Monthly Archives: January 2010

The Importance of I LOVE YOU

After losing my mom I realized how important it is to tell people that you LOVE them.  Shortly after losing mom I must have called my dad 12 plus times per day to make sure he was alright and not lying on the floor unconscious somewhere.  I drove him crazy for a while but I’ve calmed down since.  Once I was trying to call him and for hours no one answered the phone.  I called his neighbors but no one was home and then I went into panic mode.  I called my husband at work and begged him to please go check on him.  He worked about 20 minutes away and headed up the parkway to check on “Willie”.

My phone rang and it was John telling me that my dad was ok and passed him the phone.  He was chopping wood in the yard.  Yes, my  80-year-old dad was chopping wood.  Willie thinks he’s 25.  I immediately started crying hysterically, relieved that he was ok.  Daddy apologized and from that day forward he calls me when he leaves the house or has an appointment.  I know I drive him crazy but I can’t bear the thought of losing another parent.

Losing my mom was difficult enough but if I lost my dad on top of that I would feel like there was no one in the entire world who loved me.  I would be alone in the world forever and ever.  That’s why my dad and I ALWAYS say “I love you” when we’re ready to hang up the phone or when I leave his house or he leaves mine.

It only takes a minute.  I’ll tell you all a secret that plagues me and will always plague me until the day I die – and if Sartre has anything to do with my afterlife, it will haunt me forever.  I have never told anyone, not even my husband.  The last time I actually spoke to my mom when she was actually conscious, was on a Wednesday night.  I was watching the season finale of Project Runway and my mom called to tell me about all the stuff that Billy, her neighbor, brought over.  I half listened and said, “Mommy, is it alright if I call you back?  I’m watching something on TV.”  She told me to go ahead and she would talk to me later.

When “later” came I called her back but she was already getting sick and couldn’t really talk.  I hung up the phone thinking I would talk to her tomorrow.  By tomorrow she was in the ER and by the time my father decided to tell me that she was in Mountainside Hospital, it was late Thursday night or Friday.  I can’t even remember anymore.

My parents always protected me from the truth.  They told me that Buffy from “Family Affair” died because they kept her a little girl for too long, and for years I believed that Elvis died from eating too many hamburgers.  Protecting me from their truths was a high priority.  When my dad called he said that she was in the hospital and doing fine.  By Saturday he said, “Jacq, I think you better come up.”

When I heard those words come out of my father’s mouth, I knew Mommy was in trouble.  I raced up north and spent the next two days with her and watched her die.  I was so happy to be with her but I will never get the image out of my mind.  I can never forget.  I will never forget her and I will never forget, or at least I hope I never forget, to tell the people I love most that I love them.

In the past I always thought that made me a “pussy” – showing emotion and all – but now I realize how important those three words are.  So tell your family and your friends how you feel.  Say those THREE heartfelt words that mean so much to both you and the people who you tell…  just say – I LOVE YOU!

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Where the hell am I?

I am so incredibly stressed out today I can’t begin to tell you.  I even forgot to go to one of my classes today and I’m the teacher.  When I realized I was missing it, I bolted down the chunnel in my platform/stiletto boots and flew up the stairs to see no one at my door.  No one can run in heels like I can.  Two seconds later I saw Thibault waving to me with Victor trailing behind.  A couple seconds later, Arnaud jolted up the stairs out of breath and the rest of my kids followed.

That was the first time in 13 years that I forgot where I was supposed to be.  The kids got the biggest kick out of it and promptly asked me if I could do it again on Friday.  Teenagers.  Thank God I only have 6 students in that class.

Anyway… I never worried about money – ever.  Now I can’t stop.  Will I have to work this summer?  Should I get a night job now?  Will my husband get a job soon?  What the Hell should I do? I have all these entrepreneurial ideas like original silk-screening, an e-bay store, selling my photographs, a small catering business and the list goes on.  If I was younger and thinner I’d even entertain the idea of cleaning people’s houses in a G-string and pasties.

