Party Like a Rock Star... Sorta

Sarah decided she missed me, and she had the weekend off from the hospital, so she threw the two babies in the van, made her oldest son come along to babysit, and headed down to new York on Saturday for some Bookgirl lovin'.

Her brother-in-law's cousins own Manor, a club downtown, so we decided to do it up big. Phone calls were made, the owners knew we were coming, and VIP status was promised. We slutted Sarah up with my make-up and my roommate's clothes, and we were off.

No velvet ropes for us. We made a phone call when we got out of the cab, and Anthony came out to meet us. After air kisses all around, he brought us to the hostess and made sure she knew that we were special. The hostess got us a waitress. Our importance was reiterated. The waitress brought us to a table right off the dance floor. The tables, of course, were bottle service only, so she set us up with our bottle of Kettle One, our mixers, and left us to have our fun.

The big group next to us thought we were infringing on their space and were none too happy. The drunken suburban asshole who appeared to be their ringleader started with us, letting us know that he "had paid $5,000 to reserve these tables and we should shoo." Proving that he was not only an asshole, he also needed to find something better to do with his money, a charity perhaps. The bouncer got involved and tried to kick us out, until someone told him who we were, at which point he came over to shake our hands and apologize to each of us personally.

Now if the story just ended there, we sound like such rock stars, right? But alas, this was me, Sarah, and Jodie. So the story, well, it doesn't end there. Three intelligent women might have recognized that even though they had a full bottle of vodka, it was not necessarily a good idea to drink it all. But not us. No, we finished it off. And that's where the night took a turn for the sloppy.

I, of course, fell down. Because that's what I do. Jodie made out with a strange Israeli man. And Sarah, well, let's just say I had to undress her when we got home, since she decided to take a shower. Fully clothed. And then couldn't get her clothes off.

But wait. There's more. Sarah's sister has been trying to fix me up with one of the aforementioned cousins. Except he didn't know it. And we were going to do it all subtle-like. But when drunk, our Bookgirl is a talker. I'll tell anyone anything that's on my mind. And while I blessedly don't remember the details, I have a faint recollection of filling him in on the plan. In what I'm sure was a really sexy slur. Classy... Sarah's bit of the memory was him looking at us and saying, repeatedly. "Go home. Just go home." (Sarah, If you remember anything else, or hear anything at a later date from your sister, you're not allowed to tell me. The pool of shame I'm swimming is deep enough, thank you very much.)

So yes, while our big glamorous night may not have ended entirely the way we planned, and my fantasies of spending a happy life together with Cousin James and his Hamptons House are now out of the question, we got to be VIPs for the night. We drank, we laughed, we danced. We partied like rock stars. Sorta.