It’s not a Murse – I prefer to call it my Mocketbook!

If Indy says it's not a murse, who am I to argue?

I came to a realization at work today: My black messenger bag has turned into a full throttle purse. I’m sure that it’s the real intention Kenneth Cole had when he designed the bag, but no one else will admit it. Why do they even call it a messenger bag anyway? Have you ever seen a messenger deliver something with a bag strapped across his chest? Of course not.

While searching for a pen, I had to remove two sets of ipod headphones (an extra in case one break) a tide to go stick, Burt’s bees hand sanitizer, six loose quarters, three dimes and four pennies. That was just in the front pocket. So I looked further and here are the items currently residing in my bag:

-Money clip

-Ipod

-2 granola bars – mind you I don’t even like granola bars

-Pack of tissues (unopened and actually forgotten about)

-11 loose napkins

-Ipod portable speakers

-Extra pair of cuff links

-Small bottle of Purell hand sanitizer

-Napkin note of a website I might one day visit for discount eyeglasses that I know I will never use but can’t throw out, just in case.

-Extra six pack of Imodium AD (do I even need to explain that one?)

-1 package of Sweat blotting forehead strips (sometimes the noggin gets oily midday – sue me)

I can't help it - I glisten!

-Ipod AC power adapter

-Autozone receipt for replacement alternator belt

-Blackberry wall charger

-Chapstick

-1 straw (By the way, I don’t even use straws – there’s nothing masculine about straws anyway! People do not take you seriously as you’re sitting there sucking that plastic for all your worth.)

-2 AA Batteries

-1 red pen

-9 Cross pens – silver

-Receipt for CVS for Easter card for my wife

-1 immodiumabuser.com pen

-Extra key to my office

-Master key for the doors at work

-4 packs of Listerine breath strips

-49 business cards

-6 quarters

-4 dimes

-3 pennies

-Ford Focus shaped jump drive

-A handwritten quote from the crazy facilitator at last month’s training session that says “I like to have my eggs poached really hard” with the word really underlined to stress his inflection.

-Another Tide to go stick

-Pocket pal calendar

-Small leather reporter-style notepad with important notes that I took in August 2010 and forgot about

-Large Leather notebook with important notes I took in September 2010 and forgot about

-Portable mouse pad

Wireless mouse

-4 White collar stays (in case the current ones give way or get stolen mid-way through the day)

-3 paperclips

-Toilet seat covers (even thought I never shit in public – JUST IN CASE)

-Miniature roll of toilet paper (it’s a small roll but having it in there is a Big relief – you never know)

GQ Magazine with Zach Galafanakis on the cover

I don’t care for the word “murse” either. I think it’s demeaning and it really doesn’t convey the true value and convenience or the emotional significance that my mocketbook affords me. I can relax and feel comfortable knowing that anything I need is right at my side. It’s my very own relaxation station. Sure, it does get heavy after a while, but I’ll bear that burden if it means that when (not if) I stain my tie at lunch, I can dab it out immediately.

Besides the shoe horn, is this not the best invention ever?

At least I’m not like my wife’s father who actually does carry a purse when he travels. He uses her step-mother’s old Coach bag to carry his stuff through the airport. At the very least, my bag is black, it is NOT a woman’s bag, and is at least functional! He’s carrying a small colorful pocketbook for God’s sake – and how much can that even hold? I have a beer holster strapped to my leg that can carry more than his bag can. I don’t know how he isn’t afraid of purse snatchers… Not to sound sexist, but is it still called a purse snatching when the carrier of the purse is a man?   
 

My wife carries a diaper bag for my son, yet I try to put one or two (or ten) things into it and all of a sudden I’m a bad person. That bag is bigger than the both of us, yet I can’t get a tiny corner for my essentials? It’s not like we can’t take his stuff and mine together in the bag – there’s not a space limit or weight restriction that I don’t know about is there? Why not get a bag with wheels anyway? It’s much more convenient to drag than carry it…

 

While we’re on the subject, I’m not even sure there is a difference between my son’s diaper bag and my mocketbook anyway.  The bottom line is that we both have emergency supplies for cleanup on the off chance one of us shits our pants! Am I wrong? Believe me, if I could fit a change of clothes and toiletries in my bag with all my other shit, I would.      

