Life Lesson #12: I’ll be content with saggy boobs and a mustache, thank you very much.

Salute!

This can be heard, oh, I’m going to go with about fifteen times between the hours of 3 and 6 pm on a Sunday at my parents’ home in Westchester, my grandparents’ house in the Bronx or at a smattering of restaurants on City Island.

That’s because it’s dinner time for the Italians, and that means raising your glass of vino in cheer.

Being that I live in Manhattan, I’m expected to be in attendance at most, if not all, of these habitual family gatherings. This can be very taxing on me, physically and mentally. Especially if I’m hungover, and on most Sundays, the chance of that is rather high.

My mom is a gem. Being that these are my dad’s parents, and tend to drive her to the brink, she often cuts me some slack and puts little pressure on me to show up.

This past Friday, however, I was not granted such immunity.

My phone rang while at work. I saw my mom’s number on the screen.

After a few minutes of chit chat, the motive for her call was revealed.

“So, you’re grandfather called about an hour ago. He wanted me to come over and see his new sneakers. Clearly he’s lost it. But I invited them over for Sunday dinner, which I think you should come to since you missed last week. I’m going to make corned beef and cabbage since I didn’t do a Paddy’s day dinner.”

Yes, we may be giant Dagos, but my mom is also one of those crazy holiday followers. Valentine’s Day means poached eggs in the shape of hearts and strawberry milk for breakfast. Easter guarantees a basket left by The Bunny at the foot of your bed (not to be touched ‘til after church, of course). She even does Mardi Gras, in which one is required to eat jumbo while wearing beads and possibly a feathered mask.

She’s into ‘seasons’ as well. There’s a giant haystack outside our front door, a pile of shellacked gourds strategically placed on top, for most of the fall. In the winter, the haystack is replaced with a pile of fern and pinecones, a non-decorated wreath plastered to the door. Spring, my personal favorite, brings out the bunny figurines to be dotted along the stairs and in plants (to represent new birth!).

Needless to say, St. Patrick’s Day, although delayed, would not go uncelebrated.

Being as how I got out of dinner last week (I believe with the ‘So and So from out of town is going to be here for lunch - it’s the only time we can get together’ card from my Get Out of Jail hand that includes ‘I already signed up for New York Cares’, ‘My throat is killing me—everyone in this office is sick and I know I’m next’, and ‘Liberace is totally freaking out about something, I really need to be with him,’ among others), I knew I wasn’t getting out of this one.

“Of course, invite Madonna!” she added.

Being she is Irish, my mom considers Madonna a token centerpiece for the table. Madonna could take offense to this, I’m sure, and for that I apologize on behalf of the woman, but any opportunity to hang out with Grandpa Al lures many a-friend to my house.

Rather than explain Grandpa Al, I think a truly clear picture can be painted through a kaleidoscope of events. He once urged us to try and bring back fedoras and van dykes (aka, hats and goatees) as fashion staples. A few years ago, he nominated himself Poet Laureate of the Bronx. At my ex-boyfriend’s graduation party from medical school, which happened to be about three months after Grandpa Al had open-heart surgery, the man was found dancing to Usher’s Yeah! , featuring Lil Jon, while everyone was eating. At my great grandmother’s wake, he creepily hit on Madonna, then stopped when introduced to Earl, claiming “Well, aren’t you a strapping young fellow! I better watch myself!,” moving on quickly to invite Liberace to be his doubles tennis partner. The list goes on really, but I think that’s enough.

Sunday came and sadly, I was at it alone. Maybe because Madonna remembered last year’s incident. It involved Grandpa Al unbuckling his pants to show her his “Marvelous garments called Joe Boxers! I tell you, no one will mess with me if they see these!” Obviously, I don’t blame her.

My grandparents arrived right at three, as always, with my aunt. Grandpa Al is in the usual: the hat I gave him from work, a wind jacket, and brown cords. My grandma, as always, is dressed in something beautiful that she made herself (Partly because she’s an amazing seamstress, and partly because she’s so damn tiny I doubt anything would fit the lady. I guess I could piggy-back her a good ten blocks before getting a little winded.). This week it was a flowered blouse and trousers.

“Oh wonderful, the young lady is here!” Grandpa Al greeted me. He calls me young lady all the time. I think it’s because he has trouble remembering my name. “We missed you so much last week. Oh, it was a sad day!”

If you’ve never experienced guilt laid on by an Italian grandfather, I envy you. Greatly.