Like any other responsible individual, I just want all my bills to be paid, and paid on-time.  I want to go out to a nice restaurant once a week, buy a bottle of Veuve Clicquot when I want to, buy a case of wine instead of a bottle, not wait for the “shut-off notice” to pay the bill, go out for a nice dinner in NYC after the opera, not worry if I have enough “buffer money” in the checking account and go on vacation at least once every two years.

I don’t think that’s too much to ask for.  I make good money, but when you go from 2 salaries to 1, things get a little tight.  A lot tight eventually.  So now like many other people in the USA I have to watch my spending and be frugal.  This is not in my make-up.  That $7.99 bottle of vino is not cutting it for me.

I don’t know how things will play out but we can only hope for the best.  Good luck to my family and ever other family who is currently going through some hard times.  God Bless us all.

Shopping For Pole

Whether it’s FEDEX, UPS, DHL or USPS, my delivery men know me well.  My UPS guy told me that he’s never seen someone get as many packages as I do.  I don’t know if I should take this as a compliment or a “damn, I’m glad you’re not my wife!”

I love buying makeup from Sephora, toiletries from Drugstore.com (until they started charging me tax), books and DVDs from Amazon and just about anything on easy pay from HSN or QVC.  I earn frequent flyer miles for Continental Airlines and get Membership Rewards from American Express.  I flew to France for free on those miles!

I buy everything from false eyelashes to furniture on-line.  Last year I bought a $400 Cricut machine that I have yet to use – but I’ll use it eventually.  I buy clothes, bras, toys, cat stuff, shoes, food, books, magazines, coats, wine, housewares, linens, video equipment, toilets, sinks, switch plate covers, molding, exercise paraphernalia, a 1976 Fiat Spider, computers, lighting and a ton of other stuff.  Can you tell I love to shop?

I am without a doubt an utter shopaholic.  I mean I wouldn’t go to the lengths to find an zero-balance credit card that Isla Fisher went to in Confessions of A Shopaholic – I keep the unused cards in a more accessible place – but I do have a true addiction.  I get a total high when I buy something new.  I can’t help myself.

One of my favorite purchases was a pair of mid thigh-high brown suede boots.  I think I wore them once but that’s not bad for someone who has 400 pairs of shoes.  In any case, my most unusual purchase was one that I made towards the end of 2009.  My husband was home when the package arrived and he had already open it before I got home from work.  It was laying on the living room floor and had a picture of Carmen Elektra hanging on it.

You can imagine his surprise when he discovered that I bought a stripper pole!  It is so cool.  I heard so many things about using it for exercise and I just had to try it out.  A couple of days later John put it up in our bedroom.  It is a portable pole which meant that I didn’t have to drill it into a beam and I could take it anywhere.  My own private pole.

After John assembled it with instructions in Dutch I started to play.  I watched an internet video to see how to use it and tried a few moves.  It is harder than it looks but I felt triumphant until the pole detached from the ceiling and we both (the pole and I) fell head first to the floor.  I saved my head but lost the pole – my husband would have to fasten it to the ceiling.  Dammit!

I have had a few other minor pole accidents.  I ended up with metal chards in my hand and I cut my leg on the adjustable bottom.  But  now the pole is securely fastened and I have mastered several moves; one being the “Back Hook Spin”.  Every time I work the pole it takes so much upper body strength that I get so sore and achy.  I can only hope that I somehow master that giant shaft gleaming from floor to ceiling in the corner of my bedroom, since I’ve already mastered the other one.  : )

Happy To Be Back?

Bopping back and forth from the bed to the bathroom floor was not my idea of fun these last few days.  Stuck in the house with a stomach virus since Tuesday when I foolishly tried to go to work gave me time to ponder.  Ponder what, I don’t know.  Maybe I should have thought about my idiocy when I got in the car at 7 am to head to work.