 

You're telling me there's no room for a few of my things in there?

 

If you’re reading this and thinking that I’m ready for my Hoarders audition, just imagine what my office looks like! This is coming from the same person that keeps an extra bottle of febreze in my car just in case a fart gets trapped in there…

 

I’m all for having something handy in case there’s an emergency, but this is ridiculous – even for me. The bag is heavier than my coffee table and yet I cannot think of one of these things that shouldn’t be in there or that I don’t absolutely need. I realize that I am being obsessive and at this point, excessive, but this shouldn’t count – I need these things.  What’s a guy to do? And guys, what random things are you carrying in your mocketbook?

If they see this face, they’ll never book!!! Why I’m not using Facebook with my clients

I am one of the few, the proud – The Facebook haters. I tried to ignore it for so long, but I have finally given in and now have a Facebook page. I do it only to get people to read my website blog, but I hate, hate, hate it. I definitely have the face for radio so I do not need any prospective clients to see me online because If they see this face – they’ll never book!   

I think that at the heart of it, I just don’t get Facebook. I’m a mid-thirties guy that feels like I’m up on what’s current – but I just can’t see the point. It’s supposed to be “The Great Connector” bringing everyone together, but how?

We see the value of face-to-face meetings over anything else every day, but with Facebook you’ll never actually have to be face-to-face with anyone again. You can put up a picture, write on their wall, poke a friend – whatever the hell that means or is good for, but that’s the extent of your relationship. You will never call them again or have to ask about anyone’s family because you can see their pictures and read all about their vacations on their wall. It virtually eliminates the need for telephone calls, letters, or (God Forbid) in-person visits. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I think that stinks. For my birthday, I want the people that care about me to actually remember the date on their own, put a little thought into it, and then pick out and send me an actual greeting card for my birthday. And send it In the Real Mail!  

We have turned into a sad ADD, quick-post society and forgot about the basics. We fall into these 140 character short message people that cannot process a simple conversation. Blackberries and IPhones (The new dirty mistress of many corporate professionals) are a separate story entirely. We are held hostage and feel like we need to post our every mood and move or check our wall and hear about the newest Facebook apps. If you’re not a manic Facebook Frequent poster, than you definitely know someone that is.

Also, what’s with the incomplete, cryptic messages like “cannot believe it?” What can’t you believe? I have no idea what half the people I’m friends with are talking about and I cannot be the only one. Did you ever hear the old expression don’t bury the lead? Let someone know what the heck you’re talking about.     

That’s not to say there aren’t any positive things about Facebook. People learn practical and valuable skills every day.  I am actually so proud that my sister (who couldn’t be trusted to watch my guinea pig Liz for one weekend without killing it) is now a proficient agriculturist with thriving herds and crops in her pasture and that my father is exploring his Italian heritage with Mafia Wars. What’s with the Ancestry requests? I need to click so you realize that I’m your son and we’re related? Marlene tells me all the time how she has no time to get anything done around the house; of course she doesn’t – she spends her whole day tending to the crops and feeding the animals. She is a housewife, but how can her husband expect her to cook dinner or do the laundry after working the fields all day?

Also, I can now “friend request” back and forth with the people in High School and College that knew me when I had a mustache and mullet that I thought made me look cool like Tom Selleck in Magnum PI, but actually looked more like Dennis Spade in Joe Dirt. These are people that I made fun of, got beat up by, dated and then hated, and generally don’t keep in touch with. If we were that close we would have kept in touch. Now I have to feel guilty if I don’t let them be my friend. I’m Catholic, we’re bred to feel guilty – it’s been ingrained in me for the past thirty years. If anyone sends me a friend request, I feel bad to say no or decline them and I let them be my friend because no one likes rejection. Even with people I don’t like, I let them in. I’m a sucker. I have work people that are looking to be friends and I just cannot say no. Keep in mind that these are people that I can’t stand and don’t want to eat lunch with, nonetheless hear about their summer in The Outer Banks or see their cat cleaning himself while perched atop their living room curtains.