“Hi Grandpa, good to see you too,” I said as I brought them into the living room so we could sit down.

“Yes! A sweet vermouth, Johnny!” Grandpa Al answered my dad when asked what he’d like to drink. He is the only person I know who drinks this. They might as well call it The Al.

“Just some water, dear. I don’t drink,” Grandma said. As if they’ve just met, she reminds my dad that she hasn’t had alcohol for the past twenty some-odd years. One thing you can never call these people is inconsistent, that’s for sure.

“Well, that’s an American lady! Salute!” Grandpa Al said when handed his drink. I look at the napkin he’s referring to. I’ve actually taken the time to find the exact picture. See below.

“Well Dad, let’s see those new sneakers,” my mom said.

“Yes! I tell you, I almost feel guilty they were so inexpensive! They are just wonderful. And comfortable! I tell you, I think I could run a marathon with them on.”

“Well, just concentrate on walking for now,” my mom responded with. “Where did you get them?”

“Costco! I tell you, that place just had tables and tables of sneakers. I just had to get them! You know, there are some large women at that place. Like her!” He waved his napkin as he laughed at his joke. Which, I’ve got to give it to him, is pretty damn funny. And true.

After drinks, dinner is served.

We head into the kitchen and sit around the table, which had morphed into a tribute to the Irish. A glass bowl filled with gold and silver foil Hershey Kisses (the leprechaun’s pot of gold!), green cups for water, a heaping bowl of potatoes, plates of corned beef and string beans (they’re green!).

“Well this is just wonderful!” Grandpa Al said as he raised his glass. “Salute!”

The usual topics are discussed. The movie Grandpa Al took Grandma to see at Bay Ridge Plaza—where you can get shot by a stray bullet, at no extra charge, with your popcorn. A recent match of tennis on Fordham Road, another upstanding area where you run the risk of having your car stolen. I guess my family likes to live on the edge.

“Johnny, do you remember when I used to push you around the neighborhood in the pram? That was fun!” Grandpa Al said out of nowhere.

“A pram?” I laughed.

“You mean a baby carriage, Dad,” my mom said, shaking her head.

“I don’t remember what the hell I had for dinner last night!” my dad answered.

“Dad, were you pushed around in the pram when you were ten?” I asked. My brother and I are laughing hysterically at this point.

A roll of the eyes and swig of Heineken is my answer.

My mom decided to not even let Grandpa Al provide a reason for bringing up prams and babies.

“Do you remember the Metz’, Mom? The couple who use to live around the block? They have four boys and a girl? They moved a few months ago so we haven’t seen them in a bit. Well, I saw one of the boys in church yesterday, and I could not believe how much he grew—I think he’s taller than his dad now.”

“Oh! How good for him to be strong and big! Where did they move?” Grandma asked.

“Purchase. About ten minutes from here. Beautiful house,” my mom answered.

“Persia? Why that’s not very safe, now is it?” Grandpa Al responded. Along with being slightly off his rocker, the man has not been able to hear most of what goes on around him for at least a decade now.

“Persia? Who said anything about Persia?” my mom asked.

“Dad, Purchase. They moved to Purchase,” my dad said loudly.

“Turkey? Well, that doesn’t seem much better!” Grandpa Al said with conviction.

“Um, where’d you get Turkey from? Purchase, Grandpa, as in Purchase, Westchester,” I tried to explain to no avail.

My brother was red in the face he was laughing so hard.

My mom, in total frustration, got up and took a piece of paper from the telephone drawer and wrote PURCHASE in bold letters. She handed it to Grandpa Al.

“Yes, I see. A purchase,” he said, looking at the piece of notepaper my mom handed to him.

“For the love of God, Dad! PURCHASE, NEW YORK! IT’S TEN MINUTES FROM HERE,” my mom yelled.

“Ohhhhh!” Granpda Al started laughing. The man really knows how to crack himself up. “So now, why are we discussing Purchase? You aren‘t planning on moving there, are you?”

Water shot out of my nose clear across the table.

“You think this is funny?” my Grandma turned to me with a sigh. “He’s making me stooney!”

"Salute!" Grandpa Al yelled.

Life Lesson #12: Along with orthopedic sneakers, early bird specials and the need to go to the bathroom much more frequently, the aging process can bring on a bit of lunacy. And in some cases, such as Grandpa Al’s, a whole lot of crazy.

