Life Lesson #8: Work with “The Ladies”: Learn to Make the Best of a Boob Situation

“Listen, if you got them, show them off. Because I swear, mine used to be bigger than yours, and look at me now! This by the way, happened after I was pregnant with you, my dear. So think about that.”

Please note the above quote is not verbatim. It is, however, a very good paraphrase of what my mom has said to me many times over the last eight or so years.

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, the ‘them’ she refers to are my boobs.

I have heeded her advice well. Maybe, at times, a little too much, but all in good fun, I (and mom) would say. And I promise to stop the first time someone complains.

My mom’s sound advice has proved helpful when I bartend. I should probably give her a cut of the tips I make. But that would be kind of weird: ‘Hey mom, here’s 50 bucks. It’s from last night. Thanks for the pearls of wisdom and the sweet genetics!’

A friend, who is aware of both my tendency to wear low cut shirts and my ability to work behind a bar, owns a small percentage of a bar in the midtown area. Last week, he sent out an email requesting that any of us who wanted to guest bartend, just give the bar a call and mention his name.

I, of course, took him up on the offer. For several reasons: First, even though I make a decent salary, I barely make it from one paycheck to another, no matter what. I always wonder when I get a raise or salary increase how I ever lived on what I was making before. I know this isn’t good. But he who casts the first stone is probably just as broke as I am. Second, I’ve been trying to save up money for The Big Move at the end of the summer. This involves putting money into a savings account as soon as my paychecks are deposited into my checking account every two weeks. It sucks. Enough said. Third, I used to bartend as a summer job and have guest bartended many times since. Therefore, I find it to be a pretty easy thing to do. Anything I don’t know, I ask. Or I make it up. Because after you’re seven beers and four shots in, I can guarantee you have no clue what I’m putting in front of you anyway. Fourth, and last, bartending is a ridiculously easy, and on the whole, enjoyable experience. My friends come, hopefully they get a deal for the night, and I get to drink for free. What beats that?

I gave the manager Al a call, mentioned who I was, as well as my friend’s name. Apparently my friend had already given Al a heads-up on me (something along the lines of being a quick learner, hot, and with experience) and I was told I could work this past weekend.

I was happy to get a shift and grateful to my friend, but I was also a little nervous. While putting in a good word for me, a.k.a. talking me up, my friend had given Al some preconceived notions. And now I had to live up to them.

On the eve of the midtown bartending stint, I donned my black ensemble, had a quick glass of wine to help smooth over some belly jitters, and hopped into a cab. By the time I pulled up to the bar, I wondered if another shirt choice would have been better or if I could have gotten away with my boots rather than sneakers, but it was too late. It was show time.

I went inside and looked around. The place was pretty packed, a spill-over from a midtown bar crawl that was just about to end. But I soon spotted a guy that had the telltale signs of ‘bar manager’ written all over him: standing in the back against a wall, chewing on a tiny red straw; shifty eyes that seemed to dart from one drunk girl to the next, an outfit that looked like it had been (and probably was) worn since the night before. I headed over and introduced myself.

I got the feeling that I was immediately being scrutinized. I tried cracking a joke that I don’t even think he heard. Let me tell you, it’s rough knowing you’re being judged solely on how you look.

A few minutes later, maybe because Al thought I passed his test or maybe because he simply didn’t have time to do anything about it if not, I was thrown into the two-by-four mayhem behind the bar. Two bartenders where already there and I quickly introduced myself.

Bartender Numero Uno: Gorgeous. Petite, dark hair, reasonably sized, but most certainly fake, boobs.

Bartender Numero Dos: Gorgeous. My height, super skinny, no boobs. And about to end her shift.

“I’m actually finishing up. She’s working with you,” she said as she made a head nod to someone who just walked in behind me.

I turned around and can guarantee my jaw dropped.

The Real Bartender Numero Dos: Holy shit. I don’t even notice her face at first. Because her fake boobs are so big, and so barely covered, I have to fight the urge to not look down and poke them. Because they are that ridiculous, I can’t help but wonder what the hell they feel like.

“Hiiiii, you working with us tonight?” she asked as she stepped behind the counter.

