across the High Line, down the Hudson River Park, around the tip of Manhattan, and 3/4 of the way across the Brooklyn Bridge. When we got back on terra firma, we decided to take a subway back, stopping at the Union Square Farmers’ Market for fruit and coffees.

Back at the apartment, Sunrise and Scooby were waiting for us, and after a quick shower and a leisurely breakfast at Markt (where the host was only mildly snarky at us! They’re softening there), I suggested a flea market. “A flea market? Really?” Sunrise protested. As I think I’ve mentioned before, my next novel is to take place in the 1930s, so I’m doing research, looking for old magazines, jewelry, postcards, whatever! to inspire me and to give me insight into my characters. I dragged Sunrise (the rest were willing participants) to one of these huge garages of a flea market.

I walked through it. I was done in about 15 minutes. Bought a pretty (non 1930s) ring. All good.

An hour later we dragged Sunrise out. She was pretty hard to drag, though, as she was laden with purses, jewelry, and god knows what else she found. “This is awesome!” she was heard to mutter a few times and she practically ran when she saw the next flea market one block over.

By this time, the half bottle of Prosecco, the three lemon drop martinis, and the six-mile run were catching up with me, and I headed back to the apartment for some, let’s call it, “alone time.” The rest headed to Fishs Eddy. About an hour later I was ready to join them again. So I called to find out where they were. Still at Fishs Eddy. Uh, really?

We headed back to the Strand, where this time, I stocked up on books for me! I’m not as ideologically against e-readers as some would have you believe, but the simple fact that it doesn’t allow you to spend hours on end leafing through books at the Strand is enough reason for me to turn my nose up at them.

By this time, Tweeds had joined us and she lead us to an ice cream store that had the most marvelous waffle cones that I could have eaten twelve more. We sat by St. Mark’s Church and had our ice cream and rested our toesies. We lost Keaton at that point who wanted a nap, so the rest of us headed to the Howl Festival in Tompkins Square Park (passing my old apartment!), and after listening to bad music and eating good pierogi, we walked to the Hester Street Craft Fair.

My old apartment:

Street art at the Howl Festival (pay attention to this! It will come back to haunt this story later):

We took the subway up, got all prettied up to see a show, and then headed out for dinner. We couldn’t decide on a place, and ended up at a pub that was okay, but not worth writing about. Then we saw Desperate Writers at the Union Street Theater. The play was cute, with some funny moments, but overall, it didn’t float our boats. We were in the front row, so we had to crane our necks up, and I was too aware that the top of my underwear was rolling down and cutting into my belly. Never the sign of an engrossing play.

We left, yawning. It was about 10 p.m. I texted Tweeds to see what she was up to, but we were really all pretty tired and pretty much done for the night. But then, two things happened: 1) As we were walking home, Sunrise spotted that Bridesmaids was playing in just a half an hour and 2) Sunrise’s husband had the audacity to tempt us into trouble by e-mailing me: “I’m not going to say your tweets have been pedestrian but… actually, yes I will. No nudity and very little alcohol.”

So at 10:35 on Saturday night, we started all over….

Do you guys all know where we are at this point? We are still on Friday. Yes, that’s right, Friday:

Yesterday was Thursday, Thursday
Today i-is Friday, Friday (Partyin’)
We-we-we so excited
We so excited
We gonna have a ball today

New York does that to me. Makes me sing bad songs. Constantly.

The gals come to town. I arrive at the apartment first; they arrive shortly after. We are hungry. Very hungry. But we are six and we must find a place that can serve six people who are hungry and can’t wait till 10 p.m. to eat. Open Table to the rescue—CraftBar had one slot for us at 8:30, and we happily grabbed it. Some of us were very excited as we are major Top Chef fans; others less excited, because they’ve never heard of Tom Colicchio. Tom Colicchio became kind of a theme for the weekend. Eh, don’t ask.

So, who’s with me? Well, there’s Tweeds. And Beetle. And Laurel, who I’ve decided isn’t a Laurel after all, but really more of a Scooby, so Scooby she shall be from here on out. We also have Sunrise and Keaton with us.

Here’s the thing about Friday night. We ate. And we drank. And we were hilarious. No, seriously. We were the funniest people ever. We were so funny, in fact, that I took notes on the evening so I could remember to tell all of you about our evening.

Um. Those notes. Is anyone surprised that they really make no sense at this point? I mean, I can make out what I was referring to, but I’m not sure if I can adequately explain to you guys why “Mussels are chickens with p*enises” and “Sunrise feels drunk in her shoulders” was so fall-on-the-floor hysterical. So I won’t bother.

I will tell you that I had three lemon drop martinis, Sunrise had two drinks that she swears “tasted like Christmas,” and Beetle ordered a tiny dish for dinner and then proceeded to eat from everyone else’s plate. Keaton was horrified when a waiter took away her mussel-shell plate before she was done eating only to realize that this is what’s called service and her plate was merely replaced by a clean one.

Also, I texted my husband: “They have pork chops WITH bacon on the menu.”

He responds seconds later: “That is simply awesome.”

I then write back: “The evening special is pork for two.”

He writes back: “God bless Tom.”

I then write: “So, how are the kids doing? Everyone okay?”

And I never hear back.

After dinner we are pleasantly woozy so we head back to the apartment to get some sleep to fortify us for our Saturday adventures. And, oh, what adventures those were! Stay tuned…