From 2 am to 6 am I spent most of my time with my head in the toilet or my ass in the same place.  Just typing that “skeeves me out”.  Ass – face, ass – face, ass – face.  Our heads should never been where our asses have already been but I get it’s one necessary evil for all of us at one time or another.

So at 6:30 I got up, showered, dressed and headed up the Garden State Parkway with 2 Ziploc bags as my passengers.  Halfway up the parkway, the cold sweats started and I started to get dizzy and nauseous.  I grabbed my first passenger and drove the rest of the way, Ziploc bag beneath my chin and praying I wouldn’t have to pull over.  Damn John!  I thought I had food poisoning from the Mascarpone cheesecake that he baked the night before.  I couldn’t believe it was getting worse instead of better.

When I pulled into the Dwight Road faculty parking lot, I didn’t think I had the strength to get out of the car.  I waited a few minutes and mustered up some vigor and staggered into the building, up the stairs and right into the bathroom heading for my stall.  I was sick again!  I must have been crazy for coming in.  What was I thinking?

I called my friend Barb (who is the school nurse) from my Blackberry while I was sitting on the dirty floor of the handicapped bathroom and explained my predicament.  She met me in the hallway and told me that I should leave and she would let the office know what was going on.  I teetered to my room and starting writing plans.

Tout a coup a sub was at my side and I was sent home.  I felt like I was in high school again.  I managed to drive directly to the doctor’s office to find out what was wrong.  The doc checked me out, took a couple samples, gave me a VERY painful shot in my ass, handed me 2 prescriptions and sent me on my way home.

It took me 3 days to recupe both my health and my dignity but I returned to work today.  I woke up at 5 am and couldn’t wait to leave the house.  Did I mention that John is home all day?

I got there at 7 and couldn’t believe how happy I was to be at work.  I needed human conversation.  No meowing, no fur, no skid marks on the cat safety sheet.  I needed my routine – surtout, my sanity.  Don’t get me wrong, when I was lying on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night my 2 wonderful and caring kitties were by my side the entire time while my husband was snoring peacefully in his room.  I just needed to be with my kids at work.  All of the kids, even my skootches.  It would be a great day!

A great day until a few of my 4th period skootches informed me that someone had left my phone number from the fax on their dittos.  “Ooooo.  I have senora’s number.”  Great!  Now the prank calling would start.  I told them, “Big deal, rip it off the ditto and don’t call me.”  They giggled and I forgot about it…

Until 7:39 pm this evening when I received my first prank call from a “Raul”.  I promptly laughed it off, told them to stop bugging me and not to call again.  They hung up and I dialed *57 to trace the call.  We’ll see what happens on the phone front.  Ugh!

Did I say I was happy to be back at work?

If I Can Cook… Anyone Can

I grew up in an Italian family with a mother and a grandmother who could cook, and cook well.  There was always a competition over Sunday Gravy between my mom and my grandma, but gram always won.  Her gravy was always a little better.  Mom’s meatballs trounced gram’s though.  My father told me that when he married my mom and she made her first pot of gravy, it was terrible.  For my father to say it was horrendous was an accomplishment.  He grew up in a Lithuanian family eating kielbasa and Franco American canned macaroni, so anything should have tasted better than the latter.

Mommy  always tried to teach me how to sew and crochet but I was disinterested in it all.  Growing up I never paid much attention to cooking either but I knew what I liked.  When my grandmother tried to slip in a jar of Ragu, I could just tell by the smell and wouldn’t touch it.  She also tried to pass off my pet rabbits as chicken but I knew something was wrong and wouldn’t even try it.  Just think of how I felt when I found my rabbits missing.

I attempted to cook few things when I was younger but they never worked out.  Once I tried to fry egg rolls when my mom and dad were out.  My mother hated the smell of frying so I wanted to get rid of the evidence.  So what do I do?  I throw water on the hot oil so it would “cool it off”.  What a disaster!  There was hot oil spewing everywhere.  I jumped under the ice cream table mom had in the kitchen and waited for the geyser to stop.  It was on the walls, the ceiling, the furniture, the appliances, you name it.  Cleaning up that mess was a giant task so I shied away from cooking all together.  Then I moved to Paris.

