You're never too old for a hosing

I used to think that a wild night meant coming home at 4:30 the next afternoon. When I was in college at a certain university (and those of you who know which one, keep your traps shut - they can revoke diplomas, you know) most of the week was spent waiting for the weekend, or at least for Thursday, when the Gin Mill had Ladies' Night.

On a certain friend's 21st birthday, three of us went downtown dressed in our finest stretchy polyester and sparkles. My shirt, a lavender number with the merest suggestion of glitter, had no back, and worse, had ties that ran from side to side. One misplaced hand in a noisy bar and the twins would have been set free to create utter havoc. (And back then, I was way thinner and way cuter - think of the rioting.)

The three of us got thoroughly intoxicated, dragged around the bar district until everything closed down, and piled into a cab to go home. The quickest way from downtown to school runs via an elevated expressway with no shoulder, so we thought we'd be home in plenty of time to watch late-late-late night TV and eat an entire box of frozen pierogies. With butter. And salt. Oh God.

However, the birthday girl opted not to mention how remarkably intoxicated she actually was, and just as the cab mounted the expressway, said birthday girl leaned over and deftly tossed her cookies INTO MY PURSE. I sat there, holding a bag of barf, rather remarkably intoxicated myself, trying to keep my shit together and prevent the cab driver from seeing what had happened. Of course, when you're remarkably intoxicated, keeping your shit together means making frantic gestures and stage-whispering to other people that DUDE THERE'S PUKE IN HERE SHE PUKED IN HERE WHADDAWEDO?

Of course we were busted, and the cab driver jerked over into the right lane and made us get out. Right there on the expressway, with no exit in sight and a two-foot shoulder to walk in (and I ask you, all of you who have been remarkably intoxicated: can YOU walk in a two-foot space without crossing the line? I THINK NOT). We looked like three very expensive teenaged hookers, blindly grabbing at the guardrail and walking home barefoot, dangling blister-inducing platform shoes in one hand.

Fortunately, we only had to walk about a mile before a friend of ours drove past, screeched to a halt, and piled all three of us into his tiny car. The birthday girl and I ended up tangled in one seat - either I was in her lap or she was in mine - and I spent the entire ride just positive she was going to hurl again, yelling into her ear "I swear to God, if you throw up on me one more time, we are no longer brothers!" It made sense at the time.

You know what I did last night? Stripped the baby, her diaper, her blankets, sheets, and mattress pad, and marched the mattress outside where I could hose it off. WILD NIGHT, THY NAME IS BODILY FLUIDS.


  1. Uh-oh, girl. Motherhood's ruined your memory - birthday girl also tossed a nice batch down the left side of my body. You were holding it, I was WEARING it. Also was my boyfriend who picked us up - and for some reason, when I went to his house that night, he was not feeling amorous. Hmm. Wonder why not?

    You know what I did last night? Didn't win Powerball. :) Ah well at least some lucky person in Oregon is having a great day....

    Guess who

  2. I'll thank you never to bring that night up again. And it wasn't my birthday.

    Oh, and don't worry, we're not $340 million richer.

  3. Yes, my memory sucks, although I omitted some details to protect the innocent (as in, didn't mention it was your bf, I-know-who, in case you were trying to repress that part.) :) It WAS someone's birthday... wasn't it?