Poverexic in NYC

Thanksgiving weekend went by in a blur, and in four days I think I ate enough food to feed all of Africa and consumed enough booze to fill a frat house.  For the past 5 years my tradition has been spending Thanksgiving with S, and so on Wednesday night we ran our usual routine of him buying groceries at Food Emporium, him starting to do the cooking prep work, and I sat on my ass and watched TV and ate his leftovers.  Since I don’t cook or bake or do anything productive in life, my contribution to this year’s Thanksgiving feast was purchasing $100 worth of wine and beer, since I knew I couldn’t go wrong there.  Although I did wake up at 8am to help S cook, and by cook I mean I mashed some yams, crumbled bacon on top of green beans and poured chicken broth into the sausage stuffing — so I was pretty proud of myself for that.  Meanwhile S seriously fingered the shit out of the turkey with some duck fat:

Duck Fat in Turkey

Thanksgiving was quite the feast with a humongoid turkey, green bean casserole, candied yams, two kinds of stuffing, courtesy of S.  Here’s what other people brought:

• AC, who is also quite the chef, made bacon mashed potatoes, brussels sprouts hash, chocolate mousse pie, pumpkin pie, pecan pie, and boiled custard
• G, who apparently loves making ice cream, brought homemade vanilla and butter pecan ice cream
• AP, who is black, of course made collard greens
• M, who is S’s lady friend, brought a cheap bouquet of flowers that no one knew what to do with
• F, who loves to party, brought one bottle of wine
• AB, who somehow got blackout at dinner on 2 glasses of wine, brought a bag of rolls

The feast was incred:

Turkey

Candied Yams

Sausage Stuffing

Green Bean Casserole

Thanksgiving Buffet

Pies

Here was my plate #1:

Plate #1

Here was my plate #2:

Plate #2

Ok that was the same picture, but I did in fact have 2 identical plates of Thanksgiving feast.  And then a dessert sampler plate of all 3 pies, ice cream and boiled custard, which is maybe one of the most delicious things I’ve ever had in my entire life.  I’m pretty sure it’s just heavy cream and eggs, and I could literally feel my left arm getting tingly and a stroke coming on, but I couldn’t stop drinking it.  I drank half the Nalgene bottle of boiled custard for dessert, then the other half for breakfast the next morning.  I still have a tingly sensation in my left forearm from my arteries clogging up.

Boiled Custard

I was feeling great during Thursday’s dinner until all the food suddenly hit me, and I desperately needed to go start World War III in S’s bathroom, but I just held it in painfully out of respect for all the guests in the living room.  In order to assuage my abdominal discomfort, I just continued to chug glass after glass of red wine, and by the end of the night, AC and I had gone through 4 bottles of red wine by ourselves — a Layer Cake wine, a Malbec, a Chilean wine, and a Rioja.  I looked in the mirror and I had a striking resemblance to a character out of Twilight with this purple/black ring all around my inner mouth.  At least I had scared everyone off with my gothic looks instead of with my Thanksgiving bowel movements.

Friday afternoon I think everyone woke up with the worst tryptophan hangover.  I couldn’t do anything all day except continue to drink more booze and boiled custard and eat Thanksgiving leftovers.

Thanksgiving Leftovers

After some motivation, S, G, AC and I headed to the bars later that afternoon for some day drinking and football watching that I didn’t give a shit about, followed by some more drinking and dancing at Bro J’s and Solas.

Saturday afternoon I think everyone woke up with the worst booze hangover.  I couldn’t do anything all day except continue to drink more booze and watch the Iron Bowl at Bar 515.  I didn’t necessarily keep track of how many pitchers of Miller Lite we went through, but I was feeling pretty good all afternoon.  After one of the teams I didn’t give a shit about lost, S, G, B and I headed to Rodeo Bar, where I had one long island ice tea, and I was still feeling pretty good.