Paris is over 3000 miles away from Bloomfield, New Jersey and I had to fend for myself.  I started going to les restaurants universitaires with my friends and quickly realized that the food would not cut it, even for 10 francs (about $2).  When they served stinky kidneys over lentils I almost vomited and took matters into my own hands.

My first dish was boiling a hot dog.  Yes a hot dog.  I called my mother and asked her how to do it and was promptly scolded for calling her for a stupid reason.  It wasn’t stupid.  I really had NO idea.  So she explained and my next question was, “How do I know when the water is boiling?”  I think she was amazed at my stupidity and once again shot me her favorite line, “Jacq, you’re so smart, you’re stupid.”  Thanks Mom.

A woman like me, now considered a gourmet cook, did not know how to boil water literally!  This is why I say that anyone can cook.

My French kitchen was equipped with a small fridge and a propane gas cooking ring that Monsieur La Jeunesse paid to fill.  This was my arena.  This was my school.   My first dish was a family recipe called “Hot Dogs & String Beans” which came out really well.  I progressed to omelets, chicken parm, macaroni salad and so on.

When I returned home I had the cooking bug.  I subscribed to Bon Appetit Magazine and made my first meal for my boyfriend.  I can’t remember what it was but it was good.  I started baking elaborate cakes and trying out more complicated meals and it all came so naturally.   When I finally moved out I took over my favorite holiday, Christmas Eve, and have been cooking gourmet ever since.

I work a full-time job but cooking is my therapy.  There was a time when I was working, coaching and going to school at night and still made time to cook something good for dinner.  I’d rather whip up a small pot of marinara than open a jar.  I’d rather make a quick Stracciatella soup than open a can.  I like to watch Judge Judy while I cook dinner and drink a glass of wine.  A mon avis, this is life.

Our lives are filled with food – good food – greasy food – diet food – gourmet food.  I am a food snob.   I love to cook simple meals, unusual meals, gourmet meals, all meals.  Try cooking.  Take a class, watch Food Network or subscribe to a great cooking magazine.  Just do it and you might surprise yourself like I did.

It’s All About The Boobs

Boobs, jugs, peaches, ninnies, tits, rack, eyes, knockers, cans, sweater meat, knobs, boobies, breasts, titties, mammaries, pins, bazooms, bazongas, headlights, hooters, lungs, fun bags, tatas, maracas, girls, twins and the list goes on.

What is the obsession with boobs?  Especially men’s obsession – straight or gay, single or married, bi-sexual or A-sexual.  When I lived in Paris, my “happy” flat mate Vivaldo loved my boobs.  He used to hover outside the frosted glass window of the bathroom door waiting to catch a glimpse.

When I was in graduate school I did an action-based project on boobs.  It was titled, “Do Big Boobs Really Make A Difference?”  My professor at Montclair State loved it and I got an A.  It was an interesting project.  In a nutshell:  I went to several places one of which was a supermarket.  The first time I walked in with no cleavage but looking nice.  I couldn’t find a soul to help me and left the store unsatisfied.  The next time I went, I was sporting full boobage and the young men at Shop Rite couldn’t wait to come to my rescue.  They actually followed me around the aisle and made me feel really uncomfortable.

What I found on my quest for truth was exactly what I thought I would find.  They DO make a difference in how people treat you.  Really how men treat you.  You/They are objectified.  You/They are ogled.  Christ!  Even Mike Tyson leered at my boobies, paused to smile and say a personal hello.  Men are notoriously easy when it comes to visual stimulation.  You have to be a confident woman to walk around with perky boobies.

A female friend of mine asked me if they were real and touched them for verification.   Another friend, on my birthday, reached over into my shirt at the Avenue in Long Branch and felt me up!  I looked at my husband and laughed.  They’re real people.  It’s all in the bra.  Lift and push up.