Thinking about my typical Sunday dinners, I get the feeling I’m in for a bit of my own loose screws in the future. I could be terrified, I guess. But I could also be like Grandpa Al and just not give it a care in the world. Stuff that comes out of his mouth, conceived from thin air, usually makes little sense, is often offensive to a particular race (basically, anyone not Italian), and will most likely make any female cringe (gender equality is a humorous concept to the man). He goes through much of life these days clueless of what’s going on around him or what people are saying. But he’s happy as a pig in shit.

And that is what I’m hoping for. Because really, when you get that old, who the hell cares what you say or do anyway?

Life Lesson #11: Three Grilled Cheese sandwiches: $18;...

One Green tank top, bedazzled: $26;
One Extra Yoo Hoo: $1.50;
One Catamaran, two jet skis, one vespa and one banana boat on First Avenue: $1 million;
My three hungover, transvestite-voiced friends: Priceless (or best offer).

I love how our apartment turns into a hostel on the weekends. You just never know who’s going to take part in the morning festivities of foods most likely topped with cheese, giant Gatorades, DVRd television shows, and ridiculous conversations.

A typical Saturday morning usually begins with me waking up feeling as if a two-by-four was smashed against my head repeatedly as I slept. If I’m lucky, I won’t be the only one in my bed. If I’m really lucky, Goose will be in there with me. I’ll drag my ass out of the tangle of sheets and pillows to get a glass of water from the kitchen, where I might stumble upon Westchester sprawled out on the couch. If it’s after noon, its possible Earl will come struggling out of Madonna’s room.

Eventually we all get up, convene in either my bedroom or the living room, and discuss things that only extremely hung-over, or still drunk, young people are capable of. Random topics are covered, complete confusion occurs, and I often laugh so hard I have to run to the bathroom in order not to pee myself.

If you’re a newbie to the morning ritual, you’d probably occupy a spot on the living room floor or the couch in my room. Perhaps you have a pillow under your head, but chances of having a blanket are slim-to-none. We often make you get breakfast for everyone else. This sucks. Because we order the most annoying stuff as well as multiple beverages per individual. It’s kind of comical. And while we’d never actually force someone to go, they usually do since they did just crash at our place.

A good guest gets everyone’s breakfast with no more than two mistakes, parks themselves on an available square of floor, stays around to watch Best Week Ever, and eventually goes back home. They will be allowed to sleep over any time they ask.

A great guest - who guarantees themselves an invite back any time without ever having to put in a request - gets everyone’s order right, perhaps throwing in an extra Yoo Hoo or coffee for safe measure, adds some quality jokes and comments to our cracked-out morning banter, and takes the garbage out with them when they leave.

This past Saturday was no exception to the norm. I woke up to Goose’s phone ringing.

“Sweet Jesus, I might be dying,” or something along those lines probably came out of my mouth. I can’t be positive, as the level of coherence exhibited by myself at ten am is less than stellar. The only thing that steered me up was the simultaneous squeeze of my bladder and parched esophagus.

I was completely incapable of being quiet and managed to knock over a few glasses and drop the ice tray in the sink. Westchester stirred.

“Woops. Sorry,” I mustered.

I made my way back into my room, noticing the shirt I wore the night before outside my doorway. This too is typical. I have a tendency to start getting undressed before I even make it to my room on a Friday night. I often wake up in a state of semi-nudity, with random articles of clothing trailing all the way back to the front door.

“This is not good,” Goose commented as I got back into bed. “My voice is disgusting.”

“We sound like seventy-year old transvestites,” I sighed. Again, completely normal. A night of drinking, yelling for shots, and belting out “Since You Been Gone” does not help one’s vocal chords.

A few moments later and the hostel was buzzing. The mid-morning, illogical, nonsensical banter was about to begin.

Madonna came out of her bedroom, eye shadow smeared and hair all crazy-like.

“You guys, what time is it?” she asked as she fell onto the couch in my room.

“Way too early,” I responded.

Goose began laughing at Madonna’s ensemble.

“Whatever. Jazzy beater,” Madonna responded. I looked over at Goose who is wearing a green tank top covered in sequins. I burst out laughing.

The recap discussion of the following night went on for a few minutes. I drift in and out of listening and get totally confused as Madonna is saying how “he is taking a catamaran from Florida to Costa Rica. He said he got two jet skis for his birthday.”