Did she mean ‘us’ as in her and her giant boobs? Or did she mean ‘us’ as in her, her giant boobs and Bartender Numero Uno? Or did she mean ‘us’ as in her, her giant boobs, Bartender Numero Uno, and Bartender Numero Uno’s ample silicone?

“Yea, I’m working with you ladies,” I answered, assuming that was the safest way to go with that question.

“Great, well welcome,” she said as she slid past me and got herself situated.

After I had a few minutes to absorb the goods, I finally took a moment to notice the rest of her. While not ugly by any means, she wasn’t that great in the face either. Almost a little haggard too, and definitely a good six years older than me. Thank the lord for the smallest of favors, I guess.

At this point, I had no choice but to jump in and get started.

The crowd was easy enough and the place kept getting more and more crowded. H.F.T. was already there when I first showed up, and had brought her boyfriend and his friends. Unfortunately, H.F.T. had been at the all-day-drinking event and was in no shape to realize anyone else’s shape. I needed my friends to show up fast—I needed someone to share in this ridiculous mammary experience with me.

Luckily, the posse started trickling in. First, Earl and a few of his friends. Next, a friend’s sister and her group. And finally, Liberace and Madonna.

Liberace came up to the bar and said something along the lines of ‘Hey hot momma, give me a beer.’ I twisted open a Miller Lite, put it down next to him, and gestured to Bartender Numero Dos. I didn’t even need to say anything.

“Holy shit! Those are fucking huge,” the man who doesn’t even like women yelled.

“I know!! Tell me about it! It’s fucking ridiculous back here,” I sighed in relief.

“Oh my God, Penny. What is up with Bandeau?!” Madonna came over and asked.

At first, I’m not sure what she meant. And then, as I look over at Numero Dos, who is putting money at the register, I burst into laughter.

With her back to us, Dos looks as if all she’s wearing is a two-inch thick strip of fabric across her back, much like a bandeau bra top. The front is not much better: it’s basically the size of a bikini that a five-year old might be wearing.

“You know, if that thing she’s using as a shirt fell off, I don’t think anyone would even notice anymore it’s so small,” Madonna went on to observe.

“You know, the other bartender is fake, too,” I pointed out.

“Yea, we could tell,” Liberace replied.

“I’ve never in my life felt so small!” I exclaimed.

“At least yours are REAL!” is the response I get.

Which I completely agree with, of course. But being behind that bar Saturday night, it made no difference to anyone with a penis. Numero Dos probably didn’t even see one set of iris’ that night (besides mine, briefly) because everyone’s eyes were glued to her chest. And Numero Uno, while artificially enhanced by only half of what Numero Dos was pumped with, was so gorgeous that anyone who found Dos too large decided to go to her instead.

And so, I spent my night serving my friends, the few guys way too shy and/or embarrassed to talk to Uno or Dos, and the women who decided to settle for at least being served by the real things rather than the surgically enhanced.

At first, I was kind of upset. No one likes to be the most unattractive or least noticed of the bunch. Especially in a situation so obvious—if you’ve ever been behind a bar, you know what I mean. Everyone is looking in your direction trying to get your attention. But what you notice even more is when everyone is trying to avoid your eye contact in order to get the attention of someone else.

But as I stood there, having yet another shot with my friends and sneaking them another beer free of charge, I remembered the reasons why I took the gig in the first place, particularly money and free booze for me. And no matter how much people were tipping Uno and Dos more than me, it was all getting pooled in the end and split three ways. Suckers.

And at that moment, I realized,

Life Lesson # 8: Someone’s always going to have a shirt that’s made of less fabric than mine, someone’s always going to be a lot hotter than me, and someone’s always going to make me feel totally inadequate as a human being. But I don’t really care. Because I can still have a great time, I can probably make fun of them with my friends for one reason or another, and in the end, I might even be able to find a way to mooch off their assets.

And that is worth way more than however much money they might have dropped for those melons.

Life Lesson #7: This is the Real World: Newark International

This is the true story (true story) of one girl, picked to go to a conference, and see what happens when people stop being silly and start throwing glares. This is the Real World: Newark International.

You’re going to think I’m such a dork when you read this, but what the hell. Add it to the list, I guess.

As I set my Outlook manager to Out of office until Friday at around 3 pm last Wednesday, I had an overwhelming sense that I had officially become a grown up. The weird transition stage between college graduation and ‘the real world’ was suddenly ending.

