Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. That's the sound of me drowning.
I've got worked piled up so high I've started having avalanches in my office, I still haven't mailed my godkids' Halloween presents, and I'm leaving tonight for vacation. I'll be in Florida until Wednesday with 3 of my college friends, celebrating my friend Vicki's birthday. She's one of my favorite vacation buddies, and her parents have a house on Marco Island. I love that about her.
But have no fear. I'm bringing my trusty laptop. With any luck, I'll come back on Thursday tan, rested, re-energized, and with lots of great blog fodder.
p.s. I LOVE kids in costumes. I usually come home early on Halloween, wander around the neighborhood baby-watching (there are literally THOUSANDS of kids in my neighborhood), and then when the little ones start to fall aslleep, go home and post a note in the hallway saying that trick-or-treaters are welcome in my apartment. But since I'm flying in on Halloween night, I'm missing my tradition. So help a girl out. If you've got kids, send me their Halloween pictures please.
p.p.s. In the pre-Ella days, I used to have fierce baby envy at Halloween, but now I just buy her costume. This year, when all the other little girls are going as fairies and princesses, she's going as a linebacker, in her Tedy Bruschi jersey. That's my girl...
Friday, October 26, 2007
Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. That's the sound of me drowning.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
The Red Sox are in the World Series, and I was debating what to say, when my roommate Jodie sent this to me. I hate admitting that someone may be smarter than me, but well, she is. Also, funnier. Hell on my ego, I tell you. And really, there is nothing I can write that can even compare with this. So she's today's guest blogger.
Ok, so I've always been somewhat ambivalent about the Red Sox. Having grown up in Kansas City, an (admittedly pathetic) American League city, I gravitate to American League teams, which, having lived in NYC for the last five years, means the Yankees.
And, if you like the Yankees, you basically have to hate the Red Sox as a matter of course. So the Yankees are (sort of) my adopted team (especially because, no matter what anyone says about him being boring and/or possibly having herpes, I think Derek Jeter is pretty), but the Red Sox do have those cute little red socks on their hats (as a girl who actually likes sports, I'm a little embarrassed that these are actual criteria, but they are). On the other hand, since breaking the infamous "curse," the Red Sox do seem to whine more than any other deep-pocketed winning team, but I get most of my Sox news from the NY press so perhaps it's clouded.
My point: ambivalence. I was unsure who to root for in the world series until last night.
I had heard rumblings that the Rockies had a lot of Christians on their team and they were guided by God or whatever, and, it does seem to a casual observer that God does really like the Rockies, allowing them to win 21 of their last 23 games or something and sweep the NLDS and the NLCS and then take a nice relaxing 8-day vacation (I actually wish God loved me enough to give me an 8-day vacation, but there are a couple of frat parties from college that pretty much guarantee that's just not going to happen).
But, the scuttlebutt at this dinner party last night had it that the Rockies-God connection might be a little more than casual, and, by a little more, I mean A LOT more. So, this morning I googled it and found this:
And, I'm disturbed. I am not against people believing in God or anything like that but when USA Today, which is probably the most middlebrow, innocuous paper in the country, can basically imply that you are recruiting a God squad of what you call players with "character" ( i.e. Christians only, and only two, quite possibly accidental, blacks) then you know the situation is probably even scarier than it comes across on paper. Now, I know that the Rockies aren't the only fundamentalists in baseball. And I also know that not all fundamentalists are batshit crazy (or not all the time? Actually, I don't know that much about fundamentalists). I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm all for religious tolerance except that this article makes the Rockies sound like they are promoting a form of religious intolerance that I just find ridiculous and completely offensive. I don't know why but I'm just floored by this institutionalizing of religion in sports and the fact that no one is calling them on this (or suing their asses off for religious discrimination, frankly). Am I overreacting?
My main conclusion, though, is this: if God really has the time/inclination to concern himself with the World Series, then I hope he favors Boston. And whereas before I would probably only be a casual observer of the proceedings, I am now wholly invested in their victory. G-O S-O-X!