“You’re kidding, right? You didn’t believe him, did you? Who the hell gets two jet skis?” Goose was laughing.

“What’s a catamaran?” I asked. “Is it like a banana boat?”

“What the hell is a banana boat?” Madonna asked.

“You know, the one’s you sit in and pedal,” I responded.

“You think he’s going to take a boat from Florida to Costa Rica that you pedal?” Madonna asked me.

“I guess that’d be kind of far,” I said.

“Oh my God you two, he’s not taking a catamaran anywhere! Who the hell drives a boat from Florida to Costa Rica?” Goose yelled.

“I don’t know. He’s Madonna’s friend, not mine. How far is it anyway? Wait. What the hell is a catamaran though?” I was still totally confused.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Westchester said as she walked in the room. “It’s like a sailboat with the two things on the side.”

“Wait, how many miles do you think it is?” Madonna asked as she moved to my computer. Westchester quickly stole her couch spot.

“Are you going on MySpace you loser?” I asked Madonna. “Wait, like those boats you always see for those Hedonism vacations?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Westchester looked at me in disbelief.

“No! I’m looking up a map. I want to see how far it is,” Madonna yelled at me.

“Stop! You are not looking for a map! There is no way he’s taking a catamaran anywhere,” Goose was laughing at us.

“Wait, what if he attaches the two jet skis on the sides of the boat? Betcha then he could get to Costa Rica,” I theorized out loud.

“Holy shit, you are an idiot. Who the hell has a catamaran anyway?” Westchester turned her attention to Madonna.

“Some kid I went to college with. He’s going on vacation but can’t leave the country because he was arrested a little while ago, so he‘s taking a boat there,” Madonna responded as she pulled up a map. “Okay, so here it is, kind of. It looks like, well, I guess like 750 miles, if you could go straight there?”

“If I had catamaran with pedals, I would go everywhere with it. Like up the block to get breakfast,” I said.

“Oh my God. Catamarans are not pedal boats,” Westchester yelled at me. “Don’t we like own Costa Rica though? Do you really need a passport to go there?”

“You’re thinking of the other Rican, Puerto Rico, which isn’t part of the country anyway idiot,” I said smugly, feeling like I was not the asshole for a moment.

“Madonna, there’s no way this kid is taking a boat to go there. The point, people, is that this kid is lying and Madonna believes him!” Goose laughed.

“Wait, maybe you can take the Panama Canal there,” I started laughing. “I would totally take my catamaran through the Panama Canal all the time.”

Madonna suddenly got up.

“Oh, I don’t feel very well,” she said walking out. She came back in a few minutes later with a pillow and blanket from her room and lay down on my floor.

“I’m starving, we need to order food immediately,” Westchester said. Which we do, because it’s just the four of us this morning, thus no breakfast bitch to take our orders. And you could not pay any of us enough to actually go out into the real world in the shape we were in.

“I would totally go out and get breakfast if I could go on a banana boat,” I noted.

My idiocy wins me the job of having to place the call to the diner, a task I dread almost as much as actually going.

Another conversation that would make an outsider cringe and our order was finally straightened out. I place the call. After giving my address and telephone number, I began the difficult process of getting it all right.

“Okay, I need one cheese fries, one grilled cheese with bacon, with a Coke, or Pepsi, whichever….okay, that’s fine…..well, is it a small fountain soda? Because the can would be the same then….yea, do up the fountain if that’s bigger…two black and white milkshakes, large….oh, sorry, didn’t know there was only one size….a grilled cheese with tomato, wait, two of those…no the first one is with bacon, two more with tomato….no, three altogether, one bacon, two tomato….yes….two chicken noodle soups….and the western omelet, but with egg whites, toast, dry….yea, you better repeat that back to me.”

I hung up the phone just as a life lesson popped into my head.

Life Lesson #11: There is nothing quite like the mornings after being out with my friends. We are ridiculous, in every way imaginable. We look like homeless people stumbling around from room to room, spouting incoherent thoughts and glorious breakfast orders.

And it usually lasts all day.

After eating our food in the living room, Goose and I crawled back into my bed, as Madonna and Westchester did likewise in her room. The next hour was filled with us on speaker phone talking to each other, our voices echoing through the hall. Discussions of great depth ensued: me spending the entire summer in the Hamptons sans car, using a bike to get everywhere, including the bars we frequent every weekend; of Westchester getting a high five from someone after sleeping with them not too long ago; and of Liberace and I driving cross country at the end of the summer on a Vespa, he holding on for dear life as I take the helm.