I was going on my first overnight business trip. I was psyched and terrified at the same time.

I packed a tote that any business-savvy traveler would admire, which included a mini hair brush, moisturizer that could be used day or night, low heels (double points for appropriateness and small size that fits snugly into the side zippered pocket of my bag), and a conservative business-casual ensemble for the conference being held by one of our company’s major clients. I even got to work about an hour earlier than usual to ensure I’d get everything done in time to leave before the traffic out of Manhattan.

My coworker Dan and I set off with our Mapquest directions and conference itinerary. I felt smart. I felt important. I was going places.

About twenty minutes out of the Lincoln Tunnel, I felt lost.

‘You sure the directions say to take I-95 to I -280?’ Dan asked as he drove.

‘Yep, it says it right here,’ I answered with confidence.

I glanced at the directions, again. Oh - wait. Actually, it says I-95 South via the exit on the left towards I-280/I-78. Way to be confusing, Mapquest. But I was a little too embarrassed to admit I might have actually read the directions wrong. I chose to quickly toss them in the back seat.

‘Seriously, Mapquest is always wrong. All we have to do is look for signs for the airport - the hotel is right there. We’ll get there in no time I’m sure,’ I said.

‘I guess,’ Dan said as he glanced through the rearview mirror at the directions.

Another ten minutes later, a sign for Montclair and no planes in the horizon led to the decision to turn back around - clearly we had gone too far. Luckily, the exit I had forgotten to mention when Dan was driving southbound soon appeared and the red glare of the Marriot sign came into view moments later.

I made a mental note to pay a little more attention when in the passenger seat the next time someone trusts me with getting from point A to point B. That would be the grownup thing to do.

Dan parked the car, I grabbed my tote (and simultaneously swiped the directions) from the back seat, and we headed into the lobby to check into our rooms.

The main entrance was enormous. Three women in their forties were on line ahead of us - all dressed impressively and with chic luggage-on-wheels. An elderly gentleman read The Wall Street Journal on a couch while several other men in spiffy suits chatted it up. There was a woman playing a harp in the middle of the room.

I looked down at my tattered Converse and jeans. I felt slightly juvenile. Another mental note: this time about dressing appropriately on the way to conferences, not just when actually in attendance.

At the front of the line we gave our company name and confirmed two nonsmoking rooms. I noticed all the women at the front desk had name badges that state where they are from (the employees, not the badges) as well as brightly colored ribbons - the word WOW written in bold.

I nudged Dan and tried to draw his attention to the WOW ribbons. I couldn’t help but smirk. He looked at me like I was crazy.

Under my breath I said: ‘Don’t you remember Opie and Anthony’s Whip it out Wednesdays? It’s Wednesday!’

‘Uh, I don’t think that’s what they mean,’ he answered.

I knew that. But come on, these women had these ribbons pinned right onto their chests. It’s funny!

We got our room keys and decided to meet back in the lobby in an hour to grab some dinner. I headed up to Room 501 and was pleased to discover it’s location at the end of the hall, away from the elevators and ice machines.

With one quick swipe, I walked into a little slice of heaven.

The room was awesome! Giant bed, with SIX pillows in total, a cool desk with complimentary tea and coffee packets, and a normal sized iron and board in the closet. The bathroom was great too - shampoo, conditioner, body lotion, soap and facial cleaner - all by Bath and Body Works. I immediately swiped those bad boys and put them in my toiletry bag.

I opened up the television stand to discover two glorious bottles of Vasa water, also compliments of the Marriott. I twist one open and gulp three-quarters of it down in record time. Free water just tastes so good.

I took a quick shower, put on some clean clothes and headed back downstairs to meet with Dan. We had a great dinner at the hotel’s Italian restaurant and headed over to the bar, which is pretty packed for a Wednesday evening. I get the feeling there is more than one conference in town.

A few vodka-sodas later and Dan was ready to call it a night. I was a little upset because, well, it’s barely midnight. I mean, I knew we had a day filled with Powerpoint presentations and team building tips ahead of us, but I thought it was still a little early. And lame.

‘Dan, we don’t have to be at the conference until 8:30, you know?’ I asked, trying to get the bartender’s attention.

