It was a family wedding, way out on Long fucking Island. As you might know, I hate weddings. I really do. I've got my reasons, I could probably write a book. I really hate spending a shit-ton of money buying plane tickets and new dresses to attend a wedding and watching the marriage end in divorce, sometimes less than three years later. But as much as anything, I don't think such a personal, spiritual moment in a couple's life needs to be on display. If I ever make the biggest mistake of my life (oops, I mean, if I ever get married) I certainly wouldn't want a hundred some-odd people, friends, family or otherwise, around watching me share such an intimate, life-changing moment with my partner. I would find it distracting. I'd be more willing to show you the video we make on our wedding night.
Yes, weddings. They're awful in every way, except the free booze. I find myself forced to endure at least two or three weddings a year. This one was especially fun, because it involved spending all day with people who swim in my immediate gene pool. As you might know, I don't get the family thing so well either. I understand that there are people out there who share my last name and DNA, but I'm not really sure how the concept applies to me. I find it's best if I restrict these gatherings to every ten years or so.
Right on cue, it's been eleven years since I've seen most of these people. Sweetheart kept poking me in the ribs and saying, "Who's that?" and I kept saying, "I don't know. I think we might be related. I know I'm related to those other guys over there, and that their names are Tony, Rick and Jim, but I don't know who's who. Go find out."
I've found that Maker's Mark works well in such situations, and the whiskey was flowing and we had a great time. The party continued at the groom's house, and we got back to Manhattan a little later than expected, drunk, tired and happy.
Skanky sluts that we are, Sweetheart and I had a little fun on the deserted train ride home and we were looking forward to clean towels and a toothbrush. Also, we both had to pee. After what seemed like forever, we got to my building.
And the key wouldn't work.
What? Are you fucking kidding me?
No. The fucking lock was broken.
Complicating matters, I had left my phone in my father's car when he dropped us off at the train station. Not that I had the super's cell phone number anyway. And Sweetheart's battery was almost dead. Not that we really had anyone to call, or even anyone's number, anyway.
So we weren't getting in that fucking building.
Now we were wandering the streets of New York at fuck knows what hour on a Saturday night looking for a hotel room, drunk, tired, and not so happy anymore.
Four hotels and two hundred dollars later we finally found a room. A beautiful room. We started cracking up because obviously, this was the funniest thing that had happened to either one of us in a long time. Sweetheart filled the bathtub with hot water and threw me in it and went out in search of food and Aleve for my aching back and knee.
After he left, I realized, HEY! I'm finally getting to take that bath I've been wanting to take! My last post regarding the subject was grievously incorrect, my bathtub faucet at home is still fucked.
I enjoyed my bath thoroughly, and when Sweetheart got back I forced myself to get out of the tub and we ate and laughed and talked shit and were drunk, tired and happy again. In a hotel room. Three and a half blocks from my apartment. Fucking ridiculous. But fucking hilarious.
The hotel is called On the Avenue. Their website is here. I highly recommend them for the next time you're locked out of your own motherfucking building in the middle of the night in New York City.
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