And sometimes, this can be even more fun than actually having gone out the night before.

Life Lesson #10: Spring is in the Air: Time to Clean out Your Closet and Refill it with Your Future

Prior to this morning, I had my life lesson for this week all thought out, and for the most part, written. It was shaping up to be about how hard it would be, even though I’m close with my parents and get along with my family relatively well, to move back home (conceived from this past weekend when, after being under the same roof for a mere 30 hours, I had a sudden fear that my soul would be sucked out of me if I stayed one minute longer).

But after my walk to the subway this morning, I’ve decided to scratch that and save it for a lack-of-material week. Instead, I feel it is time to take a few moments to discuss a topic of much greater importance and urgency, thanks to the woman walking in front of me on Third Avenue at 8:30 this morning.

And so, I present to you my plea to help bring back Mom Butt.

I don’t think I have to really explain this to anybody, but it would be an injustice to anyone to be part of today’s world and not know what it is. So let me explain:

Mom Butt happens to women (and some men too, I guess, although I never really noticed it on them) after a certain age. The Butt is no longer of its original shape – be it round, shelf-like, or even non-existent. I think what happens is something like this: a woman wakes up one day, rolls over to turn off her blaring alarm clock, turns to lie back down for a moment before starting her day, and suddenly realizes she’s resting on a completely different ass. Its flatter, wider, and apparently begs to be put into high-waisted, slightly tapered pants that fully accentuate its new silhouette.


I theorize the Mom Butt formula arises from being sat on for way too long, from years of being squished and/or squeezed into inappropriate fashion trends, and I guess a little bit of gravity.

Regardless, it happens. And it used to be visible everywhere. It was a fact of life, a natural progression of things. And I’m okay with this (or so I say ‘til it happens to me). Maybe it’s because I kind of look forward to the day I can throw my hands in the air and say ‘Screw you male genitalia of the world! Today, I woke up with Mom Butt! I’m no longer young, my body just isn’t the same, and I’m going to throw on some ill-fitting pants to prove it!’

What I am not okay with is the game of deception and trickery that is creeping up more and more, making Mom Butt and the natural aging process a thing of the past. A complete disregard for the natural order of things is on the rise. And it’s scaring the crap out of me, because it only means that when what should be my Mom Butt time to shine comes around, I will be a rare beast. Who knows what the consequences of letting it happen will be! I imagine public flogging, taunting by small children – that sort of thing. And it’s not just a lack of respect for Mom Butt that is taking over the world. It’s the whole aging process in general that is being ignored, and never have I been as aware of it as the last few days.

Last week, March brought its usual tease of awesome weather that would soon be followed by crap. In particular, Friday was great weather-wise. I definitely got a bit of Spring Fever. I left work as much as I possibly could – several trips for coffee, an unnecessary Duane Reade trip, a way-too-long lunch break. Given the sheer number of people out and about, I knew I wasn’t the only one taking advantage of the sun. I noticed many of the people taking to the streets were dressed as if it were mid-June. Capri pants, inappropriately short skirts, and even flip flops thrived on the pavement. Idiots, I thought.

On one of my many breaks, I ran into a coworker having a cigarette outside our office building. We started chatting.

“I love this weather,” I said. “I keep running out of our office like I have something to do just to get outside.”

“Seriously, me too! This is like the fifth cigarette I’ve had today already,” she agreed.

Boring time-filling banter ensued.

“Ew. Look at that lady,” she suddenly said under her breath.

I looked in the general direction she was gazing. I immediately knew whom she was talking about.

At first glance, the woman looked young and attractive. She was tall and thin, with a head of blond hair that literarily bounced when she walked (yea, my hair is pretty much always pulled back from nine to five because I’m lazy, so I notice these things). Then I observed the details. She was wearing a short denim skirt with a blousy shirt, a fitted dark blazer over it. A giant white tote matched her ginormous white sunglasses. But as she walked right passed us, her sunglasses couldn’t hide the leathery skin behind them. Sure, she looked wrinkle free at first, but her neck was close to that of a Chinese wrinkle dog. And her hands were a dead giveaway. Veiny and blotched, these were hands of an older woman. Her legs, gloriously long and super tan, were a mere illusion. As they strutted by on ridiculously high sandals, I saw how, upon closer inspection, as ‘fit’ as they might be, they were the legs of an older woman. The skin hung just a little too loose over muscles that were probably worked on for hours at the gym.