‘I know. But it’s already twelve,’ Dan answered without pause.

I suddenly felt like a lush.

‘Um, okay. Well, then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I answered.

The next day started off with a plethora of carbs and coffee, although definitely not because I was feeling sluggish or anything. Just because it was free.

Dan and I sat ourselves down at a table and pulled out the binders we’d be using throughout the day. I put on my best corporate charm and introduced myself to the people around us. After about the tenth introduction, I was kind of happy this thing was about to get started - I was getting a little tired of acting all polite and explaining what the hell I was doing there.

Jade, director of Consumer Product Services, kicked the conference off. She looked pulled together and actually kind of attractive for an older woman. Her skirt was maybe a bit too short, but she knows her best asset, and well, I give her credit for that. And although it looked like she had a little trouble getting the wrinkles out of the back of her shirt, I doubt anyone besides my neurotic self noticed.

After a few moments though, I noticed that her skin had that slight yellow sheen underneath her makeup, perhaps the aftermath of a bit too much alcohol? And she kept taking giant swigs from the water bottle on the podium - clearly, Jade was dehydrated.

I immediately pegged her as a bit of a loose drunk. You might be thinking, it takes one to know one. I wouldn’t be offended in the least.

‘Dan, Jade is definitely hung over,’ I whispered.

Another glare from Dan as if I had sprouted a third boob during the course of the night.

‘I’m just saying, look at her!’ I protested. I was clearly not getting the conspiratorial partner I hoped for today.

A little while later, the microphone was handed over to Dave, the regional manager of Insanely Boring Stuff. I think he’s in charge of audits and assessments. You know, insanely boring stuff like that.

I lasted a solid ten minutes before I had the urge to rip of my ears off and throw them at Dave’s balding head. But when he started to talk about his company’s Corrective Action Plan, he got a little tongue tied, maybe because he saw a bit too much of Jade’s thigh, and the phrase Crack Plan slipped out instead.

I immediately fell into a fit of giggles imagining Dave and Jade getting a little crazy the night before and trying to buy dope off Chris Rock’s character in New Jack City. I know, this is awful. I can’t help it. I have what one might call an active, slightly deranged, imagination.

The morning goes on without much more excitement. I noticed ribbons and a deflated balloon caught in the bell shaped light above me and imagined a party held in the conference room that was definitely a lot more fun than what this day was turning out to be.

Lunch time proved a little better - if only for my introduction to Eswaran. I’m still not sure what he does or where he’s from, as his accent was very thick, but he was definitely a bright spot in the afternoon. He sat down next to me with the biggest plate of food I‘ve ever seen. I noticed he was about the size of my left thigh. His mouth full of crooked teeth made me think of those horrible white-trash teeth you can buy for Halloween. His hair was completely disheveled, despite what looked like an attempt to plaster cowlicks down with gel.

‘Mumble, mumble…mumble…Hahahaha!’ he said to me.

‘Um, hi?’ I answered.

‘Mumble, mumble. Hahahaha! Mumble, mumble’ he said to me as he simultaneously shoveled food in his mouth.

I had no idea what the hell he was saying but it made no difference. He found himself hilarious and just kept laughing. I wondered if he ever smoked weed.

At one point I thought he was telling me about his pretty sister, but figure that can’t be right. Did the conversation suddenly change to neutered dogs? That didn’t seem right either. Oh well. It really made no difference. Eswaran just kept talking, and laughing, and all I had to do was smile and nod. That I can do easily.

Back for the last leg of the day and I wondered if anyone was doing anything later that night. I mean, it was Thursday. I pulled out my phone and start texting.

‘Um, Penny? Are you really that bored,’ Dan asked with the third look in the last twenty-four hours that I’m sure was to make me rethink my words, and actions.

Honestly, I couldn’t have cared less.

Because by 3 pm on Thursday, the realization that I was quite far from being a grownup was apparent. The novelty of being at my first real seminar had completely worn off. I didn’t feel like behaving like everyone, including Dan, around me. What I really wanted was for someone like Liberace to be sitting next to me, poking fun at everyone around us and stuffing as many chocolate chip cookies as he could into my bag.