I know, it's been awhile. I've been busy. Also, I don't quite believe in you. But, let's focus. You love all your creatures, right? And I've never really asked you for much and the things I have asked were more of the trivial, please-get-me-out-of-this-type requests that I know you don't pay any attention to normally (although, that one time, after the broken condom, if that was you . . . sincerely, THANKS). Ok, so back to me and my (small) request. I won't get into the fact that there are fires raging in Southern California, soldiers (and Iraqi civilians!) dying in Iraq, genocide in Sudan, yada, yada, yada, and how you probably have more important things on your mind. I know that's just something non-believers say to deny your infinite power. You totally have time for all that plus touchdown passes, and making sure people sing well enough to win Grammys and getting people to the pit stops first on The Amazing Race. So, we're on the same page, is what I'm saying. And I know you've been helping the Rockies out. This isn't inside knowledge, they tell everyone (is that allowed?). Well, anyway, I know. And I'm here to ask you if you could, maybe, switch teams? Not permanently. Seven games at the MOST. Now, I know the Red Sox might not all seem like they are totally "on board," but Curt Schilling definitely is, and I'm sure when Manny said that if the Sox didn't win the ALCS it wouldn't really matter, he added, "because it's God's will." That was just cut out by the sports reporters who are basically Godless heathens anyway. Or he may have mumbled. He does that sometimes. So, what I'm saying is that even though some of the Red Sox might keep copies of Playboy in their lockers, and a few of them, occasionally as baseball players sometimes do, might accidentally find their penises in an unidentified groupie or two, that I know that they love you and even though they may not be asking for it quite as loudly, they really, really want you on their side. And you're supposed to help people who can't help themselves, right? Sorry, I'm a little rusty on this stuff. Is that right? I'm going to assume it is. From everything I've heard, you're one helpful lady. Ok, so we're clear. I'm asking you to help the Sox win the World Series. I know if you do this, you probably won't hear the end of it for several months. From what I hear, the Rockies are incredibly diligent in their communication with you. But, I think you should know, I don't think the Rockies are doing the right things with your love. And, sure, right now it's just a little garden-variety (practically harmless) religious discrimination. But you never know. People do some crazy things when they think you are on their side 100% of the time 24/7. So, not to overstate the case or anything, but a Red Sox win might just mean a victory for civilization. Or mankind. Or both. No pressure.
Ok. That's all, God. I'm actually really glad we had this little chat. I promise not to bother you again for a really long time. The Amazing Race starts again on November 4th, so I know you'll be busy.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Ok, guys. It's dire. Everything I always feared about online dating. Except worse.
The profile went live Thursday, and I've taken Polly's advice. Rather than reading guys' profiles in depth, therefore getting my heart set on them, I'm emailing anyone who looks like potential with the subject line: Maybe a match?
And this email:
It looks like we might be a match. If you're interested, I'd love to hear from you.
Simple, direct, and totally ineffective. I've heard back from only two guys, one to tell me he was seeing someone, but just staying on Match until his membership expires (Translated loosely: in case I find someone better). And one guy who is both locationally undesirable and has a kid (which would be fine in someone I was crazy about, but not someone who's on the fence already.)
One of the things you can do is "wink" at people, and I've gotten a few, and responded to them with a wink of my own, expecting them to take the lead on actual conversation. One did. And that turned out to be unfortunate.
Him: Good Afternoon! Hope you are having a great day! I am in the Bergen Beach area of Brooklyn! I look forward to hearing from you! Ciao! (his name, which I'll leave out)
Me: (4 days later, but there was a weekend in there, and I have a life):
Hi! It was great to get your message. I'm in Queens--Jackson Heights.
What do you like to do for fun?
Him: It couldn't of been too great, it took you long enough to respond, you didn't even leave a name??
Um, check please... so yes, my great dating adventure is off to a slow start.
