Somebody orders pancakes, I only sip the sizzurp - Part I

Yesterday I received this text from my mom:

When can you come home for plastic surgery? Tell me asap so I can schedule. Love you Mom!

Actually she texted me that four times – texting is the new way to nag, apparently. For the past two years, she’s been bugging me about fixing a large, but completely non-visible scar under my chin that resulted from an accident three years ago.

I just need to preface this story with this: I am not a lush, as my friends can all attest. Yea, I go out (a bit) more than average, but I keep it under control and respect my health.

Back to my story. It all began when I was interning in Atlanta during the summer of 2005. I had landed the internship I really, really wanted (beat out 20+ guys during last round interviews...yeaaa), and the job came with perks like free housing at am amazing corporate apartment complex with two pools and four tennis courts. I also had my car with me (summer tally: 1 accident, 3 speeding tickets, and multiple would-be tickets I talked my way out of) and a pretty good fake ID that I had already tested out in Boston, where I went to college. My mom actually found it once and complimented me on the high quality of the forgery. She’s a funny one.

It was a pretty idyllic summer…my team at work was great, the interns and Atlanta were so much fun (real world Austin), and I was being paid starting salary. It was kind of like summer camp, minus the arts and crafts. My fake ID held up to doubtful bouncers, black lights, and even scanners…until the stupid bald little doorman at eleven50, a popular club at the time, went on a power trip and TORE UP MY ID right in front of me. One of the other interns, Brad, was in a similar fix. Although I think when his ID was taken up at some bar, a bouncer threatened to have him arrested.

Brad probably had a drinking problem, although I never knew for sure. After quitting the lacrosse team at school because he didn’t get along with a new coach, Brad found himself with a lot more free time. Sometimes, when he was bored, he liked to down a few Bombay Sapphire & tonics and go shopping…but only at Lacoste. After each of these sprees, he’d wake up in head-to-toe Lacoste tennis gear, including matching terry cloth head- and wristbands, a substantial credit card receipt, and no recollection of what had happened.

Needless to say, Brad was my and everyone else’s favorite intern. Drinking problem aside, Brad was charismatic, intelligent, handsome, and funny as hell. He’s in law school now, and a fine lawyer he will make one day.

Shortly after my ID confiscation, all the interns were going out one night. There was a half-hearted offer to do something that the little 20 year olds could join in on, but I half-heartedly insisted that everyone should go out and have a good ol’ 21+ time. So Brad and I, left to our own devices at home, decided that underage or not, we’d hit the town in style and celebrate 1) Brad’s decision to not take the job offer at the end of the summer and 2) my decision to study abroad in the fall.

We decided we’d go to a trendy restaurant/lounge that was open late and wouldn’t card if we were disgustingly well dressed. He put on his best seersucker suit – this kid took preppy to another level – shirt open one button too many, Tod’s loafers, and mirrored aviators. He was probably the only person who looked natural wearing aviators indoors, at night. Brad accessorized with a cigar that he carried, but never smoked. I was wearing a knee length peach-colored skirt – six tiered layers of the beautiful sheer silk, a sheer navy and white-striped camisole, and the most beautiful satin heels. Sigh. While waiting for a cab to come pick us up, we enjoyed a (few) gin & tonic(s).

The cab took forever to arrive because there was a thunderstorm that night, so by the time we got to the restaurant, and were seated, Brad was hammered and I was not far behind. Being both finance majors, we analyzed the menu and decided that ordering more cocktails was not economical. A bottle of Taittinger would be a much better choice! A short while later, our friend Seth joined us for a bit before we all left the restaurant together. Brad and I were as happy as could be at that point.

Seth was our designated driver on our way home, and I sat in the passenger-side seat. When we pulled up to my apartment, it was still raining and thundering, and I opened the door to make a run for it. Somehow, my right heel got tangled in the seat belt, I fell, and my hands slipped on all the water on the street when I tried to catch myself. Basically, my chin bore the entire impact of the fall, and broke in three places, and I blacked out. When I gained consciousness again, I was spitting out chipped teeth, blood, and rainwater. Seth and Brad were freaking out, running around me like chickens with their heads cut off, not knowing what to do. They called 911 and a few minutes later, 2 FIRE TRUCKS, 2 police cars, and an ambulance showed up. Yes, fire trucks, sirens blaring. It was all very dramatic.