Life Lesson #7: The weird transition stage between college graduation and ‘the real world’ will last as long as you let it. For me, it’s not going to end with those big, grownup events, like overnight business trips, fancy business cards, the first wedding of a close friend, or writing out my own rent checks.

For me, this stage is alive and well (three years and going strong, people), because I don’t want it to end yet. I don’t want to let mingling with vendors from Cincinnati or paying off my credit cards make me act with a sudden air of adult behavior or superiority. I’m just not ready to. Maybe I will be soon. Who knows, maybe I’ll wake up a few months from now and decide to start heeding those ‘how to negotiate a great raise’ and ‘maximizing your 401K plan’ articles. Hell, maybe I’ll even run out and by one of those books that guarantees you’ll snag a husband in 90 days.

But I’m sure as hell it won’t be anytime soon. I like throwing out my room number to pay for drinks, just like I used to when on vacation with my dad. I love waking up on Sunday mornings with a nasty hangover and a few friends crashed out on the living room couch. And one of my favorite meals is still peanut butter and jelly on an English muffin for dinner.

And I’m pretty sure that a grownup, especially one like Jade, would never admit to such things.

Life Lesson #6: Melting my yellow-stained, slush-covered, frozen New York Heart

Agree to disagree, but The Blizzard of ‘06 kicked some serious ass.

I’ll be the first to admit that I loved the warm weather we were having in December and January. Any time it dropped into the thirties I’d start complaining how cold it was and how I hate the winter. My growing dislike for frozen winds and naked trees are some of the reasons why, after living in this fine city for almost 8 years, I’m planning on moving out west at the end of the summer. I figure a change of scenery, getting out of my element, and not having to deal with tears and snot running down my face as I trek it to the subway in frigid temperatures first thing in the morning will be nice changes.

I’m positive that I’ll be back after a few years—most of my family and friends live here and I’ll always consider New York my home. But a few months ago I made the decision to pack out by August. And I’ve been preparing best I can—a determined effort to expand my savings account, a shaky, at best, attempt to drop a few pounds, and a few neurotic cleaning frenzies that have led to numerous trips to Good Will.

I’m extremely excited about moving. I can’t wait to start exploring a new city, to meet new people, and to learn how to surf (I have this slightly insane fantasy that I’m going to become a surfer, much to the amusement of all that know I’ve never really played a sport and that I still don’t really know how to dive).

I’m also extremely terrified about being 3,000 miles away from the people I know and love.

This leads to my declaration that this past weekend was one of the top ten since I’ve lived in Manhattan, in part due to the snow Sam Champion and Al Roker are going into sheer ecstasy over.

Thursday kicked off the week with much promise at our local watering hole, aka Scully McRascals, around the block: dollar drafts. This was great because I was going to meet Vegas Dan later in the evening and I needed some alcohol to ease my anxiety.

Vegas Dan is a guy I met last year when on vacation with Madonna and H.F.T. in, where else, but Las Vegas.

On the plane out there, I pulled out a giant thermos of vodka and a Tupperware piece of sliced lemons and limes that would make my mother proud (or maybe not, now that I really think about it). We asked the flight attendants for cans of club soda, cups of ice, and some extra pretzels to ensure a secure landing.

It’s safe to say that before we even arrived at 10 pm Vegas time, our vacation was off to a great start.

On our second night there, the three of us put on our lowest cut shirts and headed to Light in the Bellagio. Enter Vegas Dan.

He was there with some friends for a bachelor party. With a Grey Goose bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other, I didn’t know whether I was in love or completely grossed out.

We chatted for a bit, he took my number, and my night continued with the usual debauchery that Sin City offers.

The next day, we were poolside and properly sweating out the toxins from the night before. My phone rang from a number I didn’t recognize. I let it go to voice mail.

It was Vegas Dan, saying his friends had gotten a cabana at their hotel and he wanted us to stop by. I’ll admit I was kind of freaked out—who actually calls someone they meet in Vegas?—and so I opted to not call him back.

I got some shit from the ladies who insisted that despite his slurred state the night before, he was hot. Bygones, I thought.

That night, we were off to Rain. This evening, H.F.T. was unfortunately done only a few hours in, so Madonna and I were left to our own devices.

‘You, know, this place is kind of getting boring. What should we do?’ I asked Madonna.

