Guest Post: Excitable Young New Yorker is on beverage probation

[Editor's Note: Via a lapse in judgment by people who don't realize how poorly socialized we are, Flop and I received an e-mail invitation to Blogmukkah. We're not traditional New York bloggers or active in the blogging community -- aside from the occasional neighborhood reference, this haphazard operation could just as well be run out of Kentucky. We still haven't figured out whether we'll make the party. Still, to get in the spirit of this blog-related holiday, we thought that we'd invite up-and-coming new blogger Excitable Young New Yorker to guest-post about the subject of his (or her) choosing. Enjoy. -CrimeNotes]

So first off, I'd like to thank the Cole Slaw Blog guys for inviting me to guest post today. I didn't go to some dumb football school, I'm not from Cleveland and I don't like to read, so I'm not going to bore you with some long ramble about team rankings or iron ore or whether a book is good. Instead, I'm going to write about my recent misadventures. You know, something that normal people are actually interested in? (Just kidding, guys! Your asscrack post inspired me to enter blogging!)

It all started last Friday morning when I woke up early to go to Duane Read. I had to buy some hair gel because I had a big day ahead. It took me forever to find the right kind of Dep, and it didn't help that some guy was just standing there, staring forever at all the different hair gels, and separating me from the Dep.

That's the thing that sucks about Duane Reade. If it's not some incredibly slow person who probably dropped out of high school taking forever to ring up your toilet paper while she talks on the cell phone and fiddles with her fake nails, it's some middle-aged guy just standing there, in the middle of those narrow aisles, coming between you and your product of choice.

Work was no better. They made me go to some seminar about how not to sexually harrass and what happens if you're sexually harrassed. (Query: Did it ever occur to them that blowjobs in the supply room are a fun thing? I'm just saying ...) So there I am, sitting in this room with all these ugly people who couldn't get laid to save their life, and I can barely keep awake because I'm still hungover from my late night at Monkey Bar the night before. So I'm drinking lots and lots of coffee, so bad that I have to get up to pee twice in an hour. So after going to the bathroom I come back and go to pour myself a cup of coffee, and when I go to sit down, I put my coffee down wrong, and it spilled all over the conference table.

"Excitable Young New Yorker," my boss said, "consider yourself on beverage probation."

And I was thinking, "WTF? Beverage probation? Is this high school?" But I need the job so I just said that I was sorry (again!) and that I'd be more careful with my beverages, but what I really was thinking was, "I need to work someplace where my talents are appreciated."

Don't even get me started on what happened when I went to get my lunch at Urban Pain. You don't even want to know.

But still, I was in a good mood, because it was Friday, and I was going to the Glamourama Glaucoma Gala that night. My friend Hank, who went to college with me, was getting me in free because his company is a sponsor.

I spent all afternoon reading blogs. Work on Friday afternoon? Not me. I read all the blogs and thought about my own blog and drafted a post about what it's like to wait in line at Cosi (I don't know why Gawker refused to link to it) and then I left 20 comments on [redacted] about how awesomely hilarious he is -- the perfect person.

The next thing I knew, the day was over.

So then when I finally get to the subway platform, there's some homeless guy standing halfway down the station, taking a shit by one of the girders. It was the most disgusting thing I've ever seen, and my only regret is that I lost my camera phone so that I can't post a picture on here for everybody to see. I mean, taking a dump. In the subway station. I haven't done anything like that since the Siren Festival a couple summers ago, and that was only because I couldn't hold it anymore, and at least I was ashamed. I certainly wouldn't do it in a subway station, and it sucks that I don't have any photographic evidence to show you what it looks like. (I want a new Razr!)

So then I got on the 6 train, and I'm sure I don't have to tell you, being on the 6 during rush hour is like being in the twelfth circle of hell. Can I just say that I don't care how many jobs you work, how many kids you have, or how ethnic you are: there is simply no excuse for a woman to have a big ass. So hit the gym more often, ladies, because I don't want your big middle-aged asses bumping into me while I'm on the 6 train, okay?

Suffice it to say, I arrived at the Glamourama Glaucoma Gala in quite the unglamourous mood. Bret Easton Ellis read from his pretend fiction about real-life D-list celebrities while the very same D-list celebrities walked down a runway wearing all the latest fashions from today's hottest designers. It was for charity, which made me feel worthy and self-aware. I also felt completely in over my head at this event, but isn't that why we all come to New York? To be a part of things like this, that you can't go to anywhere else in the world? It was really cool to be there, sipping my signature drink (Jack and midori on the rocks) while celebrities were mingling around me. I don't want to be indiscreet by repeating what I learned about my new friends, but let me just say this -- methinks that Elizabeth Hasselback probably doth have an interesting cooter.

I promptly got trashed and danced the worm with Sam Champion. The pictures are probably all over Flickr.

After the Glamourama Glaucoma Gala, Hank and I met up with Mark, Peaches and Sandy at a dive bar. I love dive bars. We took over the Mp3 jukebox and partied for awhile, and then went to Sandy's apartment to watch some "To Catch a Predator" episodes that Sandy saved on Tivo.


"To Catch a Predator" always makes me think of relationships. I don't know why everything has to be this hard, and I mean everything. Especially relationships. Sometimes relationships make me so upset that I sit in my apartment drinking Jack-and-midori and chainsmoking, and then I ball up my fists and pound the coffee table until I cry. And then I feel better, because I love being self-aware. Why does everyone I date hurt me in the end? Oh well, such is life.

By the time we left Sandy's, I was so wasted that I was singing Poison's "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" during the cab ride home, which is kind of embarrassing, except that I'm pretty sure the driver didn't speak English, so for all he knew I was singing a hymn, which would be embarrassing, too.

Needless to say, I woke up the next morning hungover, which was a problem, because I needed to meet Aunt Vadge for brunch.

Anyway, my Aunt Vadge (Vadge is short for Virginia) is pretty cool, a real role model for what I'd like to be when I get older. My whole family is a bunch of drunks very outgoing and social, but not in the way where you drink Corona out of the bottle next to a bodega that's classless. Aunt Vadge once got sick on Bloody Marys at brunch. Fortunately, we were sitting outside, so she just leaned to her right and puked over the rope, right onto the sidewalk. It was very smooth. I don't think anybody caught it. When the manager came out and started yelling at us, Aunt Vadge pointed to some homeless guy across the street and said that he did it, and that she was disgusted and offended to be accused. The manager ended up apologizing, the homeless guy got arrested, and we got a basket of pastries on the house. Gotta love Aunt Vadge.

Anyway, I showed up for brunch on the Upper West Side. Aunt Vadge and her boyfriend Max were arguing about the Times crossword puzzle.

"Excitable Young New Yorker," Aunt Vadge said, "it looks like you had a late night. You need a cup of coffee."

"I can't have coffee," I said. "I'm on beverage probation."

She didn't get the joke.

Reader, I bet you can guess what happened next: I got so worked up talking to Aunt Vadge about relationships that I spilled coffee on myself.

Beverage probation indeed.