I have been burning the candle at both ends and recently, I’ve needed a blowtorch to get either fuse to spark. Instead of gazing out the window on the train in the morning or going outside to watch the sun set, I spend my spare moments of “downtime” multitasking – shoveling dinner into my mouth from a plastic container while texting one of my colleagues while throwing a stick for Penny while doing my leg stretches while contemplating the existential questions of our time while debating the pros and cons of scheduling a lobotomy.
While vacuuming a healthful on-the-go snack into my pie hole on the train into the city Saturday night and purposefully skimming this week’s Talk of the Town, I caught a glimpse of myself in the train window. “Who is that pale hag?” I thought, glancing at a red-headed, squinting woman in black. “Oh right. That’s me. “
Tears welled and violins reached a dramaturgical crescendo in my addled little mind; waves of self pity crashed and threatened to pull me into a whirlpool of shame and blame. Then a pack of drunken, sunburned college kids got on the train in Scarsdale and started a Congo line down the aisle of the train. Generally public displays of fun on public transportation bring out my inner traffic cop, but these privileged little Westchester Ivy League monsters were just too genuinely silly-loving and perky to mind. Not too long ago, I would have probably joined the line and had a crazy night out with them.
But I had zany plans of my own to attend to. I tore myself away from the New Yorker, giggled at the Congo and tried to actually savor the moment for once. I was headed for one of my dear friend’s bachelorette parties. Helen Matatov is getting married, and I couldn’t wait to drink a glass (or three or four) with her, Lorraine, Ajla (in spirit), Ellen, her sister Michelle and the rest of the crew.
What happens at bachelorette parties probably doesn’t involve as much tickling and pillow-fighting in underwear as the husbands to be seem to like to imagine, but it still shouldn’t be sullied with a public airing (besides, I missed the really juicy parts since I had to catch the 12:37 am train back to Westchester). Suffice to say, many hearty sips were enjoyed, of vintages as ancient and storied as Pabst Blue Ribbon. Nothing’s too fancy for our Helen!
I will say this: we managed to get air-humped by a member of the Housewives of New York City’s louche band of bejeweled, tanned and bleached side-kick B-List characters. In addition to the impressive display of his hip flexor abilities, we were treated to his off-key, lusty version of B-52’s “Love Shack”. He may have been in his cups at that point. Other than that (and the brief assist I gave to a street-walker who couldn’t zip up her micro minidress), our evening was remarkably crises and uh-oh feeling-free.
And Sunday? I sat outside. Join me! Put down the smart phone. Go outside. Smell the roses while they’re still in bloom.
Oh, and I also cooked. Stephen and I made a Sausage and Leek Casserole, Beet, Squash and Goat Cheese Napoleons and Corn and Cheese Quesadillas. Plenty of carbs and happy fats to soak up any leftovers from the night before. (Stephen was jealous of my girls’ night so he launched a boys’ night in the East Village, which is a story for a different post). Click on for recipes!