The size of your breasts and the way you present them is everything.  When I’m in a bad mood the last thing I want people to do is to leer at me and the twins, so I cover them up (this does not always help – it may be my posture).  I always felt sorry for the girls in grammar school that had beautiful breasts and were completely objectified by immaturity.

My mom survived breast cancer and had to go through a double mastectomy.  I had 2 tumors removed from each breast before I hit 30.  Just waiting for the pathology report was one of the longest weeks of my life.  Thank God they were benign but I know a lot of women, my age, younger and older who have battled with breast cancer.  They are courageous women from whom we should take a lesson.

If it’s all about the boobs when you look at them, it should be all about the boobs when you take care of them.  Self exams, mammograms, doctor visits.  Just do it.  Big or small, our breasts are important – we are important.  In this day and age when we hear of so many incidents of breast cancer in both women and men (yes men), we need to take action quickly as early detection is the beginning of the battle.

So as a favor to me and as a service to yourselves, everyone grab your boobs on three.  One, two, three….  It may save your life.

My First Love

Today I woke up thinking about “firsts”.  There are so many first in our lives.  There are the firsts we might not remember but our parents do:  our first birthday, our first Christmas, our first check up.  There are the firsts we might not want to remember:  our first failing grade, our first funeral.  And the firsts we will always remember:  our first time away from home, our first boyfriend/girlfriend, our first kiss, our first love and our first time.

I’m not sure about men, but most women I know vividly remember their first kiss, their first time and their first love.  Remember that first time you felt a knot in your stomach, a flush in your face and an overall warmth rushing through your body.  It’s a feeling that seems so hard to attain nowadays.  I don’t know if it’s that we get caught up in our lives or what – but something changes.

Sometimes I miss that nervousness, that rumble in my stomach and the sweaty palms that you get when you first meet someone, especially in your first serious relationship.  Remember the first time your lips touched someone else’s lips?  Was it lust or love?

I met my first love when I was 16 years old.  I knew him from the rink – USA of course.  At first I wanted nothing but friendship, then one day after he returned from visiting his family in Florida, I looked at him and felt a wave of something I cannot accurately describe.  A weakness in my legs, a pounding in my head and a feeling of total surrender.

I took him home.  I took him to my prom.  He was mine.  He was mine for 7 years.  Seven.  We even made it through my year in Paris.  God only knows what he was doing in the States while I was studying hard and living my life – but we made it.

At 23, when we broke up, we remained a certain kind of “buddy” for a while but that soon came to an end.  The timing was off.  I wanted nothing to do with him, yet he still loved me.  Before I realized that I still loved him, it was too late.  He moved on.  I hurt him and I lost him forever.

A little while later he called me to tell me that he was getting married and that he wanted me to hear it from him and no one else.  I copped a slight attitude and said, “Great.  Congratulations.  I’m happy for you.”  When I hung up the phone, my mom asked me what was wrong.  Matter-of-factly I said, ______ is getting married and then I completely fell apart.  I cried so hard – a deep sobbing that made my entire body shake and gasp for air.

After a week or so of feeling devastated and sorry for myself, the BITCH kicked in.  I was going to go to his wedding and sit in church and make him nervous.  I was going to do this or that when I ended up doing nothing.

He never did end up getting married and I felt a sense of absolute relief.  It’s not that I didn’t want him to be happy, at the time I just felt like marriage was so final.

I moved on and so has he, but I always wonder what might have been.  We e-mail each other to say hi once and a while.  I even sent him a Christmas card once or twice.  We met too young and grew apart but I will never forget him.  I can never forget him.  Do you remember your first love?

Boring Diet Speak

After the wake on Friday night, I drove home and went to bed early.  On Saturday I woke up with the sinus headache from Hell that continued through Tuesday.  Pumping myself with 2000 mg of Augmentin, I managed to recover and go back to work today.