Everyone puts every picture they have ever taken up there for the world to see and sometimes the people in the photos don’t even know it. The last thing I need is for a prospective client to see me fist pumping with Snooki last weekend in Hackensack or doing keg-stands in my underwear back in college. People pop up in other albums and they have no control over them. My friend Mary has group pictures in her album, and our other friend Susan looks like she’s in the middle of an epileptic fit in one photo. Unflattering photos are funny to see, but the person looking foolish should be the one to decide who gets to see it.

I know that there are privacy settings and you can limit who sees or reads what, but I still don’t agree with it or trust it. I don’t want people I don’t know to see pictures of my son and hear all about his personal details. I feel like it makes it less personal and takes something away from it. Also, and let’s be honest and loud and clear here; not every baby is cute. This is extremely difficult because I’m the parent of a really really cute kid but I have friends that aren’t and that is a very hard lesson for them to learn. Especially when people see my cute baby in his Gap Jeans and Kenneth Cole hoodie and then they go and put up a picture of their little troll with the misshapen head and lazy eye. You know what an ugly baby in really cute clothes is? A Wannabe!         

While we’re at it, Caroline – I don’t care which Glligan’s Island character you are, stop sending me that nonsense and get back to work! Paul, if you send me one more “what NFL player are you? I’m going to come to your house and feed your cat chili and then lock it in your bedroom. Randi, let me just say that if you have a top-ten stalkers list – that means something is really wrong with you! And Missy, I’m never going to build a civilization and attack my friend’s empire, so please stop asking.

In the whole Social media vein, I hate Facebook, but I will not even discuss Twitter. I’m not David Koresh looking for my own Branch Davidians, so anything advocating me having “followers” goes against my long held, anti-Cult stance. I’m not George Clooney or Brad Pitt doing anything of any importance so who really cares if I go to the library or to the movies?  Why do I need followers? Who should we be followers of – Kanye West?  He’s a musical genius, but what in the world could he be spouting that is of any consequence to me? What about the lessons we teach kids about never being a follower? Throw them right out the window with the art of sending a hand-written thank you card.

In all seriousness, I can see that there are positive things to be gained by using Facebook but for business, I just don’t see it for me. I don’t think our clients should (or even want to) know that much about our personal lives. It’s inappropriate and if you turn them down, you’re rejecting them. We work so hard to maintain our reputation and control the light our clients see us in and Facebook can darken that in an instant. Now that I’m off my tangent – let me go and pretend that I’m not annoyed that my friends have checked their fortunes with Madame Sonia and felt the need to share it with me.

Is it really the thought that counts or what the f*ck were you thinking?

spongebob

 

People say that it’s the thought that counts when receiving gifts – but do you know who really says that? The people who don’t get the crappy gift! When you are the one who actually receives and opens the shitty gift, you never think “Oh, it’s the thought”…you think – “What a douche”…

 

summers eve

 

If you don’t agree with that last statement then you obviously have never been given a bath towel that has a white side marked with the word Face and a brown side marked with the word Butt by your father-in-law for Christmas. He said he saw it and thought of me instantly. Not sure what that means exactly, but I never took it too personally because this is the same man who carried one of his wife’s old purses through Europe so he had all of his things at the ready on the plane trips. It’s not even like it could pass for an attaché case or a messenger bag – it was a God damn Coach pocketbook!

 

It's not even like I got the matching soap that comes with it!

It’s not even like I got the matching soap that comes with it!

 

I’ve never been really good at faking my disappointment at bad gifts. I’ve never been as bad as my sister Marlene who once opened a crayola crayon sweater from an uncle and said “Are you kidding – I’m not wearing this thing.” She was justified when my brother Anthony told her he was sick of giving her bad gifts every year, so he would give her cash for Christmas instead. Come December 25th, she saw a big box with her name on it and sensed trouble right away. She knew that there was no way the box could be filled with cash and she gave him that knowing glance. that glance usually precedes a violent outburst at our family gatherings and he said “I know, I was going to just give you money, but when I saw this I just knew that you would love it.” She proceeded to open a pre-Sue Sylvester red polyester track suit, strikingly similar to the ones worn by those weird kids in The Royal Tannenbaums and she looked at my brother to see if he was serious. He had such a proud smile as if he just gave her the keys to a Range Rover and then she noticed the $14.99 price tag that he had left on it. She first checked the pockets for the gift card that would normally accompany a gag gift like that and then said “Are you fucking kidding me?” she offered – “What happened to you being sorry about always giving bad gifts, so you were going to give me money instead. You spent $14.99 on this.” He didn’t get it and tried to ask where her holiday spirit was, but needless to say that Christmas gift ranks up top with her just above the Island of Misfit Toys dolls that he gave her just two years earlier.