I did, however, go to my first Mensa Singles event last night. Two of my friends (they're comediennes, those girls) were emailing today with their guess of how the night went. I'll share their conversation:
V: Did you have fun? Did you meet anyone? And I’m so curious, where does Mensa meet?
K: prob at a library or museum or something :oD
V: Well, I picture it in two ways. The first is in a large auditorium, maybe chess boards set up in one corner. The second is in a study with old Elizabethan furniture; couches, chests, etc.
K: the second. and it's hazy with pipe smoke.
V: And I picture Bookgirl sitting on the arm of the couch, martini in hand, chatting it up with a guy who is seated next to her.
K: and the guy is wearing a cardigan with elbow patches.
Me: How did you know? Were you guys spying???
Actually, we met for dinner at Tao, a trendy, upscale restaurant in midtown. There were eight of us, and three were men, which is almost a slam dunk when it comes to the New York City female to straight male ratio. Short of a sporting event, those are the best odds you're going to get.
The guys were good-looking and very nice, and conversation was vibrant all around. No numbers were exchanged, but we all promised to do another event soon, so who knows?
After having been deliberately out of the dating scene for so long, I thought that putting myself back on the market was going to open a floodgate of possibilities from the universe. But right now, I'm just hoping for a trickle.
p.s. I've gotten a few sympathetic emails, so I'd just like to state for the record that I'm not feeling at all sorry for myself. If that post sounded at all dejected or whiny to you, please go back and reread it with my "I find this all really amusing" voice. There, that's better.
Friday, October 19, 2007
My friends Kris and Chris (yes, really) got married on Saturday, and it was one of those magical days that I wish I could save in a snow globe so I could shake it up and revisit it whenever I wanted to.
About 15 of my sorority sisters were there, plus significant others, some additional friends, and all our best gays. Throw in an open bar into the mix, and seriously, what more can a girl ask for? From the time we got there until the last song ended, unless the DJ specifically told us to sit down, we were on the dance floor in a big pack. And we're all so free and easy with one another that the lines behind us seem to blur at those moments. It's totally natural to just grab whoerever's closest and start dancing up against them--guy, girl, whatever. At one point, I looked around. I was dancing with one of the boys, M was kissing A's husband on the cheek, another girl was dancing with T's husband. And it occured to me: this is what love looks like. This is proof positive that yes, sometimes you can pick your own family.
The bride is a couple of years yearger than me, so while my whole crew was there, she also had a bunch of younger girls from the sorority, who pledged after I graduated. They're just as close as we are, and it made me feel like we had to have done something right in choosing who we passed the sorority on to, because they found the same things we found, share the same bond we share. And isn't that what it's all about?
I'm not an Ashlee Simpson fan. I find her vapid and largely untalented, and I think her career wouldn't exist if it weren't for an agressive father and famous sister. But there's this one song of hers that they play in my gym, and I can't help liking it despite myself. I was going to post to the lyrics, but in print they sound even more mindless, so here are the important ones:
I'm talkin' bout love
All my girls stand in a circle and clap your hands. This is for you.
Ups and downs, highs and lows.
No matter what, you see me through
All my girls, we're in a circle and nobody's gonna break through.
And isn't that what friendship really is? Whether you're on the dance floor, or sitting around a table eating dinner, or emailing from hundreds or thousands of miles away, your friends are the ones who form that tight little circle with you, who help you block out anything you don't want in. And the beauty of circles is that it's always easy to to let one more link in and make it just a little bit bigger, a little stronger.
p.s. I'd post pictures, but none of my friends sent theirs around yet, and when I was bringing things into my apartment from the car the other day, I threw the camera and the half a cup of coffee into the same bag. Because I'm a moron.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Polly Poppins likes to think of herself as a matchmaker. She prides herself on the fact that she even fixed her West Coast best friend up with her husband. But seriously? How hard could that have been? The Dol is petite and adorable, smart and funny, and unencumbered by my irrational terror of commitment. So I decided it was time to present Polly with a real challange.
