Reunited and It Feels So Good...

I’m just back from a crazy weekend in New Jersey/New York. Highlights of which included:

Me losing my wallet for roughly the 7,000th time, on Thursday night. I need to get a fanny pack or something, for real. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and all. BUT: in a new twist on this old story, I GOT IT BACK. Amazingness! After spending 20 minutes on the phone with 311 (my phone died in the middle of the first call) and determining that, no, I would probably never see my lovely red leather, quite expensive, containing the license I needed for the plane ride home wallet, I was awoken by Boulos at 3 a.m. She was there to double check and make sure I was alive, since my mother was on the line and seemed quite convinced I was dead in a gutter. A wonderful New York City policeman had called her. Someone had found my wallet! All they took was the $20 in it! They found it in the street! So my mom thought I was dead!

He had also called my phone, which of course did not wake me. So I called him back and he explained that he was not going to process it because I’d need i.d. to claim it, even though obviously my license was in the damn wallet. Also, his name was Officer Joranda. Boulos and I quickly began planning a wedding that would allow me to take the name Amanda Joranda. We had a wedding to attend in Jersey on Friday, so on Saturday we finally made it to the midtown south precinct, where I collected my wallet. Alas, though I am forever grateful to him for holding my wallet for me and being so very kind, there were no sparks. I’m currently at work on a new “marry into an awesome name” plan.

The wedding (Susie’ and Ken’s) was very, very fun. Also, very Susie and Ken. When introduced as husband and wife at the reception, they walked out to “This is Why I’m Hot.” And that is why we love them. They also offered a pretty intense and hilarious performance of “Paradise by the Dashboard Light.” The guests were rather amazing themselves. There was a lot of middle-aged dancing at about 7:30. Dinner had not yet been served, the sun was still out, and 50 people were running around in a conga line. Men were tying napkins to their heads by 8:30. We were pretty impressed. After the wedding, Boulos, Archana and I engaged in a ridiculous drunken photo session in the backseat while Andy drove us to their local bar, which we closed down. We were pretty inebriated. Good times.

Then, on Saturday, we went to Winnie’s, our favorite karaoke bar. Which leads me to our Blind Item: which lead star of a defunct HBO Jersey-set mob show walked into this tiny Chinatown dive bar with an entourage of about 8 middle-aged men? A friend of ours chatted him up for a long time, which was totally surreal and very intriguing. Alas, he left alone (well, with a bunch of dudes). We then found out that he had been in Chinatown for a reason: he wanted to bang an Asian chick. He’s original, that T… dude who shall not be named. Also, he made inappropriate comments about my friend’s sexual orientation and her ass. I can’t believe I was surprised he’s something of a perv, but I was. I am endlessly naïve, I suppose.

We did not arrive home until at least 6, as we were at Winnie’s til 4 and then headed over to the legendary Wo Hop for some Chinese food. Boulos’s brother kindly drove us home. Sunday, we basically woke up and left for the airport.

Oh and of course there were the constant USFBs. Good times!

I Continue To Do Reprehensible Things

Oh, I was supposed to share this story a long time ago and never quite got around to it. It is called:

“How I desecrate family values,” or “Babies? VOMIT!” or “Hi, my name is Amanda, and I’m….”

This occurred when I was visiting Miss Boulos in New Jersey. In an attempt to recapture our more recent youth, we went to Winnie’s and sang karaoke on Saturday night. We drank Hawaiian punch, as we usually do. For anyone unfamiliar with Hawaiian punch, it is basically a mixture of every liquor in the bar, grenadine, lime juice and pineapple juice. A tropical Long Island iced tea, if you will.

We drank something like 9 pitchers of it (there were other people there, but we later decided that the two of us alone consumed at least 4 or 5 pitchers ourselves). We sang many, many songs, including our Ticket to Greatness, of course. We took a livery cab back to Jersey, I passed out on the sofabed fully clothed. Boulos woke me briefly so that I could eat the Texas toast she’d so lovingly prepared. What a good wife. I passed the fuck out again and did not wake until it was nearly time to catch a train so that we could spend the afternoon with our friend Lisa, her husband, and her one-year-old baby, Ava.

While Boulos encouraged me to get the fuck out of bed, I mulled over the previous night. “Hey, it’s really a shame we never sang Love Shack.”

Boulos looked at me with incredulity. “We sang Love Shack.”

“What about Spice Up Your Life?”

“We sang that.”

“I Wanna Know What Love Is?”

“Yup.”

So, apparently I had blacked out. Keep this in mind. I almost never black out, in spite of my near-constant consumption of copious amounts of alcohol.

We ate cereal, I opted not to shower or even wash my face, but rather “touch up” my make up (yes, this is kind of appalling. I had not seen Lisa in about a year). We got on the train. We talked about food, a lot.

Lisa picked us up with el babo in the backseat. She was adorable! Seriously, the very picture of innocence and beauty. My uterus fluttered, and the baby was very polite when I sat next to her. She didn’t even hiss or spit, which would have been totally understandable.

On the ride to Lisa’s apartment, I started to feel a little carsick. We got there, had a cigarette (outside – we try not to give babies lung cancer), and I asked for a glass of water. After sitting in their living room for maybe half an hour, I just had to say it: “Guys, I think I need to throw up.”

This is possibly the best thing ever said to me: “Oh sure, just do it in Ava’s bathroom, right there.”

So about two seconds later, I kneel in an adorable bathroom full of little duckies – duckie towels, duckie shower curtain, it was so cute -- and heave my guts up. Everyone in the living room, by the way, can hear every disgusting moment of the surprisingly long and drawn-out vomitfest. And, wonderfully, my immediate thought post-barf was:

“Yum, tastes like Texas toast!”

I am totally disgusting, I know.

If anyone else has a nice story about giving the big Fuck You to decency, now is the time to share.