Okay, we’re skipping down the street, keeping up the song, crossing our fingers for white boy Rob’s safety and still pissed at Sax man for the 30 minute runaround. Alas, we arrive at Baramundi where we meet an old face and a few of that old face’s friends. Schmooze schmooze, booze booze and we’re on our way. Old face was in the mood for dancing, and no one was about to stop him, so the caravan moved to Pianos, a nearby swanky establishment that I’d been intending to hit. Again, schmooze schmooze, booze booze, groove groove.
At some point we decided it was time to go. It was probably time to go well before that point, but it’s too easy to get caught up in the New York step.
We all shot our hands in the air for a taxi- no luck, all taken. We got separated from Old face and friend, walked God knows how long and in God knows what direction...though I was sure we were heading west. Well, God knows when later, we wound up facing the Manhattan Bridge...which is as east as the city grid gets:
At first we had no idea what we were looking at, and Hayley swore we'd reached Washington Square Park. This place (basically in our backyard):
But again, that park is way west, and we were way east. I mean it totally looks the same, especially to three girls who'd been havin’ a night. Anyways, thank heaven for Charles, our knight in shining armor slash Prince Charming slash the most strapping man we'd ever seen- yes, he gave Sexy Saxy from earlier in the night a run for that money he'd earned pissing on George Clooney's face.
Anyways, with his good looks came also good luck, as a vacant taxi finally rounded the corner. Leah, Hayley and I piled in, all reassuring each other that Charles was in fact the best looking man any of us had ever seen. Our chauffeur was about to peel out to the West Village when out of left field, little Hayley Lynn grew a pair of balls, ran out of the cab and told Charles in the frankest of manners, "You need my number." Go girl, go.
Getting back into the car, our shrieks were that of a 12-year-old Justin Bieber fan- as if none of us had ever been kissed by a boy, and as if screaming, crying and hyperventilating would make dream-boy Biebs stop in his tracks and take our never-been-kissed virginity.
Mid-freak out, Old face called questioning our separation. "Whatever, whatever, no time for that. We're excited and hungry- join us, Old face, for a late night binge." He suggested a diner, which sounded like a delicious mess of sobering food. Perfect, see you at 14th and 9th. Next thing you know, we're on a wait list (at 4:45 am, mind you) to get into THE Diner, a posh restaurant in the middle of the Meatpacking District (New York's hottest of hot spots). This could do too.
By the time we were finished hoarding our comfort food, the sun had come up and the collective scent of the New York bagel was diffusing through the streets of our walk home.
Leah spent the "night," and we had a few hours of sleep before heading to the Frying Pan- been there, done that, told you about it. It's that bar of a boat on the Hudson:
After FP, Leah and I went on a wild goose hunt for din din. We both had our hearts set on the same carb-friendly dish: a cheesy, greasy, disgusting, full plate of pasta. We circled my neighborhood in search of, though living in the West Village hardly calls for a grungy food selection. In the hour of scour (heehee), there were so many times one of us wanted to quit, but thank God we had each other to keep afloat our dream, and alas, we found our spot-a pizza joint that also had a full menu of pasta- baked ziti, lasagne, alfredo, a la vodka, you name it, Alfonso's cookin it. I got the ziti, Leah got the alfredo, the world got two extremely satisfied eaters.
In our gluttonous state, we had one of our common heart to hearts. Leah and I have been friends since this:
Leah is a remarkable friend, well aware of her selfish, princess-ness, but remarkable. I count the blessings I have in my friends often, and Leah is no stranger to those blessings. I have no idea what I did to deserve such purely, good people as friends. Seriously, no idea. Whoever is responsible for this phenomenon, I owe ya one, man.
On that cheesy plate of pasta, and note, I leave you.
p.s. I'm planning to embellish on my feeling of being surrounded by angels as friends. I'm just not in as mushy of a mood as that calls for, and more in the mood for a second round of mushy pasta. LEAH!?!
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