The last time Polly fixed me up was the summer between high school and college. And it worked out well, except for the fact that I had to explain all the big words to him. You might think that would be a deal breaker, but not so much. We liked them big and dumb back them. We had a great summer fling and he was added to the list of men who almost took my virginity, before I lost my nerve at the last moment. (That's a story for another blog, but I'd like to take this opportunity anyway to apologize. I was that Catholic girl who liked to pretend she was edgy and wild. But just wasn't. And I'm sure that really sucked.)
Since that was the last time Polly and I lived within 200 miles of one another, future fix-ups were difficult. Sure, there was the Marine in Georgia on spring break, and the cute banker in New Orleans at Mardi Gras, and the trust fund guy on that one beach vacation, but they hardly even count. She's been dying to get her hands on my love life for years.
So this is it. The gauntlet has been thrown down. I plunked my credit card down for a three-month membership on Match. com, let her set up a profile, and let her say anything she wanted about me. I've agreed to take her advice, go out with anyone she tells me to. My romantic destiny is putty in her hands.
I figure she has to do a better job with my love life than I've been doing, since I tend to alternate between impulsive bad choices and a vibe that can only be described as "back away slowly."
p.s. By popular demand, her's the text from the profile, and the picture I have posted. Anything where my response is something that totally doesn't sound like me, like "No way" or "Keep it healthy" was a multiple choice. Feel free to critique.
Click here for keys to the universe...
Flushing, New York, United States
seeking men 30-45
within 25 miles of Flushing, New York, United States
Relationships: Never Married
Have kids: None
Want kids: Not sure
Ethnicity: White / Caucasian
Body type: Full-figured
Height: 5'5" (165cms)
Religion: Christian / Catholic
Smoke: No Way
In my own words
I go. All week long: career, gym, play, dinner with friends, drinks, and coffee. I stop only for football on Sunday, and then I crash on the couch, in my pajamas, with the phone set to go straight to voicemail. Nothing comes between me and my boys.
I work in marketing for a major publishing house, where there's always a new book (or twelve) to keep things interesting. I love what I do and I'm proud to be good at it, but pretend I didn't say that because I'm painfully modest.
I'm of French Canadian descent, although I occasionally pass for Betty Boop. I come from a large extended family with a ton of Quebecois idiosychrasies and an almost accidental sense of humor.
While I don't attend mass regularly, I like having a faith and ties to a greater community. There's something reassuring about being in a churchfull of people I love for a baptism, first communion, or wedding. I like the sense of history.
I went to Hofstra, which is what brought me to New York. I have an English degree (like pretty much everyone else I work with).
favorite hot spots:
One of the reasons I'm so busy is I can't walk past a chance to try something new. I've gone to London for breakfast because I could. I took up kayaking this summer just because I've never done it before. I don't want to miss anything.
My favorite things are Starbucks Pumpkin Spice lattes; having my friends miss me when I'm gone; shoes; white wine; and the Pats' 6-0 record. If that's not enough, I love beach combing, a good book, and having too many choices.
Never Give Up by Tedy Bruschi
About my life and what I'm looking for:
You know, if you had asked me this time last year, I would have said my perfect match was Tom Brady but now, I think I'd like someone closer to home. I've got a strong sense of self and a lot of friends, so my life is full and happy, but I'd like someone to snuggle up with on the couch on Sundays.
My best friend says my ideal match is a retired pro-football player turned airline pilot, and while I think that's going a bit far, I would like to be with someone who is independent enough to keep the relationship interesting but available enough to indulge in the romance of late Saturday night dinners and leisurely Sunday mornings.
I'd like to be with someone who's funnier than he thinks he is, who laughs more than he complains, and who thinks my head-in-the-clouds tendency to walk into walls is endearing.
I love to spoil and I love to entertain but at the end of the day, I want someone else to do the dishes.