“Good lord, she’s so not young!” I responded.

“I know! I hate women like that! Everyone thinks they’re so young and hot, but they’re just gross!” she retorted.

And it’s true. While she might have looked great from afar, and sure, she was turning heads from any penis in a ten-foot radius, it was totally fake. And anyone who took the time to more closely inspect her figured that out.

The image of that woman did not leave me after she did, probably because over the course of the weekend I noticed more and more of her evil twins strutting around both Manhattan and Westchester.

Saturday morning: An impossibly thin woman, bleached blond hair pulled tightly back to accentuate flawless skin, touting three children to Starbucks, where she ordered something skim, fat free, blah blah blah, and a cookie for her kids to split. Her jeans hung loose and her shirt looked three times too big. Did she fear gaining a pound simply smelling the cookie she offered to her children? The giant engagement ring on her finger seemed to barely stay on. I’m guessing her bony knuckle is the only thing stopping it from plummeting to the ground. I wondered if she thought her husband might kick her to the curb if she didn’t remain rail thin, regardless of producing three obnoxious offspring bearing his name.

Later that morning: Crazy Bea (as in Arthur), as I’ve decided to dub her, walking in front of me. Big pouf of silvery-white hair perched atop her tall, thin frame that was covered in one of those beige pants-matching-button-down-shirt ensembles, with those white sneaker-shoes only the elderly wear, soles so thick a chainsaw won’t go through them. She was probably in her mid-seventies, walking her tiny rat of a dog (I’m guessing also in its mid-seventies), on my block. She was moving so slowly it would take her a solid twenty minutes to get to the corner of the street. God help her crossing it. As I made my way around her I turned to politely smile. I was shocked to see her nose covered in bandages and her eyes black and blue. White gauze wrapped around the front of her face. Seriously?! A nose job and face lift?! Give it up lady – you’re old, we all know it, just let it be!

Dinner in Westchester: I took my little brother out to a Mexican place we love to go to. There’s always madness: an out-of-place train circles the ceiling, a bunch of waiters and busboys who bash into each other at least once while we’re there, and the best mariachi band you could imagine (dudes in tight-ass white pants, with matching polished shoes, and the only portable harp I’ve ever seen). We walk in, expecting to be greeted by the usual host, but are taken aback by his replacement. The new hostess looks as if she finished up her turn at the stripper pole about fifteen years ago. Her fake boobs are ridiculous, as is her fake nose and what I think might have been that crazy tattooed eye liner Tammy Fay Baker loves so much. She definitely sported some fake eye lashes to match. Her outfit was ridiculous. Her hair was ridiculous. Everything: ridiculous.

Sunday, still in Westchester: I went to the gym, which before you comment on being the worst thing I could do given this week’s lesson, please note it was the only way to avoid going to church with the parents. Say what you will, I can’t stand it. And so I got up before them only to sneak out and hit up the new NYSC that just opened. Getting on line for a spinning class, I was surrounded by hot moms and grandmas with cut arms and toned stomachs. But I was grossed out. The younger ones looked tired and stressed, their skin off-color and hair too thin, probably because they all gave up eating for the New Year or something. And fit grandmas, well, they just scare me regardless. I hate seeing an old woman that looks like she could kick my ass. It goes against all things right with this world. Grandmas should be knitting booties and making baked goods, not lifting ten pound dumbbells and cranking up the resistance on their bikes to the highest possible incline.

And finally, this morning, back in Manhattan: Another aging woman, refusing to do so gracefully. Her thin ankles teetered on thinner high heels as she made her way down the street. From afar, she appeared young, fit, and attractive. As I covered distance between us, the truth was revealed. Everything was tucked and folded just so: her hair, her clothes, and her skin. I imagine right under her top layer, rotting and moldy flesh just waiting to be exposed.

I don’t know when this all started happening. Or rather, when I really started to notice it. But now I can’t stop seeing women who refuse to let the aging process happen. While I’m all for keeping yourself fit and healthy, I’m not for attempting to live out my life filled with botox and daily personal training sessions.

Ladies, we’ve just got to let things be as they are.

Life Lesson # 10: It is imperative that our generation be the generation that brings back Mom Butt. We cannot waste our midlives in fancy gyms, detoxifying retreat centers and cosmetic surgery tables. Screw that! We waste enough time now dragging our hung-over asses to the gym on a Sunday afternoon so we don’t blow up over an alcohol and bagel induced weekend.