I cried to my mom in Heaven to make the pain go away and it did.  Thanks Mommy.  I’m sure the 16+ Advil that I didn’t OD on, the Allegra D and the massive doses of antibiotic helped as well but mom is still a strong influence and force in my life.

I am so out of the loop of life.  My life.  I always seem to be doing 10 things at once and for the past 4 days, I did NOTHING but sleep, eat, take meds and pee.  On Monday I was scheduled to begin my “healthy eating regime” and stuck to it sick and all.

I sucked it up and stepped on my new digital scale to discover that I gained 21 pounds.  I was not surprised.  I had been eating crap for a while now and my body started to clue me in.  My calculations say that by July 2010 I should lose my 40 pounds.  I can’t wait.

The battle has just begun.  I lost 2 pounds since Monday and I am eating healthy and within my calorie range.  I have a long way to go to reach my goal but I know I can do it.

I apologize for this boring blog, but I should have my head out of the mist tomorrow.  A demain.

The Biggest Loser

Next week I will be resuming my “healthy eating regime” – a.k.a. MY DIET.  Weight was never an issue for me when I was younger but once I let myself go the first time, it became easier and easier to pack on the pounds and even more difficult to shed them.

The first time I gained weight was when I spent my junior year abroad in Paris.  I was on my own for the first time, lonely and missing my family.  I ate my way out of my loneliness and didn’t even realize how heavy I was because of those damn “stretchy pants”.  When I left in September I weighed around 115 – 120 lbs and when I got off the plane at Christmas, I weight 142 lbs and couldn’t fit into any of my clothes.  I was in the double digits.  My mother didn’t even recognize me because my hair grew out medium brown and I was now a size 10/11.  This began my struggle with my weight.  A year later I lost it all and was back to “my norm”.

Right after I hit 26, I went up again and gained even more.  I weighed 158 lbs.  By the time my 10 year high school reunion rolled around, I was down to a size 8.  I wanted to go back to a weight I felt good at, but over the years I put on more and more.  Even though both my mom and my dad kept telling me that I had all these aches and pains because of my size, I had to realize it myself.  I had to be ready.

When I hit 40 I weighed 2 pounds short of 200.  For a 5’2″ medium-frame woman, this was not healthy.  I realized that my obesity could ruin my health and shorten my life.  The girls at work were starting a “Biggest Loser Club” and asked me if I wanted to join.  I did and lost 50 lbs.  I won the pool just about every month and collected my earnings and reclaimed “Jacqui”.  It took me 5 months of calorie counting and Wii Fit but I did it.

Now, at 42, I find myself in similar territory.  Not quite as drastic as previous weight gains, but I do not feel well as-is.  I’ve gone from a 4 to an 8 since April and now I am even fitting in my 10’s.  So, next week I will dive in and eat healthy and exercise and lose and win at the same time.

Size brings me to my other point.  Who changed the sizes?  The fashion industry?  Who?  At 120 lbs with measurements of 35 – 23 – 35, I was a size 5 or 7.  When I reached my “almost” goal weight (30 lbs off) of 150 lbs with much bigger measurements, I was wearing a size 4.  What happened there?  Is the fashion industry fooling us or are we fooling ourselves?

I’d like to make another wager, but no one will play with me anymore.  I hope you’ll join me next week on my “quest to feel best”.  Until tomorrow…  Bonne Nuit!

Stupid Things I Did In My Twenties – Learn from my mistakes!

When I was 25 I moved out of my parents’ house and moved into an illegal basement apartment in Nutley.  I lived below my 2 friends Pete & Gizz.  There are so many tales to tell:  having parties & peeing in garbage cans, drinking way too much, singing Janis Joplin at the top of my lungs at 1 am, the sewage flood that filled my apartment with skunky sewer water, the lewd and lascivious neighbor who kept sniffing around me and the cave cricket invasion.

But one story always stands out.