About me Hair: Dark brown
Best Feature: Chest
Body art: Strategically placed tattoo, Pierced ear(s)
Sports and exercise: No answer
Exercise habits: Exercise 3-4 times per week
Daily diet: Keep it healthy
Interests Book club/Discussion,
Coffee and conversation,
Education: Bachelors degree
Occupation: Sales / Marketing
Income: $50,001 to $75,000
My Place: Live with roommate(s)
Pets I have: No answer
Pets I like: No answer
About my date
Height: 5'7" (170cms) to
Body type: A few extra pounds,
Athletic and toned,
Smoke: No Way,
Drink: Social drinker, maybe one or two,
Have kids: Any
Want kids: Any
Turn-ons: Boldness / Assertiveness,
Turn-offs: Body piercings
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Sunday was our annual girls-only trip upstate to go apple picking. My friend Adriana, who we call Schnapps, makes this thing called Apple Loaf. It's like heaven and apples baked together into loafy goodness. I can't describe it, except to say that it's like crack, and no one but her makes it.
Every year with our picked apples, she makes these amazing loaves, and I get some. Except for the year that her thieving husband, John, ate mine because I didn't make it over to get it quickly enough, and he found it in the fridge. That bastatrd. I'm still bitter.
But anyway, I wrote this special poem for her last year, as a thank you for both the apple loaf and for hiding my piece from John. I think the poem has held up well over time....
Ode to Apple Loaf
How do I love thee, apple loaf?
Let me count the ways
I love that you're moist and squishy,
while maintaining a breadlike consistency
I love that I got a piece of you
before you ended up all in John's belly
I love that you're perfect for dinner
when I'm too tired to cook
I love that you're there at breakfast
In a house, you'd go in that nook
I love that you're a reminder
Of how much my Schnappses loves me
I'll bet you that if I fell down,
You'd be better even than a kiss on the knee
So thank you, apple loaf
And thanks to my friend
I'll be singing your praises,loafie
Right till the end
p.s. Yes, I was stone sober when I wrote this.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
I'm baack! Sorry I've been missing. But don't worry. I got yelleded at. There were emails. I got a stern talking to from my friend Tracie. One person even delurked just to yell at me. But I'm back now. Thanks, everyone, for the kick in the ass.
I had a crappy week last week, and it wasn't crap I could blog about (hugs and kisses to all my coworkers who I told about the blog, forgetting that I may some day want to bitch about people they work for). So I couldn't rant, and I didn't have the energy to do anything else.
The highlight of my week was the day that a complete stranger walking behind me on the subway platform called me a whale on my way to work. Actually, he said to his friend, "Why do I have to be stuck in front of this whale, son?" The fact that he was a grown man who a) doesn't seem to know the difference between in front and behind and b) still uses the word "son" in 2007 softened the blow considerably, I must admit. But wait, there's more. I had a morning incident I can't blog about (but I'd like to take this opportunity to tell that person "I really hate you.") and then an afternoon incident I can't blog about, with someone I hate considerably less. Which all culminated in my closing my door and and crying. Me, little Miss "I Cry Twice a Year" crying at work. I know. It's an outrage! You hate the people too, don't you? Don't you? You should.
So I left work that day, went directly to the gym, and then headed home, picking up comfort foods on the way: steamed dumplings at the Chinese restaurant; A bottle of Reisling from the liquor store; cauliflower from the vegetable stand; and oatmeal and bananas for the next morning's breakfast. (Yes, cauliflower is my comfort food. Yes, I know it's weird.) And then I shook it off. That's one of the things I have going for me. I bounce back fast.
We have an expression in my family: "say nice things to me."
My oldest sister was sick or sad (I don't remember which), and she said to her son, "Say nice things to me." So without missing a beat, he responded with "Backhoe, bulldozer, front end loader." Because if you're a 4-year-old boy, those are nice things...