‘I don’t know. You think that guy is out somewhere?’ she answered.

‘Who?’

‘Vegas Dan! Call him—I bet he’s out right now.’

‘Really?’ I asked, having a feeling that might be odd.

‘Seriously. Penny, he’s hot. Call him.’

And so a few moments later we were on our way to meet him and his friends at Pure. Through a haze of vodka and tequila, I began to see just how hot he was. And his butt looked really good in linen pants, something I would normally not go for, but hey, it’s Vegas baby!

Now, that should have been the end of that. But my life is weird. So it wasn’t.

A few months later, I get a call from Vegas Dan. He’s heading into New York on business. And so we meet.

And then a few months later, I’m heading to California on vacation. I give him a call. And so we meet.

And then last week, I get a call from Vegas Dan. He’s back in New York again. We should meet, Thursday to be exact.

So after several dollar drafts at Scully McRascals, Liberace comes downtown with me to meet Vegas Dan, partly because they’ve met before, but mostly because I became too nervous to go by myself.

He of course looks great, is drunk, and is slightly slurring his words. I can’t get enough of it.

Friday at work went by without much of a hitch, although I suffered most of the day from serious head pains and exhaustion. At about three in the afternoon, when I feared my body was going to reject me, I made the smart decision to lay low that night.

Of course, that was thrown out the window by six.

Westchester texts me: get home nap it off im coming to the city tonight and were going out.

I take her advice and head out a few hours later to meet up with her and Madonna.

The bar itself: boring as all hell. The place is kind of quiet. It’s hard to find anyone decent looking. The bartender is in a foul mood. But I still have a great time.

How, you ask? Because of my girls. We handle the situation with our usual grace and charm: take a shot, make fun of some people, chat it up with some others that we know, have another shot, flirt with some guys we’ll never do anything with, sing along to a little U2, have another shot, perhaps make an inappropriate phone call or text we’ll regret the next day, ransack the pizza place at 4 am, visit the corner deli for some more unnecessary chow, and finally call it a night.

Saturday, the first one free of any required family obligations or the such, Madonna and I watch some DVRd Thursday night television, catch the best part of Fools Rush In ("In case you didn't notice, the white people are melting out here!") on TBS, and head to the gym. We get some quality sweating time in before we almost pass out from the booze smog surrounding us, and then grab a great lunch at one of our favorite delis: tuna salad on an everything bagel, toasted of course.

No set plans for me that evening until later in the night (fingers crossed), I decided I’ll tag along with Madonna and her friends from college to the West Side for a birthday party. Talk of a wristband deal filled me with joy and we started getting ready. By the time her friends came and we headed out, the snow was coming down heavy and I got the phone call I was hoping for.

Ethan/Tim/Tom is the hot guy I’ve mentioned in Life Lesson # 3. I met him over a month ago and couldn’t remember his name until he called and left me a voice message a few days after meeting him. Note that his name is actually none of the three I had thought it might be.

He has managed to prove he’s straight and doesn’t have to do much to convince anyone how good looking he is. He also has cleaned up his nasty comments after drinking (due, in large part, to my calling him out when drunk one night with the very blatant ‘either you’re an asshole or gay, so fess up buddy’) and so I was very happy to hear the Blizzard wasn’t stopping him from coming into Manhattan.

The West Side proved to be much fun and although it was a deathtrap getting into cabs, we ventured back to our hood to meet up with Ethan/Tim/Tom and end the night.

Waking up yesterday, several stranded friends in our living room and snow completely covering my windows, I knew that the weekend was going to end with a bang.

You see, even though snow makes Manhattan, as it does most cities I’m sure, miserable to get around in, you kind of can’t help but love when it first comes down. Before dogs piss all over it, before it turns to disgusting slush at every corner, before it starts falling down in large, dangerous chunks from people’s air conditioning units, it makes the city look so pretty.

And it puts my friends and me in perfect daytime drinking mode.

By three on Sunday, most of our guests had left to venture back to Westchester or New Jersey. Madonna, her boyfriend Earl (I’m his Crabman), and I were left with the need to take advantage of such a glorious day.

We didn’t have to do much to convince others likewise. Two of Earl’s friends came over, cracked open the Irish Mist, and we got ready to take to the streets.