It was only when I left Rodeo Bar around 8pm that all the booze suddenly hit me.  I was just a block away from home, but all of the sudden I desperately needed to pee and I knew I couldn’t make the extra block to my apartment.  Not again.  Over the past year, public urination had become more and more of a frequent occurrence for me, but I just couldn’t help it.  I looked around to make sure no one was looking, pulled down my tights, and peed on the sidewalk right in front of one of those really beautiful $4M apartments on 18th Street between 1st and 2nd Ave.  I instantly felt 10 times better, until I got home and suddenly needed to rush to the bathroom to puke up all the chicken nachos and quesadillas and one too many pitchers of Miller Lite that I had consumed earlier in the afternoon.  I couldn’t even remember the last time I had thrown up food day-of, but I was really upset with myself.

S, B and I were supposed to meet up again at 9:30pm to start pregaming, but clearly that didn’t happen since I was completely blacked out on my couch until I woke up at 1:30am to find 5 missed calls from S, B and M.  I felt like dying but knew I had to rally, and somehow made it out to DBA Bar to meet up with them 15 minutes later at 1:45am.  I threw up some more liquid on 3rd Street on my way to the bar, ordered some water at the bar, then immediately threw up the full glass of water I had consumed 10 minutes later in the bar bathroom.  My projectile liquid vomit was truly impressive.  I was a mess.

I knew I needed to leave, but B convinced me to stay, and he was quickly becoming 10 times more blackout than I already was.  While I sat there trying to keep down a glass of water, B was sitting there taking shot after shot of Jameson with the bartender.  By 3:30am, B had taken about a dozen shots of Jameson and then tried to close out his tab but drew boobs on his credit card slip instead of writing in the tip.  Given his blackout state, for a split second I contemplated how easy it would be to take advantage of him, but I decided tonight was not the night to become a 4-time friend rapist.  Instead, I put him in a cab, tried to stop him as he too urinated on the streets of Manhattan, then gave up and walked the 2 blocks home.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Two blackout weekends in a row… who knew November would be so exciting.  This past weekend was the Harvard-Yale game, or for most Harvard/Yale kids, the one time a year that they actually “go crazy” (read: drink like normal college kids and then get sent to UHS).  Harvard-Yale for grads usually means reuniting with old friends, re-lighting old flames, crashing undergrad tailgates, getting shitfaced and urinating in public.

This year the game was at Yale, which means 8am party bus to New Haven.  After a night at the Standard Biergarten for the pre-party, I woke up Saturday morning pumped and simultaneously feeling like death.  I wake up roommate M, who is also in poor shape, and we both pick up S to go head to the bus.  M had brought his flask of Svedka, I had brought my usual HY goods of 2 bottles of champagne and a bottle of Jim Beam, and S had brought an entire fucking cooler.  Talk about over-generosity.  Everyone was told to just bring booze/food for themselves, and S brings 100 Bud Lights, a bottle of champagne, an entire handle of Corner Creek, and a dozen sandwiches and wraps.  Good thing I hadn’t had breakfast because I just ate 2 wraps from S and 1 breakfast sandwich from F, and I was ready for my booze.

I’m not sure when I stopped feeling like death and the booze started to kick in, but I think it was when I was about half way into my second bottle of champagne and F started to play “we found love in a hopeless place, we found love in a hoooopeless plaaaaace” and “I will never be the same without youuuu, withouuuuttttt youuuuuu.”  Whenever I hear techno music I can’t help but start jumping around like I’m on a shitload of drugs (I wasn’t but probably acting like it) and jumping on everyone in sight, which is what I did in the bus and consequently fell into at least half a dozen people and gave myself half a dozen bruises.  All worth it.

When we got to Yale, we immediately invaded the undergrad finals clubs tailgates, stole all their booze and made them serve us their burgers and hot dogs.  The food was great.  I don’t remember the rest, but apparently it was quite the eventful HY this year.  For example:

1. Our friend P got arrested by New Haven popo even before he got to the tailgate.  For being blackout?  Well, kinda.  Because he had thrown a pile of leaves in a cop’s face.  P, you make me proud.  I’m not sure why he got arrested though to be honest — must have been bad luck because I similarly threw a bunch of balloons in a cop’s face my senior year at Harvard but nothing happened.  Except that he tattle-taled on my house masters and dean and tried to get me to not graduate from Harvard, but I did with zero issues.  As black people (and I) say, Fuck the PO-lice!
2. Someone got run over by a U-Haul and died or something, apparently some 30-year-old person who had no affiliation with Harvard or Yale.  My first reaction was, why was a 30-year-old at an undergrad tailgate… but then I remembered I am not that far from that.  Anyway, I guess that’s what people are starting to do to non-HYers who are crashing HY tailgates — talk about elitism.  You can also bet your ass U-Hauls will be banned from HY tailgates for the rest of our lives (as if banning kegs wasn’t bad enough).