So ever since then, whenever things get tough, one of my sisters will send me a list of nice thngs. They usually involve at least one of the following: the beach, shoes, Ella, ice cream. So for me, since I've been bummed, and you, since you had to listen to me whine, I'm signing off with a list of nice things:
Starbucks Nonfat Pumpkin Spice lattes
Having you guys miss me when I go MIA
Cold white wine
The Pats' 6-0 record
What are your "nice things"?
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Behold today's shoes. They're another vacation purchase. I picked them up in Florida when we did a girls' trip to my friend's house on Marco Island for her birthday one year. (I'd tell you which birthday, but it dates me.)
I love them. But they rub in the exact same spot as yesterday's shoes, leaving me in so much pain that I was reduced, when no one was looking, to hobbling along like I was crippled. On my floor, I just kicked them off and walked around barefoot. But when I had to travel for meetings, I was screwed. While yes, I do have seventeen other pairs under my desk, none of them matched. And well, you know how I feel about matching. In the interest of full disclosure, there actually was one pair that matched perfectly, but they were the square-toed loafer variety that is only acceptable under pants. With a dress they make me look Amish. Also, they make my calves look fat. My lower legs are the only thin body part I possess. I try not to mess with that.
I have a launch party tonight for the new Gawker book. Which left me with a difficult decision. Either skip the party, go with the thick-calved Amish look, or run out and buy a new pair to wear. The choice was clear. An excuse to go shoe-shopping!! Yes!!The new pair are fabulous. I'd show them to you, but then I'd lose a quickie blog topic for another day. And why make more work for myself?
But wait! There's more! While I was in the store, I got to do a good deed. I was trying on this lovely pair of patterned pumps when the woman next to me started squealing over them. We were the same size, so I let her try them on while her salesperson was busy. Then came the news. They were the last pair in our size. She gave them back, albeit reluctantly, because by all rules of shopping etiquette they were mine. And I let her buy them. Yes, I did a shoe mitzvah. My mom would be so proud, if she knew what a mitzvah was.
p.s. They were on sale, too. That has to earn me extra good person points, right??
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Third time's the charm. I finally have an NFL Burger King Pats jersey for my car. Who's excited?? I am!!!
I got home from the gym at almost 9 last Wednesday, and still had to go to the supermarket for my book club the next day. (Because why would I actually plan ahead, just because I was making dinner for 6?) I was exhausted and starving, and limited to things I could eat while driving. So I decided to give it one more try.
The guy behind the counter went to the back and dug through the spare boxes. He returned with handfuls of jerseys, and dumped them on the counter.
"We have everything else. But not that the Patriots."
I was sad, dejected, almost ready to give up the fight. Then I spotted the Pats jersey in the pile.
"That's it," I told him.
"Are you sure? Isn't that a Pirates jersey?"
"Yes, for that nonexistent NFL team called the Pirates. Jackass."
(Okay, I just thought that last part.)
What I really said was, "No, that's the Richard Seymour jersey." And was instantly morified at how geeky I sounded, since he clearly knew nothing about football and cared even less.
So I got my jersey. And I was in such a good mood I even threw out the french fries that came with the kids' meal. A giant thank you to everyone who ate fast food (or forced their kids to) in a valiant effort to earn me a cheap toy. I thank you. My neuroses thank you. My love of a good challenge thanks you. And your future cardiologist thanks you, since his kids will some day have to go to college.
p.s. Despite the fact that I only came up with a menu at 10:00 the night before, the book club dinner was actually a hit. I did a fall theme--spinach salad with cranberries, cheese, and pecans; tortellini with roasted butternut squash; and an apple pumpkin pie. I may do everything last minute, but that doesn't mean I don't do it well.
p.p.s. My mother has told me I couldn't pay her to come to one of my parties. It stems from the time I had a Christmas party for 30 and only came up with the menu the day before, based on what I could find at the market. Evidently, that makes her nervous. She's funny that way.
Monday, October 1, 2007
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.