 

island of misfit toys

 

There is a difference if you give a bad gift with a funny intention or if the gift is truly funny. Last year for my Christmas grab bag at work, I put in a bright  orange Mr. T Soap on a Rope. It was brand new, but when our admin opened it, she totally didn’t get it. Granted, she is brain-dead and is the queen of the blank stare, but that is a classic gift that people fight over. You just can’t get that everywhere! I gave it to Weezie for her birthday one year and she gave it the ultimate respect that it normally commands – she placed in right into the cleavage of her low-cut shirt and wore it for the rest of the night at the bar.

 

soap

 

I usually put a ton of time into thinking what to get a person, but I too have fallen to the dark side and gotten a bad gift or two. Let me start out by saying that I am a whore for a compliment. I was in the mall at Christmastime and you know those kiosks in the aisles that always have the cute foreign girls coming up to you saying they just want to talk to you? They’re dangerous. All it took was two Armenian girls sweet talking me and I left their kiosk with four of The Original Head Trip Tingler Copper Head Massagers:

 

Copper Head Tingler – Who wouldn’t want to get this as a gift?

 

Needles to say when my sister unwrapped it – my wife started to laugh; She certainly didn’t expect to find one under our tree at home or one for her mother and sister either. She also didn’t expect that I would spend 100 bucks on shit that no one wants. I fall victim to a compliment from a pretty girl and believe every word – that’s why I can’t be left to shop alone. I once bought a ruffled white shirt that cost $150.00 because the sales girl in Kenneth Cole told me I looked cute like Usher when I tried it on. I, of course, bought it hook, line, and sinker and then got the jeans too because she told me they completed the outfit. I got home thinking how hot I would look and my wife then reminded me that I look nothing like Usher. In fact, I look more like Oprah than Usher – especially since I’m white!!!

 

arrives at the 52nd Annual GRAMMY Awards held at Staples Center on January 31, 2010 in Los Angeles, California.

arrives at the 52nd Annual GRAMMY Awards held at Staples Center on January 31, 2010 in Los Angeles, California.

 

 

The timing of this post might seem suspicious, but I don’t throw this out there now because my birthday is next week and I am afraid of bad gifts. I put this out there now because if you give me bad gifts, I am gonna let you know. And don’t get me a towel that says Butt on it – I didn’t need one, but I certainly don’t need two! And if you give me a bad gift – I will write it here!

 

they feel lik

Like I’ve heard so many times before “Wow, That’s a long one!”

“Are you ready?…” I could hear her as she stomped into the building and headed up the front staircase to our second floor apartment like Godzilla rolling through Tokyo. “Why is this door locked?…Let me in!…I know you’re in there…Can you hear me?…Come on,  we need to leave – Oh my God – are you still sleeping? Get up; we’re going to be late! Don’t do this to me. Open this door right now!!…Do I need to kick it in again!!! Don’t piss me off…”

That’s exactly how I was rudely woken up by my friend Weezie screaming and kicking at the front door of my apartment. Both of my roommates went to Albany for the weekend so there was no one else to let her in. I tried my best to ignore her, but she was relentless. “Get up, its 4:45 and you know it starts at 5 O’ Clock!” she implored.

I slowly peeled off my Navy Blue Tempur blinders and tried to steady myself. (Don’t you dare roll your eyes at me – those blinders are so comfortable and so soft that it’s actually as if you took your head and shoved it right up a sheep’s ass – seriously, they’re that soft!) As I tried to get my bearings, I knew that I should be in my own bedroom and should be sleeping in my own bed, but nothing seemed familiar at all. It felt like I had been turned upside down and was looking straight into a hall of mirrors. I knew that I should just lie back down and ignore her, but the truth is that she really would have kicked that door in again if I didn’t get up. Ignoring her would only lead to an assault!

“I’m coming” I groaned as I slowly lifted myself out of bed “Stop screaming before I smack you again.”