Anyway, the tailgate ended way too quickly, and it was time to return to our party bus before I knew it.  The return ride was even more amped up with techno and dancing, and I felt like I had seriously just been to a 3-hour mobile Avicii concert.  The rest of the night went downhill from there — M/F/I ordered a shitload of Chinese, I passed out on F’s couch, I was kicked out of F’s apartment, then passed out on my own couch.  I think it was only like 10pm at this point because I woke up at 6am, and I was wide awake and couldn’t fall back asleep.  Naturally I had to find something or someone to do, which is what I did 15 minutes later.  Nothing like a 6:15am booty call.

It took a full 24 hours to recover from the weekend, and my arms are still sore as hell from swinging from the party bus like a monkey.  Go Crimson.

I was a complete blackout wreck this weekend, and I hadn’t had this much fun since 5th year reunion.  It was my kitty MS’s wedding in DC, and I knew this weekend would be a shitshow.  This was also the first wedding I had ever been invited to just as a guest and not as a bridesmaid.  Up until now, I’ve either been in the weddings or disinvited from weddings.  I interpret this to mean people either love me or hate me, which sounds about right.  I’m touched to know there are still people out there who just plain like me.

The weekend already started out fantastic when I arrived to my hotel starving to find the best gift bag ever come to my rescue.  This was one serious gift bag — there was an entire bag of jelly bellies, and entire bag of Godiva chocolates, popcorn, cheese straws, granola bar, cheese crackers, 2 vitamin waters, 2 apples, 2 oranges etc etc etc!!!!!!!!!!!!

Gift Bag

I was so impressed.  After chomping into half that bag, I took a delicious 3 hour nap before getting ready for the ceremony at Halcyon House at Georgetown.

While being just a guest meant not having a bride tell me what dress to wear, how to do my hair, what earrings to bring, how much to drink, etc, it also meant not having anyone tell me when to be where and how, and I was completely lost.  I had no idea when I was supposed to arrive to the ceremony — was it acceptable to be fashionably late to these things?  Apparently not, according to all my other friends, unless I wanted to be caught creepily walking down the aisle next to the wedding party.  So of course I show up to the ceremony a good 20 minutes early, only to find that I am the only guest there early besides family.  Derrr…….

Well everyone else eventually arrived, a good 30 minutes fashionably late.  And it was a beautiful ceremony filled with my favorite Jewish traditions.  When the ceremony was done, cocktail hour began upstairs with some incredible butler style hors d’oeuvres, including lamb chops and a guac table.  Yes, a guac table.

GUAC TABLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I had never seen a guac table before and I was completely overwhelmed.  But at this point in the night I was more concerned with getting in line for the bar to get my scotch on the rocks to get the party started, my drink of choice at weddings (and the best part was that the bartenders were serving all the drinks in wine glasses, including my scotch on the rocks).

At the start of the reception we were all welcomed with the most exciting sign:

MENU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

JUST LOOK AT THAT!!!!!!!!!!!  Unfortunately the multiple wine glasses full of pure scotch were kicking in by now, and all I remember are memories of “rearry dericious” with regards to the appetizer/dinner/dessert flights but no specific memory beyond that.  However, it’s comforting — and simultaneously disturbing — to know that apparently even in my most blackout-ness I always somehow remember to take pictures of everything I eat:

Appetizer Flight

Entree Flight

Dessert Flight

Beyond that, who the fuck knows what happened but it was a blast.  All I remember from the rest of the reception is getting super excited for the hora, the bride slipping off the chair during the hora (terrifying for a split second, but she was fine), screaming for joy when the band started playing Taylor Swift, dancing with more than one suitor exuberantly, and having one of the best nights I’ve had in a really long time.

