Friends Letting Friends Date Drunk

Monday, August 11, 2008

Italian Americana--The Chronicals of Mrs. C

A few weeks ago, I went to a movie had dinner with my ex-boyfriend's mother. After M and I broke up, she and I remained close. Mrs. C is 100% Sicilian, born and raised in Brooklyn and the Lower East side. She got married very young, had 3 boys, got divorced, worked at a bank, and now lives with her ex-husband and her middle son in Brooklyn. I think she is one of the most interesting people I've ever met, and yet we pretty much have the same conversation and tell the same stories every time we are together.

But I've never met anyone who can crack me up without even trying the same way this woman can.

A sample conversation from when we were in the ladies room at the movie:

Mrs. C.: Ugh! I can't believe that women could be this disgusting! These are women!

Me: I know!


Mrs. C: Well, put down some paper. Just don't let your vagina hit the seat. The skin is very porous down there.

I died.

Later that day we were back at her house after our movie and she proceeded to list aloud every Hollywood actor from 1940-2008 who was/is/probably is gay. This took half an hour.

The first time I went to her house for dinner, a giant bowl of spaghetti was placed in front of me. Wanting to be polite, I polished off the entire bowl. I quietly congratulated myself for being such a good guest. All of a sudden, the entire contents of her refrigerator appeared on the table. A roast, a ham, lasagna, eggplant, mashed potatoes, etc. I couldn't believe it. I gulped and took a tiny spoonful of everything. Mrs. C. took one look at my plate and said, disdain dripping from her voice:

"What, you on a diet or somethin'?"

Needless to say, I went back for seconds.

At another dinner, about a month after the first dinner incident, M.'s best friend, I call him "Cap," short for "Captain Inappropriate," says to Mrs. C., right in front of me,

"So how do you like your new daughter in law, Mrs. C.?"

She looked me up and down and replied:

"I accept all people."

Needless to say, this time I went back for thirds.

Then there was the one time when I was over at her house that somehow, I don't remember how, she found out I had my period. She discretely brought me aside and gave me a plastic bag.

"Don't flush your sanitary napkins down the pipes can't take it," she said in a low voice out the side of her mouth.

"Put your business in here when you are done, give it to me, and I'll walk it out to the garbage. M doesn't need to know."

"M doesn't need to know," I thought with a smile. M was always the first to know when I was menstruating.

But what was really funny about the whole thing was that on every subsequent visit, she would soundlessly hand me a plastic bag, and explain to me again about her pipes.

The woman thinks I'm always on the rag.

She's also gotten me into a few misadventures. Stay tuned to learn how I ended up inside a Hasidic Jewish household on the first day of Hanukkah after being chased by a pit bull on the roof of a 2-story brownstone occupied by an old Chinese couple.

Monday, August 4, 2008

Would You Like To Take A Survey? The First Time I had Sex

I lost my virginity when I was 21 to a 29-year old punk who at the time airbrushed T-shirts for a living. I liked him because he was hot in a dirty way. And he had tattoos. However, he was not very bright. He was so dumb in fact, I would drink a liter of wine before I hung out with him so that we could have conversations. And keep in mind that my IQ could quite possibly be in the single digits.

Our relationship was a volatile one. We broke up pretty much every day that we were together which was about a total of 4 months.

Once, he stormed out of my apartment because I said that I thought Ted Nugent might be a bad father.

Once, he jumped out of my car on the highway (tucked and rolled) because I said I didn't care for Insane Clown Posse.

Once, he broke up with me in the middle of the street during a Mardi Gras parade because I hadn't noticed that a cop had come up to him and told him to move his dog away from the floats so that she wouldn't get hurt.

Once, he kicked me out of his house in the middle of the night for stealing the covers. I deserved it!

Once, he broke up with me and I threw rocks at his car. He told me that that wasn't nice, so I threw rocks at his head instead.

Ah, young love.

I remained a virgin for so long mainly because I knew it was going to be painful and because I didn't want to get a disease, or worse, pregnant.

One morning when I was 21, I woke up and decided that that day would be the day. I didn't have anyone in particular in mind, but I figured I should probably at least know the guy to whom I lost my virginity. (Looking back, it really wouldn't have mattered, but I was so innocent then).

So, I called up (we'll call him Dirtbag) Dirtbag and asked him if I could come over later that night. At this point I believe we had been broken up for 2 weeks for probably the fifth time. I told him I'd bring over a movie and beer.

I carefully selected our movie for the night, Requiem for a Dream, and brought a 40 for him and magnum of wine for me.

As I watched Jennifer Connelly get gang-ass raped by large African-American men, I couldn't help but wonder: Did I want my first time to be special? Or did I just want to get it over with?

After having picked up some helpful hints from the movie and after downing the equivalent of 2 bottles of wine, I decided I was ready.

I pulled Dirtbag into his room--ah, wait. I forgot to describe Dirtbag's "house."

Dirtbag lived in a shotgun-shack in the middle of Elysian Fields, or as the locals fondly referred to it, "Death Row."

Every single one of the walls was covered in graffiti and not even good graffiti. More about this later.

The whole house smelled like Dirtbag's dog, Papoose, a sweet German Shepard, and one of Dirtbag's roommates, whose name escapes me, but whose face was covered in tattoos and he used to shoot junky crack into his veins right in front of me as I had to go through his room to get to the bathroom, which was a little disconcerting, but, you know, REALLY sweet guy.

So, there I was. I bring Dirtbag into his room and I look up at him lovingly and say "Can we do it now?"

Dirtbag: "Huh?"

Me: "Can we, you know, do it?"

Dirtbag: "Do what?"

Me: "Get it on."

Dirtbag: "Get on what?"


Dirtbag: "Oh! Yeah! Wait. Really?"

Me: Yes.

I lay back on the bed. We commenced. All of a sudden, something started to sting really really badly.


Dirtbag: (immediately stopping). Am I hurting you?

Me: *sigh* YES. (i wished for another bottle of wine)

We commenced...again.

I started snapping my fingers and cursing to distract myself from the pain. So it went something like this:

Sex sounds: Week-a-wack-a Week-a-wack a

Me: Snap snap snap!

Sex sounds: Week-a-wack-a-week-a-wack a


Sex sounds: Week-a-wack-a-week-a-wack a

Dirtbag: Uh! Uh! *grunt*

And so forth.

And then it stopped hurting and Dirtbag I guess got off, I don't remember for sure, but I do remember thinking how funny it was that I was losing my virginity as I was staring at a cartoon pile of steaming poop on the ceiling..and then it was over. I got up and started collecting my things.

Dirtbag: Wait! Does this mean we are back together?

Me: Absolutely not. See ya later.

And with that, I pushed through the broken screen door and went out into the balmy New Orleans weather, got in my car and called everyone I knew.

A week later I would find out that Dirtbag had told everybody he knew that I wasn't a virgin, but that I had faked it and had really just had my period in his bed.

A week and one day later, I would sleep with his third roommate who was slightly brighter than Dirtbag, but not quite as good looking. Sometimes, I like to pretend it was this guy who was my first. He was so sweet, wrapping me up in his comforter after spilling beer all over me in the middle of the night having fallen asleep with a Natty-light clasped gently in his hands, like a Teddy Bear. Like an angel.

The next morning, I snuck out of that shotgun shack for the last time. A few years later I would return to New Orleans, and found myself driving down Death Row. As I approached the spot where the dilapidated old "shack of love" with the peeling yellow paint and broken windows used to proudly stand, a slow smile spread across my face. There, in it's place, in all its pink and white glory, stood "Elysian Field's Wedding Chapel." How appropriate.