Do you really want to be worrying about how you look the rest of your life? I certainly do not. But if we keep feeding into the idea that we all need to be hot moms and/or those women you see out at bars that your guy friends go to hit on until they get up close and see the wrinkles around the neck, well, then its no one’s fault but our own.

So run out right now, buy yourself a pair of those pants you’d be caught dead in right now, gently place them in a bag marked ‘My Mom Butt Jeans: To be worn on/around 2025’ and place them on the top shelf of your closet. It will be the smartest purchase you have ever made. Trust me.

VIVA LA MOM BUTT!

Life Lesson #9: Nothing’s Ever Free: The Narcs Are Always Watching When the Lip Starts Tingling

I really don’t think I should be allowed to stay out past midnight during the week (maybe with the exception of Thursday, but I’m still deciding on that).

I was thinking Madonna and I should impose a curfew in our apartment. Or she should have the right to ground me if I’m out too late. Maybe a punishment of sorts for thinking it’s perfectly acceptable to be gallivanting all hours of the night, only to have to face the alarm and drag my ass to work the next morning. So not cool.

And I’m not one of those people that can pull off hangovers. At all. My eyes are always red, regardless of how many times I flood them with drops. My skin gets that off-color, dull appearance that makes it look like I just slathered it with expired self tanner. No matter how much makeup I put on, I look like a shovel was taken to my face. If I’ve taken it a bit too far, my thumbs will puff up a tiny bit and my ankles will throb (which makes me theorize that all the alcohol is pooling in my extremities because it can’t get out of my body fast enough). And the absolute worst: my bottom lip swells.

I should be grateful that I don’t get the swollen lip to the same extreme as my brother. Growing up, he would always get caught if he’d been drinking because his lips would swell to epic proportions the next morning. He wound up finding out that he’s allergic to the yeast in beer, but he faced many a grounding before that was discovered. My other brother and I would torture him mercilessly, pestering him with ‘shrimp is the fruit of the sea, Forrest’ and knocking things over and blaming it on his giant lips (I know, not really funny, but at the time, we thought we were hilarious).

While my bottom lip doesn’t get as bad as his, it is noticeable if you know me well enough. Basically, it’s really irritating and all I can do is wait it out. I know it’s completely my own fault for being such a lush, but I still like to bitch about it. And that is exactly what I did all day Thursday since I clearly drank way too much on Wednesday night.

The evening was to just consist of dinner with Goose and Madonna. Of course, dinner is never just dinner, is it?

I went to Goose’s brother’s apartment (she was house sitting while he and his girlfriend were on vacation), where we would wait ‘til Madonna got out of work. I bought a bottle of vino on the way over.

Now, a bottle of wine is just that; a bottle. Relatively harmless on the alcohol scale, particularly if you’re sharing it with someone. Factors that might contribute to it becoming slightly dangerous, however, are when you haven’t had much to eat all day, when you had a trying ten hours at the office, or when it’s followed by other alcohol, particularly not wine.

All these variables came into play Wednesday evening. By the time Madonna met up with us and we left for the restaurant, the wine was long gone and I was starving.

We headed off to the restaurant, a Japanese place called Fusia. While I’m usually not one for cocktails at dinner (at the most, I’ll get a vodka soda with appetizers), we noticed a few fancy drinks that piqued our interest.

The Razzmapolitan stood out among the crowd. What a fancy name! So jazz-a-riffic! Why, how could anyone resist? The three of us certainly would not!

A round before any food is even ordered should send off an internal warning signal of sorts for me, but alas, it doesn’t. My life would probably be a lot less complicated and hazy if such a forewarning existed. But you know, it would probably also mean a much more boring existence, so really, who wants that?

And so, I will go on to say the Razzmapolitan does not disappoint. Served in a martini glass on steroids, and with an alcohol to nonalcohol ratio that, I’m guessing, stands at around 98:2, I was delighted at our beverage of choice.

Dinner was great too, as was the additional wine we ordered. By the time we asked for the check, I think we were all in good spirits and comfortably satisfied (I don’t know about you, but sushi never completely fills me up). A perfect way to end the night.

Well, that’s also kind of uncharacteristic of me: to just take myself home at a reasonable point.