Here’s what actually happened that night:

• According to G, I was “falling all over the dance floor, flashing your undies countless times, eating other people’s desserts, and falling on the stairs… other than that, you were pretty normal.”
• According to C, I was spitting like a true chink the entire night and getting in a seriously aggressive face slapping war with him.
• According to W, I was “totally behaved at the wedding.  Everyone was having a good time jumping around on the dance floor.”

I didn’t really know whose story to believe since I have zero recollection, but I do vaguely remember falling on my ass at least 4-5 times throughout the night.  After the reception ended, I somehow miraculously made it to the after party where the bride and groom were still raging strong — what a champion couple.  I on the other hand didn’t make it long before I tripped over some poor girl, fell again on my ass, and then I knew it was time for me to go.  I guess it was no shocker that I left empty handed that night, or rather, empty pussied.  I passed out in my hotel bed only to be woken up at 4am to a text from NYC f buddy T (what a tease) to whom I explained my situation, and even he encouraged me to “Go find some dick.”  Appreciate the thought, but it didn’t happen.  Even W (who is a straight male with a girlfriend) got more numbers from dudes at the wedding than I did — apparently man dates and bromance were in.

The next morning I woke up at 7am to the worst splitting headache and nauseating feeling in my stomach.  I look over at the floor, and my beautiful silver heels look like they’ve murdered someone or something because they are covered in red stains.  Apparently when I fell over the girl at the after party, I brought down a glass of red wine with me and spilled it all over my shoes.  Either that or I was on the dance floor pouring wine into my shoes then pouring it back into the glass.  I wouldn’t put it past me.

Anyway, getting over the confusion of how my silver shoes were covered in wine and trying to piece together the night, I went to the bathroom where I puked some disgusting green liquid, which I at first thought was the spinach soup I had for lunch before the wedding ceremony, but yeah nope, nope, that was pure green bile.  After spending a few minutes worrying about the integrity of my esophageal lining and tooth enamel as a result of my alcoholimia, I quickly got over it, chugged 2 Execedrin with one of my vitamin waters, and I felt like a million bucks when I woke up 3 hours later.

I was starving and grateful that there was a post-wedding brunch at the Fairmont Hotel, which was an incred spread of everything I wanted — bagels and lox, plenty of breakfast meats, scrambled eggs, fruit, oatmeal, yogurt, etc etc.

Brunch

I couldn’t believe how quickly the weekend had flown by, but it was seriously the most fun I’ve had in the longest time.  I was sad to say goodbye to all my kitties, but the “adventure” didn’t end there.  Like NYC, DC has some really odd cab drivers, and I unfortunately got one of them on my way back to Union Station.  I hop in and the driver is this huge fat black guy with dreads who looks like he’s been smoking and selling pot since he was born, who tells me “Welcome, welcome aboard!”  What.  What a creep.  I smell something sweet, and I look behind me, and the rear window is literally a shrine to creepy bobble heads with baskets full of blow pops, to which he points and tells me, “Take one!  Make yourself at home!”  I was slightly terrified I was actually going to get raped in this cab, and not in the good way.

Luckily I made it safely and un-raped to the bus station, where I took the Bolt Bus back to home sweet NYC, where I was hoping to get back in time for my Sunday night TV since my bus left at 1:30pm.  Somehow with Veteran’s Day traffic, it ended up taking 7 hours — yes, 7 hours — to get back home.  After the frustration of the unacceptably long bus ride and all my pent up tension from not getting laid at the wedding, I was grateful that T was back in NYC on Sunday to be there for me in this time of need.  I was glad I was able to close this epic weekend with a bang.

This morning’s walk of shame was never filled with more soreness — my body was covered with bruises from my multiple falls on the dance floor/stairs/bar, my feet were all blistered from the hours of insane dancing in 5 inch heels, and I couldn’t move my neck from the wedding aftermath.  A true sign of an amazing weekend.  Congrats M & J!!!