the pieces of my life

Why’d you let me eat so much? Seriously, this past weekend was one of total gluttony. My parents and my sister stayed with us a couple of nights, and for the Turkey Day itself, Adam’s brother came with his wife, his kids–Dutchie and Lalune–and his wife’s sister. His wife and her sister are ACTUAL twins as opposed to the Tweedle Twins who are twins in name alone. The real twins swear they’re not identical. I don’t believe them for a second.

Surprisingly, everyone got along quite well and the only ones arguing this past weekend were my sister and me. My sister and I have some deep philosophical differences that threaten the very core of our relationship. She is a do-gooder who likes to follow the rules. I am in the “more bourbon!” camp. Never the twain shall meet:

Tweedle Twirp: The recipe calls for three tablespoons of bourbon.
Me: Put in five.
Tweedle Twirp: I’ll put in a smidgen more.
Me: Put in five.
Tweedle Twirp: There. That was almost four tablespoons.
Me: That wasn’t even close four tablespoons. Put in five.
Tweedle Twirp: It’s good like this. And now to cook it so it burns the alcohol off.
Me: Noooooooooooooooooooo!

Needless to say, I spent the entire cooking day following her around with a bottle of Basil Hayden topping off every dish she had touched.

The second argument we had over the course of the weekend involved children. I am all done with babies. I’m really not much a baby person to begin with. Especially newborns with their pink faces and wobbly necks. But after spending the afternoon with Lalune, who is about eight months old and just about the most laid-back baby you’ll ever meet, I realized it’s not that I don’t like babies, I just don’t like my own babies (nothing personal, Doodles and Pie). Other people’s babies are great! You play with them. Smell their pretty heads. Nibble on their toes. And then hand them back. It’s freakin’ perfection! But I don’t have enough babies in my life. Which is why I’ve suddenly decided that my childless–excuse me, “childfree”–sister needs to have a baby. Luckily, Doodles and Pie jumped all over that.

“I’m not having a baby,” Tweeds said.

We threw reason after reason at her.

All she did was keep repeating, “I’m not having a baby. I’m not having a baby. A baby is not an option. I am not having a baby.”

Little sisters suck.

On a good note, the minute my mom got to the house, she started in on the house projects. She built a new work bench for Adam in the basement. She said to me, “You know you can re-cover those ripped bar stools? If only you had the fabric, I could do it for you.” I’m not ashamed to admit, I forewent all my Black Friday reservations for an early morning trip to Jo-Ann Fabric to get fabric in time for my mother to re-cover our bar stools before having to catch her afternoon flight home. Do I feel guilty making her work in her final hours of vacation? If you don’t know the answer to that is “no,” then you haven’t been reading my blog for very long.

Ugh, my pants still hurt. Seriously, don’t let me eat so much next time, okay?

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.

Tonight there is a $75,000 a person dinner with Mitt Romney at the home of the president of the New England Patriots, Jonathan Kraft. How do I know this? Because my still registered-as-a-Republican husband got an e-mail invite from a former coworker.

Just $75,000? Let check the change in the couch and see what we can come up with. Oh! Only $74,999.99 short! Maybe we should raid the kids’ piggy banks.

I suggested we send my sister, the uber feminist, bleeding heart liberal poli sci professor (she may dispute that description, but I’m letting it stand as poetic license).

Adam one-upped me. He suggested sending the Tweedle Twirp. In a Miami Dolphins jersey.

Brilliant. I called the Tweedle Twirp to let her in on our plan. If I could find $74,999.99 more dollars, would she go? Yes! But the catch is she had a meeting at her school–in New York–until 3:30, so we’d have to hire her a private plane.

Sigh. It was such a good idea.

Of course, Adam pointed out, “I can’t imagine, ever, in life, spending $75k for a dinner.”

I asked, “But 50k would be okay?”

He said, “50k only if it’s a unicorn BBQ. Because those are pretty rare.”

Yet, when I pointed out that the Tweedle Twirp, in a Dolphins jersey, at a Mitt Romney fundraiser was also pretty rare, he hemmed and hawed.

Hey! I just found a quarter! Just $74,999.74 to go!

The last we saw our heroine, she had just finished breakfast with her agent, and was ready to enter the perilous world of the New York scene.

What will she do in the mean big city? Will she swoon with excitement? Will she run into some nefarious characters? Will she be swindled out of her money?

Yes, yes, and no, unless you count the damage done to her credit card at such houses of ill repute such as The Strand and New York Cake.

After a morning of shopping at the aforementioned stores, she heads to lunch with an old friend from her publishing days. After a pleasant couple of hours gossiping, our heroine meets her sister, the fair and lovely Tweedle Twirp, at the Tenement Museum on the Lower East Side. Together they took the “Piecing It Together” tour, which let them “See the homes & garment shop of Jewish families who lived in the tenement during the ‘great wave’ of immigration to America.” Great fodder for our heroine’s next novel—if, that is, she ever finishes revising her current novel!

But the tour only occurred after a trip to Economy Candy and Roni-Sue’s, so our heroine could buy candy of ill-repute for her family (non-kosher chocolate-covered bacon—aka “Pig Candy”—for her hubby and candy cigarettes and bubble gum cigars for her most-definitely underaged children).

After her trip to the Lower East Side, she and the Tweedle Twirp made their way to the West Village to meet yet another friend for yet more gossip and a bottle of Prosecco. After a leisurely evening, our heroine received a text that her Boston gal pals were a mere fifteen minutes away, so our heroine and her sister rushed frantically back to the apartment.

Will she make it back to the apartment on time? Will she be so fuzzy from the Prosecco to even care if she’s on time? Will her friends get lost on the mean streets of New York? Will she write the next post in the first person? Tune in next time for the answer to all these questions and more….

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: Wow, a rooftop! Showing movies! Chill!

41-year-old self: 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: Absinthe! I’ve always wanted to try absinthe!

41-year-old self: 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!

You might only know her as the Tweedle Twirp, my annoying, pesky, little sister with the feminist streak and the liberal bent. But apparently to some in the world she’s a competent, intelligent, respected professor of political science. And last night, she was interviewed on New York news to give her thoughts on Hilary Clinton’s appointment as Secretary of State. What’s more surprising? That Hilary Clinton and Barak Obama are now BFFs? Or that my sister has an actual life? I know, I know. It can make your brain hurt.