“Try it Bitch, and you’ll see what happens” she growled through the door.

I don’t think I can accurately describe my friend Weezie. She’s the type of person who feels that it’s more important to scream every word as opposed to speaking like a normal human being. I thought I had gotten used to it after five years, but when you’re hung over and the equilibrium is far from steady, being anywhere near Weezie is never the right choice. She was one of the toughest players on the girls Rugby team, but she was freaking hysterical and one minute with her would have you laughing your ass off. She’s a lot of fun and one of my closest friends, but that girl is legitimately crazy. When she says she’ll kick in a door – she means it.

As I opened the door, her glance told me that she wasn’t amused. There she was: one arm strategically placed on the left hip of her sparkly black formal dress and on her face a look of disgust that I can’t even begin to describe. She was ready to go out for her big night and here I was screwing that up. For some unknown reason, I had thought it was a good idea to stay out the night before until 7 AM and then sleep the day away. This would normally be her routine as well on a Saturday, but offer up free booze and she’d scale a wall for it.

Her Formal for the Girl’s Rugby Team started in less than fifteen minutes and she was not amused that I had just opened the door in grey Calvin Klein boxer briefs and a ripped T-shirt – obviously not dressed and ready to go unless by the word Formal they meant that trailer park chic was the dress code. I didn’t even want to go because I was hung over and felt like crap, but the prospect of a top-shelf open bar for five hours really enticed me. My girlfriend didn’t mind me going with Weezie and most of our friends were going, and did I mention that it was open bar so, I thought, why not.

Weezie pushed past me and went straight for a Coors Light as she started playing with my dog. When I say that, I don’t mean to beat around the bush and try to sneak in a sexual innuendo – I mean that she was actually playing with my dog, Smokey. I tried to sit on the couch and make small talk by saying that she looked nice and that I would like a beer too, but it did no good. She gave me a look and then offered me ten minutes before it was going to start getting physical, so I got moving. Once again, when I say that I don’t mean to beat around the bush and try to sneak in a sexual innuendo – I mean that she would literally smack the shit out of me! I tried to pull myself together because I knew she wasn’t above using a slap or an elbow to the gut to motivate. She said she’d walk Smokey, to speed things along, and I asked if she would make me a sandwich since I was starving.  

“Are you kidding me? Did you just ask me to make you a sandwich?”

“You make it like I asked you to clean the toilet – it’ll keep you busy while I get ready. Come on, I’m starving.”

“You can eat when we get there – We’re gonna be late.” 

“Weezie, when you’re worth it they’ll wait.” Picture her unamused.

About fifteen minutes later, I was ready. Anyone who knows anything about me knows I was under duress to be ready in fifteen minutes. I locked the front door behind us as we headed down the steps. (This is important – I normally never carried keys or bothered to lock the door but my roommates made me swear to do it before they left for the weekend because of people coming in and taking stuff. It was a safe town and they didn’t think twice about anyone stealing the TV or DVD Player – the crime they were talking about was beer theft. Lisa used to sneak in (sometimes through the keyhole and sometimes through the front window – she is a small girl) and take the beer. She’d then blame Weezie who my roommates would scream at and accuse of lying when she tried to deny it. I knew it was Lisa but didn’t care because it was hysterical how crazy Unibrow would get. Unibrow was one of my roommates and we called him that because he was from New Jersey. I’m kidding, we called him that because he had the bushiest strip of felt impersonating two eyebrows that I have ever seen on a man’s forehead. It was as if Bert on Sesame Street had a baby with Peter Gallagher.    

As we were leaving the front porch I said “Weezie, will you put my keys in your bag? My pants are tight and I don’t want to have two distracting bulges.” She put my keys in her bag and cracked a smile so I could tell that she was loosening up a bit.

“I’m really hungry – what are they having for dinner?” I gently asked.
“Hooka, I told you they’re not having dinner – it’s passed food” She rudely responded back with.
“What? Who doesn’t serve dinner? It’s five hours long.”

