Yet another New Year’s Eve story…
For you faithful followers, you already are well aware that champagne and I can be a deadly combination. Mind you, the harm I usually inflict is on myself, but according to my liver, yes it can in fact be deadly. This yellowish “tan” I’m sporting is not Mystic Spray, people!
Last New Year’s Eve a bunch of my friends got together and went to a BYOB sushi spot. Of course, the men were separated from the women, as most of us are in our 30s and still act like we’re at a junior high dance. The dinner was fun – lots of laughter, wine, great sushi and, of course, a few Sake bombs.
The chef even did some Sake shots with us! I was sitting at the end of the table, and the chef came down and planted his beer and sake next to me. He then winked at me with a twinkle in his eye. I peered down at his sake shot. What the…
Is there a face on that thing? Is that a …
His sake shot was in a glass shaped like a penis! When he realized I was on board, he grinned from ear to ear and kept repeating, “You like? You like? You like?” and nodding his head vigorously and, might I add, dangerously close to my shocked face.
Oh dear. This is going to be a long night, isn’t it?
Before we left the restaurant, I pocketed that thing “for later.” All and all, I considered dinner to be a huge success.
After our multiple sake bombs we made our way to a friend’s party, where I planted myself in front of the bucket of champagne and slowly drifted away to La La Land (I am mayor). I managed to keep my clothes on and not offend too many people … I think.
I was told there was another person in attendance who was drinking Guinness. I sauntered up to this gent, began twirling his chest hair (which was puffed up out of his button down shirt) in my fingers and asked saucily, “What are you drinking?”
NOTE: I wouldn’t say I’m for or against chest hair, but apparently that night I was like a moth to a flame when it came to his sweater vest. I was on his chest hair like white on rice.
“Guinness,” he responded with a smile, imagining a great big bullseye on my face.
“Oh,” I countered knowingly, “you must be Italian.”
I was being serious.
He paused to make sure I wasn’t holding a crack pipe in my hand, is my guess, and answered with, “Noooo, I’m Irish.”
Nice, Leigh. Way to woo him with your knowledge of beer and culture. Apparently alcohol does kill brain cells.
As the night was slowly winding down, a group of us started to venture home. Again, it’s New Year’s Eve and finding a cab is almost as impossible as winning the lottery. As we were waiting for a cab, I was dazzling my friends with my ice-skating abilities (i.e., I kept sliding around and twirling and ended up completely wiping out on the pavement in the middle of the street). When my friends realized there was a very large chance of me being run over, we decided to jump on a train instead.
After an uneventful train ride, we hopped on a bus, inching closer and closer to home. This is when things started to go sour. Although I do not recall this incident, apparently there was a young woman sitting near me holding a doggie bag with leftover food.
And I evidently was hungry.
“Gimme that,” I ordered her while pointing at her bag.
“Wha-wha-what?” the young lady asked as she leaned toward me a bit.
“I said: Gimme. That.” I repeated it again slowly, but with much more force.
“Um, ok,” she responded timidly with a look of fear in her eyes.
I then apparently made a wild grab for her bag, opened it and began to eat her leftover Frango Mint cheesecake.
With my hands.
The hilarious part is that I don’t even like cheesecake! I know, I know. It has cheese in the title, I should love it, right? I just don’t! I’ve tried to like it, I just don’t. And I figure why should I force myself to like something so unhealthy? I have enough vices, not liking cheesecake really is not the end of the world. I will still figure out a way to have a dangerously high BMI.
The dessert seemed to cheer me up a bit, as after the bus we managed to get a cab for the rest of the way home.
The next day not only was I treated to a headache, but also to an upset stomach. Thank you, Cheesecake Lady.
Moral of the Story:
Don’t carry your leftover dessert on a crowded bus on New Year’s Eve. There are bound to be drunk people on this bus.
Drunk, hungry people.
Drunk, hungry people who have no shame and would literally steal candy from a baby.
“You going to finish that bottle?”