To be continued…

Meet me at the club, it's goin' down...turf war at Rose Bar

bathroom wall at 1OAK

Last night I left the office at 6:48pm Eastern Standard Time. Momentous!!! 

Seriously, I was jumping down the street, a la Mary Tyler Moore. Not only that, but I have the day off today (Thursday), and it's July 4th (US Independence day, for my international readers) on Friday, so a four day weekend awaited me.  Unfortunately, however, my plans to sit on my butt and read all night, which seriously is my idea of fun - sometimes, were quickly dashed by - surprise surprise - none other than my annoying-as-all-hell roommate. 

Right on cue, Jason, a promoter/friend (the only promoter in NY I will party with, occasionally...and that is including the one I dated briefly...) calls me to see if I was interested in going to dinner and 1OAK later.  Upon inquiry as to who else would be in attendance, I find out two girls I know and like are joining, so off I go. Dinner was at Bocca (19th St. b/t Broadway & Park) - the pastas were pretty good, especially the lobster ravioli. Chunky lobster meat.  Dinners like this really amuse me, as all the other girls are full-time models who eat virtually nothing, leaving plenty of food for me. Sweet! 

Post-dinner, we pile into Rose Bar where the action goes down. For anyone reading this who does not live in NY, Rose Bar is probably the best bar in the city, at least in terms of decor. That is, unless there's another bar with a Picasso sprucing up the walls. And since I'm not the only one who thinks highly of it, it's kept really exclusive, although I am not sure if places like Rose Bar are exclusive because they're great or great because they are kept exclusive. (LOGISTICS - we were at the table directly in front of the fireplace.)  The place is relatively empty when we arrive, and aside from the tables of hot guys a few tables over, I am just enjoying the music, my lavender and cucumber fizz, not listening to my roommate, and the Keith Haring painting on the wall I'm facing. More people begin arriving and the place fills up. 

Then BAM!

Another group of models/hipsters/pretty-young-things arrive and take up the table on my left.  Two girls from this table, most definitely successful full-time models, come to our table to talk to Blake, Jason's friend.  Jason doesn't promote anymore (he's a full time fashion photographer now), but is still riled up. 

He tells me, "ChippingMademoiselle, you have NO IDEA the politics of this situation right now! You are so naive, but sh*t's going down!" 

Politics? Who the f- cares? I want another lavender and cucumber fizz, dammit, and keep 'em coming! Where's the cocktail waitress?! The bottle of Veuve is near empty! 

So apparently the turf war was such: who has the best girls (more famous models) at their table, and who can convince more girls to "switch sides" The Hendricks might have been going to my head because I thought this was all f-ing hilarious!! FYI I do not model. 

So Chris, this very sweet guy I met at Tenjune, a club, a few weeks ago, is part of this "enemy group." He texted me after we met, but sadly I responded, "Who is this? How did you get my number?!" - oops! But he models, and I have told myself to avoid male models at all costs - no offense. Anyway, Chris comes over to my table to chat, but before I could exchange two words with him, Jason taps me on the shoulder.

"CM, I know this seems ridiculous, but you're my homie and I reeeeeeally need this favor. Those promoters are pissed that their two best girls are at our table talking to Blake. So they sent that kid (Chris) over to talk to you. Pleeeeease can you just talk to him when we leave here. PLEASE, I am begging you."

Champagne is coming out of my nose at this point because I'm laughing so hard.  This is so high school! But fine, whatever.   

So I turn to Chris, "Chris, dude, my friend is buggin' out.  He forgot he's not a promoter anymore. Let's talk to later, k?" Smile. 

Chris is obviously a very nice guy. Cute too, actually...he winks and goes back to the enemy table.  

Bridgette, one of girls at my table, tells me that she knows the promoters next to us. Yet, because she is at another table, they refuse to acknowledge her existence when she says hi!! But had she not been with a group of models, they would have been very, "Oh, hi dAHrling" with her.

Hahaha...calm down people!  But whatever, the music and drinks were great. Bridgette and Alaina are fun, and have good senses of humor.  The other girls are nice too, although I can't really talk to them.  On to 1OAK (a club, one of the newest "good" places in the city), where they were celebrating Independence Day with red, white, and blue balloons, fire eaters, scantily clad women in Uncle Sam outfits walking on stilts.  If I were American, I'd be so proud...

guys juggling/eating fire

dancers on stilts

Future posts: why Chilean sea bass will stay on the menu at BONDST, dating misadventures, street photos, and nutrition