Life Lesson #27: Rule #80: Stop, look, listen. At weddings. In life.

I’m not too sure how I feel about being surprised. Like earlier today, when I found out I’ve got a sweet case of pneumonia. But I’ll get to that in a bit.

What I am sure about is how I love to surprise other people. Especially my friends.

I had no intention of going out to the Hamptons this weekend. Plans to drive out to Montauk were scratched given the ridiculously shitty weather that hit on Friday, and I had Clueless’ wedding on Saturday in Westchester.

Consequently, I anticipated a Drift-Free weekend. I figured my wallet and liver could both use a break. As well as my ribs. Earlier in the week, I had an intense pain thought to be a result of a muscle spasm and/or popped rib. I had been icing and taping for a few days and eventually choose to swallow some mild painkillers, grin, and bear it for Clueless’ big night.

Well, all that changed at about eleven pm Saturday evening.

Clueless’ wedding was a blast. I brought Hansel and at the last minute, recruited Goose to be a date for a former coworker. Although the day was filled with heavy thunderstorms, a giant tree sprawled out just a few yards away from the reception hall and a power outage that was apparently fixed only moments before the cocktail hour (rumored to be taken care of with a passed-under-the-table envelope to the fine workers of Con Ed), they managed to pull off a great party. I suspect they’ll be happily married for years to come given the shit-storm of badness on the actual day (that’s how that superstitious stuff usually works, right?).

When the DJ announced the last song and the bartenders refused to serve us any more, I was mildly heartbroken. I mean, how often does one get to get all dolled up, drink and eat for free (provided you ignore any wedding gift you handed over), and circle ‘round a crazy uncle serenading the happy couple with his tie wrapped around his head? I feel more than a few shared my despair.

Until Hansel keenly observed that we could be at the Drift by one am.

“Holy crap, Westchester would be shocked!” I said. It was her actual birthday and I would put a hundred bucks on her already being there with a Double O Seven in hand, celebrating her ass off.

I was sold on the idea before even walking out to the car.

Luckily we were able to scrounge up two of Hansel’s friends not only sober and bored enough to drive out there, but as excited with the idea as we were.

With my party dress still on, a bottle of Grey Goose and some Red Bull in the back seat, we were off.

The excitement of finding Westchester , mixed with what I’m going to safely guess was a good third of the vodka bottle, was overflowing by the time we pulled the car into the sandy driveway.

I bee-lined it for the dance floor, knowing full well that she’d be there, surrounded by the usual suspects of Jager Bomb guzzlers and Shakira dancing lovers.

Bingo.

The look on her face was priceless. Actually, the pain I felt a second later when someone lifted me up and crushed my already messed up rib was truly overwhelming. And then when it happened again by another drunk friend with a penchant for bear tackles, well, let’s just say I was left speechless.

The rest of the night went by at blinding speed and pain. There were flashes of terror that I might never walk again. Followed by not giving a damn, because at least those last moments on my own two feet would be on the beer and napkin covered floor of the greatest bar on earth, right after I had surprised the crap out of one of my best friends.

By the grace of someone up above, we made it home (I heard I fell out of the cab, followed by Hansel’s graceful somersault over me. Although without evidence, I refuse to believe it people.). I woke up undressed, completely confused, and feeling as if someone replaced my insides with molten lava.

I made it through Sunday in a blur. I had to be raced to my family’s second home, aka City Island, by three o’clock for my aunt’s birthday celebration. Again, I don’t know how it happened, but it did. Although, I was in my dress from the night before. Since it was the only thing I remembered to grab. And for anyone that’s ever been to the Drift, you know what your clothes smell like the next day. It’s a mixture of disgust, alcohol, and a bit of self-loathing. I think I got re-drunk every time I took a whiff of myself.

And so, I don’t think my mind really had the wherewithal to process just how acutely my body hurt. Until this morning.

A trip to the Hartsdale Imaging Center confirmed the biggest surprise of them all. I hadn’t broken my ribs after all. Instead, I have pneumonia, my right lung being filled with fluid that is pretty much bothering the shit out of my muscles and ribs. I guess it’s infected or something. Another visit to the hospital tomorrow and some blood work will confirm the rest of the damage I've done.

Life Lesson # 27: Partying like a rock star, living like an unemployed lunatic, and not taking the best care of yourself will one hundred percent lead to poor health and a bit of depression I’m going to guess is a result of some sort of withdrawal. But if it means bringing a smile to your friends’ faces, well, then I say, bring on the consequences. It’s nothing some strong antibiotics and more than three hours of sleep can’t cure.

