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.