Angel and Suzanne came over around 9 pm on Thursday night.  I already cut up some imported provolone, fresh mozzerella and hot sopressata, but no one was hungry.  Gizz and Pete evidently smelled women in my apartment, so they sped down the stairs to take a better look.  Gizz had a thing for Angel and swore that she felt the same way.

Angel brought over 2 magnums of Champagne, Suzanne brought a bottle of White Zin and Gizz and Pete marched down with a bottle of Anisette, a bottle of Peach Schnapps and a bottle of Root Beer Schnapps.  A lethal combination.

Angel and Sue sat comfortably on my small couch that Maria’s friend gave me, while the rest of us curled up on the floor with bottles and glasses scattered all over the rug waiting for us to indulge.  We polished off both bottles of Champagne, the Zin, a few shots each of all the liquors and were still determined to go to Ashley’s and party some more.

Ashley’s was a club in Clifton behind Rowe Manse Emporium.  It became a second home to me when my dad locked me out at 2:30 am and I had to find a place to stay.  Even though I was living in my own apartment, it was still my favorite hang-out until 6 am.

We were all getting ready to go when Angel’s beeper went off.  It was her boyfriend who wanted her to come home because he had just lost his job.  Angel raced home to comfort him and abandoned us “tout a coup”.  Suzanne left us too because she was tired and needed some sleep.  Pete went to bed, so the only die-hards left were Gizz and I.

Being the socially irresponsible people that we were, we took off in his white Corvette and headed over to Ashley’s.  I think we were so lit that we didn’t even remember walking in.  Gizz and I approached the main bar and stationed ourselves in front of Tony.  Tony, the bartender, made some fierce drinks, so we always hung around his quadron.

I sucked down 5 Red Devils, 2 shots of Silk Panties and a shot of Sambuca, but still had back-up drinks in front of me.  Gizz and I decided to head over to the dance floor.  We made our way through a thick crowd and found ourselves a spot with a little elbow room right in the center.  We danced like crazed lunatics (or so I was told the next day) ready to perform a voodoo ritual.  We fell into each other and everyone else and simultaneously felt a rush of booze invade our bodies and brains.  By this time we were both plastered and I remember thinking at the time, that I was the only one who was drunk, but we were both hammered.

Back at the bar I was still in the mood to groove, so I held on to the big, brass rail along the edge of the bar and started to bump and grind all by myself.  Gizz gulped down another shot and I was complaining to Tony that I couldn’t finish all my drinks that were lined up on the bar like soldiers.  Tony told me to take the glasses home with me for next time, so I stuffed a couple in my black, skin-tight mini skirt and proceeded to leave and make our way back to the car.

The Vette seemed lower to the ground than usual.  We took off up the hill and made our way onto Centre Street.  We were moving fast!  In perfect synchronicity, Gizz missed the turn, jumped the curb in front of the funeral parlor, drove up the sidewalk and made a perfect “U ey” in the middle of the road.  We made it home safely (someone had to be watching over us) and stumbled out of the vehicle.

I followed him up his steps and entered my apartment from inside his.  There was no way that I could get in the door alone.  We said goodnight and I went downstairs to crash.  The rest was a blur.  The next thing I remember was laying in bed overwhelmed by bed spins.  I jolted up and ran to the bathroom to yak but ran into a closed bathroom door.  I couldn’t figure out why it was closed.  I lived alone.  I knocked on the door like a maniac and my boyfriend John, now my husband, was on the other side.  Needless to say, I was SICK.

When I felt better I asked John how he got into my apartment.  He told me that he rang the doorbell at least 20 times and I answered the door in nothing but a silk, green g-string.

The next morning, hungover and all, I voyaged into the city to go to work.  Gizz wimped out and stayed home in bed all day.  I was worthless!

To this day I do not remember ever having opened the door.  It could have been my shady neighbor!  Thank God it ended well.

I think about all the stupid things I did when I was younger and I am so grateful for having survived them.  Today I think I am a better woman because I learned from them.  And now I know that my mother was just trying to protect me from myself!