Typhoid Mary

As you may have read, my trip to Chicago was pretty eventful. Friday night I opted to stay with my dad's side of the family, the crazy side, before heading back to New York. I took the train from Chicago to the burbs and was entertained by a squirrely stock broker who claimed he was related to Jeremy Irons. He was funny and carried my suitcase so I gave him my email.

My cousin spent the night at her folk's house so we could catch up. We were up until 5am, this in addition to the sleep deprivation I had accumulated the night before. I got into New York only to hop into the smelly cab that reeked of curry. I sent my roommate a text telling her as much. "Be nice," she wrote back, "They're your people." Yes, my people. The night before I was actually eating curry on Devon Street- Chicago's hub of Indian and Pakistani restaurants. My cousin and I were delighted to see a sign advertising the menu of one establishment. In addition to the traditional fare, they offered "Gyros and Homos." "Look," my cousin exclaimed, "They serve homos, how progressive of them."

New York is the only city I've ever lived in where I'm excited to come home. However, this time around the anticipation was twofold because a couple of my best friends were in town. We made plans to grab dinner and head to the meatpacking district for some debauchery. Typically, when I have grand plans of painting the town red, I end up staying at home and painting my nails instead. But this time, mission accomplished.

DSG met us at the corner near our respective apartments to go downtown for dinner. However, we had no reservations at any restaurant. Not for lack of trying. But every maitre d'from Buddakkan to Kittichai gave me the finger when I asked for a table at the last minute on a Saturday night. We ended up at a Vietnamese restaurant near Union Square. I ate little and had an espresso martini. Then DSG was off to a party on the Lower East Side and we headed to the meatpacking district. We were at a rooftop bar when our friend sent us a text telling us the Sopranos were having a cast party across the street. My friends were instantly game, anxious to see Big Pussy in real life.

The thing I hate about the velvet rope is the people behind it. In daylight, they're losers who think a 401K is a computer part and tight black tees are a wardrobe staple. At night, they're suddenly anointed the gatekeepers of clubs with fleeting popularity. This time, however, the man in charge didn't fit the mold. In fact, his gender was a mystery. If Conan were to morph the pictures of Mick Jagger and Scarlet Johanssen in his "If they made it" segment, this hermaphrodite would be the offspring. His name was Kenny and even though the line was relatively short, he was barring entrance in order to make it longer and lend to the perception of exclusivity. He suggested we buy a bottle for $300. We declined. Then a group of people in front of us approached us with a merger. They were 20-somethings, cute Asian girls and guys with a couple of frat boys sprinkled in the mix.

We agreed and I was chosen as the group leader. I told Kenny we wanted to buy a bottle. "OK," it said, "How many people?" Ten, I replied. "All of you weren't together," he protested to which I retorted, "We're all Asian!" It rolled its eyes and lifted the rope, "Fine," it sighed, "They'll need your credit card and license at the door." Once inside, we collected the money and ordered a bottle of Absolut Citron. That's right. It wasn't even Belvedere or Grey Goose. Rip-off.

And, the Sopranos people were gone. However, infamous Typhoid Mary made an appearance. I'm referring to a certain person who just discovered last week that she had a contagious cold sore on her mouth. The sore had taken exactly 8 days to heal and had just crusted over an fallen off in time for our Saturday soiree. One of the Asian guys, tall and attractive asked me to dance. I'm a really good dancer when I've been drinking and by now I had two martinis and a vodka cranberry in my system. Then another guy in the group asked me out. "How's Wednesday work for you?" I was suspicious. I asked my friend what was going on. "If you were a whale and you were perplexed by the attention, I could help you solve this riddle," he said. OK, so I'm not fat but I haven't been hit on in a while so it was a bit disconcerting.

Then DSG texted to find out if our party was any better than his dud. I said yes and he asked where I was, "Upstairs," I wrote back. "Address, dumbass." Oh, yeah. Just as he showed up, one of the frat boys from the group I had finagled into the club surfaced. We'll call him Dallas since he was named after a city in my home state. He asked if DSG was my boyfriend. I denied the vicious allegation and DSG confirmed my denial. Then we went to "talk." I think I'm pretty clever when I want to be but my disappearing act didn't fool anyone. The next day my friend made a comment that proved my drunken antics didn't go unnoticed. "While LP was off playing Typhoid Mary.." I don't remember what the rest of the sentence was because I pulled the covers over my head and curled into the fetal position.

The rest of the day was spent nursing my hangover and attempting to sleep. Why is it that when you try to take an afternoon nap, everyone decides to call? My fucking cell phone was on vibrate and I felt like I was in one of those coin-operated "massage" beds. I awoke just in time to meet some friends for a groundbreaking new show. But I slept through the last act of "The Road to Al Qaeda," a play I had paid good money to see prompting them to ask what the hell my problem was. I was ready for bed at 7:30 when my phone buzzed. It was a text message from Dallas. "Hey, it's Dallas from last night. Just wanted to say hi. I had a good time last night. Hope you did too." Boy, did I. Now if I could just get some freakin' sleep!