Goose was in a going-out sort of mood. A friend of hers whom I’ve met on occasion was bartending only a few blocks away. And while Madonna has much more self-restraint than I, the Law of the Triads prevailed. Off we went.

“We’ll just go for a drink,” I promised.

The thing about going to a place where you know someone that’s working is that it’s rarely just a one-cocktail-then-home-to-bed-because-it’s-a-school-night sort of evening. At least, in my case it rarely is. Because you get your first drink, which is often on the house, chat it up with whomever you know, they probably introduce you to someone they also know, or you run into someone else that you know, and the first free drink winds up going down faster than light speed. It would almost be rude to simply leave at this point, especially if that first drink was gratis. So another drink is usually purchased, with a high probability of being handed over with a shot since everyone is just so chummy, and it all just goes downhill from there.

That was kind of what happened as the night progressed.

We went over to Goose’s friend at the bar and made ourselves comfortable. Our drinks were made in pint glasses. This is always a bad thing. Pint glasses are for beers, lagers, Guinness. That sort of thing. They really shouldn’t be used for vodka consumption.

We chatted it up amongst ourselves until an acquaintance of Goose made his way over. She met him the last time she was there, although she was with a male friend, which I don’t care what you say, always changes how a guy will act around you.

Being we were three females hanging out, the situation was going to get messy. Goose’s friend introduced himself as Earl (the first real Earl I think I’ve ever met) and offered to buy us a round, on him.

But of course.

Soon enough, Earl’s friends, Jose and Angel, made their way over.

“How do you guys know each other?” I asked.

“We work together,” Earl answered.

“We’re narcs,” Jose continued.

“Yeah, in Washington Heights,” Angel finished.

Oh. Well, this is definitely a change from the usual.

Angel and I begun discussing how working thirteen years on the beat can be really exhausting. But your skills and tactics become so top notch, it’s hard to walk away. Basically, you get really good at what you do, you know that you’re really good at catching the bad guys, and you always think, one more year, so many more people I can put behind bars, just one more year. Because one of the best things you learn and the thing you become so good at is that you always let them run. Just don’t keep up with them: you just keep a nice, steady pace. They’re going to run like they just heard their momma’s house is on fire. But then, BAM, they’ll lose their wind, and soon, and that’s when, BAM, you got them. Because you were pacing yourself and you always win if you pace yourself.

Angel then asked if he could take me to dinner. I got away without giving him a straight answer and soon learned that he has children, three to be exact. One of his daughters is only two years younger than I am. I tell him this. Regardless, he thought we had a lot in common and would like to take me out.

At this point, Earl asked Angel and me if we’d like another drink. With it comes a shot. How nice.

I’m pretty sure that not much later, I felt the telltale tingle in my bottom lip, and decide to take heed the sign and turned to Madonna and Goose to see how they were doing. Madonna walked over just as I turned around.

“You guys, I’m really tired. I think we should get going,” she said, which I immediately understood as: Really, these people are kind of nuts and I think we should get the hell out of here before we’ve got three narcotic officers on our asses.

At least, that’s what was running through my head as the tingle turned to a dull throb.

I found out later from Madonna that Jose has taken some time to impart his wisdom on her as well. In the undercover world of Dominican drug addicts, my name would be Italiano. Hers would be Angelia. He wanted to take her to The Copa for some meringue dancing, although once he learned she has a boyfriend, he respected her and told her about his two children, both boys, eight and eight months. He wants a little girl badly. Madonna took that as her cue to make her way back over to us.

“I agree. Goose, I think we should get out of here. I have an early day tomorrow,” I said, grabbing my coat and making a beeline for the door.

I know this is totally mean, but it’s what always seems to happen: We chat it up for a while, become BFF with total strangers, one person says something that makes us realize, good lord, what the hell am I doing, and we try to bust out of there before having to exchange awkward ‘it was so great meeting you’ and fake cell numbers.

Unless you get so drunk that you actually give someone your actual number.

Which, sadly, on the promise of Yankee tickets, Goose gave to Earl.

Life Lesson # 9: It’s true what they (whoever they are) say – nothing is for free. Sure, someone may buy me drinks, but what winds up happening? An allergic reaction and headache that linger with me throughout the next day.

And Goose? Well, let’s just say, she’s kicking herself in the ass right now. Because she’s gotten at least ten phone calls in the past few days from Earl. From three different numbers. And the last thing anyone wants is a possessive narcotics officer tracking them down. Because the second she loses her wind, BAM, he’s got her.