Life Lesson #26: Come on, vogue! Let your body move to the music!

Sidenote: I honestly did not not write out of laziness. I’ve had no electricity since Tuesday when Armageddon hit Westchester. The power keeps coming in and going out. At this exact moment in time, it looks like we’re about to get slammed yet again. So I apologize on behalf of Mother Nature, who seems to have one hell of a stick jammed up her ass this week.

If I was 48 years old and could rock a onesie, you bet your ass I would. And I’d wear it all over town. Just like Madonna (as in the real Material Girl).

I spoke to my godmother on Tuesday morning, just to say hello and see how she was doing. With my early-but-temporary retirement still in full swing, I have time to make such phone calls. After a bit, she asked me what I was doing Wednesday evening. Of course, A Whole Lot of Nothing filled my agenda, although I didn’t exactly want to blurt that out.

“If I can get you tickets to see Madonna, would you be able to go?” she asked (My godmother is the right-hand woman for the dude who runs Time Warner or something like that. Clearly, perks are part of her every day business).

“Um, hell yea! Could you really do that?” I replied.

“I should be able to get two for you without a problem. They’ll be good ones. I’ll give you a call back in a few hours with any news.”

By the end of her workday, I had two tickets in one of the best sections of Madison Square Garden, along with laminated hospitality passes and a set of directions for a secret entrance used only by those people deemed important enough to gain access to. I totally am not one of those people, but I believe that The Gods of Pity look down upon us little people and throw a bone every once in awhile.

I asked my mom if she wanted to go since she’s usually up for such adventures. And because we had a particularly good time at our last concert outing at the Garden: Cher, with a surprise appearance by my personal favorite, Cindy Lauper (I was her for Halloween four years in a row as a child. Mild obsession only touches the surface.). We went with my best friend from college, drank way too much champagne and laughed at the only gay men we’ve ever seen who had absolutely no clue how to dance.
I decided this Golden Ticket would be bestowed upon the soon-to-be-twenty-five birthday girl: Westchester.

I gave her a buzz while she was at the Yankees game.

“Hey, you doing anything tomorrow night?” I yelled into the receiver.

“No. Why?” she responded.

“Because I got Madonna tickets. And you’re coming with,” I said.

“ARE YOU SERIOUS!?” she screamed.

I sure was.

Before the concert we went to a midtown bar where Hansel was managing for the evening. Of course, it was imperative we get in a few vodka-based drinks and/or shots before heading over to see Mrs. Richie. A couple of these with some salad, and Westchester and I were ready to go in just over an hour.

When our cab driver’s license read Ahn Happyman, I knew our night was only going to get better. I mean really, how great is that name?

I think I can safely speak for both of us when I say we had the best time at the show.

We walked into a tidal wave of energy and excitement. Every single person in the audience was facing the stage with total adoration and overwhelming enthusiasm. To say it was infectious is an understatement. Before we knew it, Westchester and I were freaking out just like everyone else around us, including dads chaperoning their daughters and gaggle of friends, couples, and many men holding signs with statements along the lines of MADONNA, YOU MADE ME GAY!!!

I gather she sold her soul to the devil in order to get the hottest bod I’ve ever seen. Honestly. And we were close enough to notice if there was anything wrong. Which there is not. I mean, she strutted around in leotards, tights, one-piece glitter mania and polyester suits. And she looked sick in all of it.

Lesbian crush? You betcha.

Not only can the woman put on an amazing show, her back-up dancers are insane. We both fell in love with this crazy guy who has a red Mohawk and manages to look kind of hot while dancing in rollerblades.

The icing on the cake? The place serves beer in plastic mugs with a pretzel rod sticking out of the handle. I kid you not. You may spend seven bucks on a beer – but it comes with a pretzel rod people! Now that is service if you asked me. An added bonus Yankee stadium never throws our way for sure.

Life Lesson # 26: Nothing beats a surprise concert with one of your best friends. And if Breathless Mahoney is performing, well, come on. That is just awesome! We may have been the only straight, mid-twenty females in the entire place that didn’t flaunt a fake British accent, really cheesy Madonna trucker hats, or give a hoot about her political agenda, but we had a blast nonetheless.

We even managed to bring a little bit of The Arm Pump to the arena. And for that, The Material Girl should be thanking us.

Life Lesson #25: Sometimes You Feel Like a Nut. Sometimes You Don't.

You should never make a sudden decision if you are one (or any combination of) the following:

Extremely hungry and/or thirsty.
In desperate need of the bathroom.
Hung-over beyond belief.