Outside, it was awesome. Everything was covered and for the most part, still untouched. A few feeble attempts to shovel were apparent, but besides that, the only people venturing outside were the crazies like us.

By the end of the day, there were about a dozen of us sitting around a big table at Scully McRascals, where my weekend had started off, and would now end, so well.

I looked around and realized, man, I may be drunk, but I sure do love these people. It was a mix of us: some like Madonna, Earl, H.F.T. and I, who always hang out; then the people I’ve met through each of them; a good buddy from high school and his girlfriend, who just moved into Manhattan.

Life Lesson # 6: While I often can’t control where the night will take me and definitely have no pull in the weather department, I can ensure a great time by surrounding myself with the crazies I call my friends. We may be predictable, we may go to the same bars way too much, and we may (okay fine, we do) drink too much, but it’s what makes me the happiest.

Because I’m not dumb—I know the Vegas Dans and Ethan/Tim/Toms of my life will come and go. But when I’m 3,000 miles from this city in six months from now, I know that many of the group sitting around the table at Scully McRascals will still be my best friends.

Life Lesson #5: Played like a Nintendo, hitting the crescendo, and enjoying it for what it is…

Because of my oh-so-glamorous line of work, I got to go to the Baby Phat show that kicked off the Olympus Fashion Week Fall 2006 Collections Friday night.

It was quite possibly one of the most anti-climatic experiences of my life. Now that I write about it, I’m reminded of the time in eighth grade when I was in a dance company and was to perform for the first time as part of the troop.

The show was at New Rochelle High School, which, for those of you who don’t know, can be a slightly terrifying place. It’s enormous, both in stature and student body, especially for an awkward twelve year old with glasses about to dance to K7’s “Come Baby Come” in nothing more than a black sports bra and short shorts.

But the night before, I was so psyched that I threw up at the dinner table. My mom was gracious enough to clean it up, but warned me that I might not want to do that the next afternoon in front of several hundred kids. That didn’t exactly make me feel better.

The following day, I remember pulling up into the side parking lot which would provide us with the easiest access to the auditorium. As we piled out of the van, hair gelled back and faces painted for the stage, I felt like a star. Kids loitering around stared at us, a few of them asking who we were, even a whistle or two could be detected. Our show was going to be awesome!

I still don’t really know what the point of us being there was, besides riling up a bunch of sixteen-year-old boys to the lyrics: turn me on turn me loose / come on come on / try to hit it / it’s a hassle / come and get some of this / don’t forget da innuendo / play me like Nintendo / never ever let go / screaming so loud / you’ll be hitting the crescendo / doh ray me fa so la te doh.

We actually were the opening number, if that’s what you could call it, for the local police department’s lecture on the importance of saying no to drugs. You know, the DARE program.

Being on the dark stage right before we started, I felt as if my heart was going to literally burst from my rib cage. When the curtains opened up and the sad excuse for a spot light flicked on, there were so many faces around me that I couldn’t focus on any one thing.

Suddenly, the music switched on and the giant speaker behind me actually made the floor shake. I had no choice but to dance.

WELL I CAN HEAR THE (RING RING RING)
THE TELEPHONE GOES RING (HELLO HELLO)
BUT WE'RE STILL GETTING BUSY
(PUMP PUMP PUMP HUH)

In a few dizzying minutes, the song was over and I was crouched down in my ending pose, sweat trickling down my back and people clapping and cheering to a show I didn’t even remember doing. Back in the van on the way back to the studio, I had the strange feeling that I hadn’t even been there at all. I had worked myself up into such a tizzy that I didn’t even remember, let alone enjoy, the actual experience.

That was kind of like Friday night.

A few of us at work received the ‘golden tickets’ for the evening. Of course I was stoked - I had been to some shows for fashion week a few years ago as an intern for a men’s magazine, but I had no clue who the designers were, what I was looking at, or what I was even suppose to be doing. This time, however, I was pretty pumped. I couldn’t wait to see who would be sitting in the front row and to hear the music blast as the crazy stick figures pounded their way down the catwalk.

We joined the sorry excuse for a line forming outside of the main entrance of Bryant Park. It was a lot like the entrance to the subway at 86th Street. The only difference was the smell of dank body odor and wet metal was replaced by expensive perfumes and cigarettes.