Why?

Because then you might whip out your cell phone on the Long Island Expressway, call the restaurant where you work, and quit your bartending job.

Or at least, that’s what happened to me last Friday.

At the time, it seemed like the only logical thing to do. Westchester, H.F.T. and I were stuck in mounting traffic and suffering a severe combo of the above three nasties somewhere around exit 48 on 495. We still had at least two hours driving time ahead of us. I was due behind the bar in an hour and a half. I was still wearing my dress from my fulltime job’s going away party for me the night before and was having trouble finding my underwear.

A more rational person would call their boss and say they would be late, or at the most, unable to make it to work that evening.

I simply quit.

I called in, asked for Mike, and told him I wasn’t going to be coming in. Anymore.

“Wait, are you saying you’re done?”

“Oh, yea. I’m done done,” I replied.

While it made for a great story, many a chuckle from my amused friends, and a wonderful Fourth of July/Celebrate Penny’s Retirement weekend, the novelty has worn off. And I’m left wondering at what moment I fell into the downward spiral I’m so happily tumbling around in.

Some may say, Penny is turning a little nutty.

Up until this point, I’ve been a very stable, dependable, relatively straightedge individual. Perfect attendance in high school. A 3.7 or so overall GPA from NYU. A job lined up before I even graduated. Independent living in Manhattan since 2003. Never less than four days a week at the gym. Only one personal day in over two years at my most recent fulltime job. Always home for Sunday dinner.

This has changed, it seems, overnight. There are displays popping up all over the place like neon signs pointing out my sudden loss of sanity.

Exhibit A: I am totally unemployed. I haven’t not had a job since I was fourteen! Now, I got nothing. Not even a freaking babysitting gig or something. Which, if by any chance, you know someone who needs their kids to be watched, please, let me know. I don’t claim to be great with little ones, but you can trust me for a few hours for sure.

Exhibit B: I barley go to the gym. When I probably could use it the most. And when I do drag my ass there, it’s a pretty poor showing. A run on the treadmill magically slows down to a walk. Taking a class is substituted with stretching on my own. Working on my abs equates to me staring at the ceiling for a few minutes.

Exhibit C: Given the sheer amount of alcohol I’ve consumed as of late, I should be in rehab. Or at least suffering from some wicked, mind-bending hangovers. And while I’m not complaining really, I’ve been waking up feeling like I might have had a glass or two of wine. But that’s all. At worst, nothing a quick jump in the pool can’t cure. And that can’t be a good sign.

Exhibit D: I don’t watch television anymore. Now, you need to understand, I’m a bit of a TV junkie. Especially when Madonna and I lived together. We had certain shows each day of the week we had to watch, and if not live, than certainly dvr-ed. Sitcoms, reality crap, mini series; you name it and I probably watched it. Kind of obsessively. Currently, I watch Entourage and dvds. That’s it.

Exhibit E: I’ve given up on sleeping more than four or five hours a night. I just can’t fall asleep. The smallest noise or movement and I pop out of bed. And forget sleeping in. I barely make it past seven or eight, and even if I manage to fall back asleep, it’s that miserable excuse for slumber that seems to make it worse than if I just got up initially.

Exhibit F: I wore flip-flops out on Saturday night. I never wear flip-flops out. Ever. Always heels. I may be going to the crappiest dive bar in the shittiest of towns, and you’ll still find me in something that’s gonna give me at least three inches on my usual short self. Blame it on my mom, I don’t know. But regardless, it’s my thing. Or rather, it was. Because this weekend, I slid into rubber soles no more than half an inch off the ground and was ready to go.

I’m not really sure what the hell is going on. But the more bizarre thing is, I’m actually LOVING it. It’s like I was meant to be a heavy drinking, no sleeping, forget working-out, flip-flopping, jobless waste of space! I’m happy, like, all of the time! Even when I’m tossing around sleeplessly in bed or twisting my ankle as I try to dance on a water-beer-and-sand covered dance floor.

Life Lesson #25: It seems that no matter how well you think you know yourself, you can be wrong. Or at least, temporarily misguided.

I’ve decided to open up to the possibility that dropping my usual traits and forgetting how I typically define myself can be a good thing for me. A really good thing.

I know that the old reliable Penny is waiting just around the corner with a W2 form in one hand and high heel shoes in the other. But for now, I’m going to ignore her. Because I'm enjoying this carefree attitude I'm currently embracing. It matches my flip-flops pretty damn well.