My friend from work, Clueless, and I hustled our way up to the front, displaying our shiny red passes. After a few shoves and confirmation of identity, we pushed inside. We lost everyone else in a matter of minutes and decided to get on the next line to get into the actual tent where the show was to take place.

We finally started moving a good thirty minutes later. When we made it to the entrance of the tent, we were hurtled to the left of a rope that was meant to keep us a safe distance from the beautiful people.

“Good lord,” Clueless mumbled.

All I could think about was the Saturday Night Live skit with Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen where they pretend to be the paparazzi on the red carpet. “MK, MK, let me get a picture! MK, MK, turn this way! MK, MK, eat a sandwich!”

I shared this with Clueless and we started laughing. I kind of hoped that we got caught in the background of one of the pictures.

As our herd finally made its way into the tent itself, I was shocked at the sheer amount of people being crushed into such a small place. I don’t think there was one part of my body that was not pressed up against some stranger or another. I did note, however, that those individuals deemed far more superior than us were being whisked off by handlers without even the slightest of nudges.

It takes another ten minutes for Clueless and I to find our seats. I settled down and began my favorite pastime: people watching.

The amount of B-, C- and even D-list celebrities far outweighed the actual A-listers for sure. Not that it made a difference to Clueless. The only person she could recognize was Fat Joe (Speaking of Fat Joe - he and I would totally hit it off - if his girlfriend wasn’t knocked up, of course; our head bobs were in perfect sync to Black Eyed Peas “My Humps“).

After about ten minutes of desperately trying to point out the likes of Jay Squared (Jay Manuel, makeup artist / photo director /wannabe host and J. Alexander, self proclaimed modeling expert / runway coach / overall freak show) of America‘s Next Top Model, the chick who just won the most recent season of this show, and that crazy-ass, dyed afro-sporting Stacey chick from one of past seasons of The Apprentice, I gave up on Clueless.

“Seriously, how do you not know who any of these people are?” I asked.

“I just don’t care, Penny,” she laughed.

“You are not my friend anymore tonight,” I answered. I thought in my head how Madonna (my friend, not the celebrity) would cut someone for Clueless’s seat right now.

I tried pointing out the likes of Mya, Tyson Beckford, Andre the Giant (you know - Andre Leon Talley of Vogue), the pint-size singer who won the most recent season of Idol, Russel Simmons, Angie Harmon, Christina Milian, who could definitely fit into by back pocket, and my personal favorite, Diddy’s mom Janice. More often than not, Clueless had no idea who they were.

What I find most odd is how many of these people I’ve seen before. Fat Joe (swoon) with Big Pun (moment of silence people) my freshman year of college on 8th Street: they were both hanging outside of their giant black SUV. Robert Verdi in Bloomingdales last year, of course wearing those ridiculously large sunglasses somewhere in-between his forehead and giant bald dome piece. MTV Veejay Damien Fahey totally snubbed me not that long ago in some way too cool club down in Chelsea.

The lights finally went off and the pandemonium of flashing bulbs and rushed interviews momentarily stops. The show, 45 minutes late, was about to start.

The music began with a thud and blinding beams of light. The ghetto glam models stomped down the runway in pillbox hats, opaque tights, and pony tails past their butts (thanks to some serious hair extensions).

Three songs later it was all over. By the time I was on the subway heading uptown, my red gift bag resting on my lap, I wondered once again, had I even been there at all? It went by so quickly, and rather uneventfully, that I could have just as easily watched the thing on the Style Network from my couch at home.

Life Lesson #5: No matter what the occasion I have to look forward to, I need to stop acting like that twelve year old Fame star wannabe, take a deep breath, and not get so damn excited. Because I tend to get way too wound up about stuff. And more often than not, my expectations leave me either a: disenchanted, b: completely forgetful of what happened, or c: a combination of said disappointment and amnesia. The dance steps are forgotten, the famous people are disappointingly small in real life, and my existence is deflated.

It usually winds up being the little stuff that makes me most excited anyway. Like office birthdays when we get to have icecream cake from Baskin Robbins. When I get a seat on the train in the morning. If a guy who isn't revolting buys me a drink. Lying on my couch and catching up on missed television shows. That people, is what it's all about.