“It was cheaper this way so the planning committee thought people would eat first to keep costs down”

When she said cost-effective, she really meant it. Their idea of offering something to nosh on was nachos, potato chips, and pretzels. I thought they might be putting the real food out later since this must obviously be a joke, so I started drinking to fill my stomach with something. I was going through my vodka phase and just took a tiny bit of orange juice to gently color the vodka a bit. Little did I know what a dangerous game that would be to play on an empty stomach…
“Weezie, when are they putting out the other food?”

“They have nachos right there – eat those.”

“Are you kidding me? I don’t eat with my hands remember…”

“You and that OCD bullshit again…”

“They don’t have any silverware or napkins either, how am I supposed to eat anything here?”

By seven, I was drinking heavily and dancing violently. I apparently thought it was my job when Michael Jackson’s Beat It came on, to get in the center of the dance floor screaming the words and busting out a few karate kicks. I looked good, but I’m clumsy normally so a kickin’ beat and all that alcohol did nothing to stop me from bumping into almost everyone on the dance floor.

That’s actually the last thing I remember of the Formal. I don’t have any recollection of the events for the rest of the night following that dance. My recollection is that I had a lot of rhythm and looked really hot, but some pictures have surfaced that drastically contradict that idea.

I have heard many stories of my activities from those missing hours, but since I can only hope that they are exaggerated, I refuse to accept them as fact. What I do recall is being surprised that a December night with so much snow could feel so hot. I was sweating like rice pudding left out in the sun all day.

The next thing I remember is walking down Main Street towards my apartment. It was just about five AM on the Savings Bank digital clock. I had absolutely no idea where I had been since the bars closed at two or where Weezie was. I also had no idea where my shirt and tie were for that matter as I was now only wearing my white undershirt. For some reason it also wasn’t as warm as it had been earlier. Did I mention that it was December in Upstate NY?  

When I got to my building, I tried to open the front door but it was locked and I didn’t have the key – Weezie did. Right about then having two distracting bulges didn’t seem like such a big deal after all.  

That’s when I remembered about the back fire escape that led into my bedroom. I had never actually used the fire escape before, mostly because I’m terrified of heights and partly because the slumlord that rented it to us actually said never to use the fire escape. It wasn’t really attached to the house and actually banged into the house on windy days. (The building was being torn down after the Spring Semester and was actually condemned). There was also a lip in the doorway leading into my bedroom from the fire escape about five inches high where a plate had been laid down, leaving an opening under the door so snow came into the room. It didn’t just come into my room, it accumulated. The gap was so big I was always afraid Smokey would crawl out through it.

As I mounted that frozen monstrosity that they were calling a fire escape, I somehow knew in the back of my mind that this wasn’t such a good idea but there was no other way for me to get in. It was snowing lightly, my hands were frozen, and as I forged ahead, I just couldn’t look down. As I got to the top of the ladder, I tried to steady myself and climb onto the landing but it was very slippery. Just as I thought I was on steady footing and stepped towards the door, I slipped on a patch of ice and fell off the back of the fire escape toward the snow-covered ground two stories below. Everything went black.

I have no idea how long I was out for, but there I was in the snow looking up at the fire escape and my first thought was that this was exactly the reason why the slumlord had told me never to go on that fire escape.

My second thought was that my head was pounding and something was wrong with my left shoulder. Every part of my body was fighting to let me know who was in the most pain. I think the back of my head won out, but then came the worst pain of all: I realized that I was still locked out.

Believe it or not, that second climb up the fire escape was a lot easier than the first. In addition to being drunk, now I was dizzy and in horrendous pain, but I made it up there. Slowly, I found my footing on the landing. I held onto the railing very tightly as I opened the door and rushed into the room.

Remember that lip on the door I told you about? Yep, it got me. I tripped on the lip of the door and fell forward with no time to react. I closed my eyes as the desk got closer to my face because I just couldn’t do anything else. The corner of my desk ripped through my forehead like a knife through cheese and I forgot all about the pain in my shoulder or the back of my head. Blood was gushing everywhere and Smokey was going nuts.

I couldn’t get myself off the floor partly because the pain was too intense and partly because of all the blood that was now in my eyes. I tried but I just couldn’t lift myself and Smokey’s barking and jumping around like a lunatic were not helping the situation. It was barely light outside, and I had to squint to see anything at all. I knew I should call my girlfriend because I needed to go to the hospital, but the phone was all the way through the bedroom, through the long hallway past the bathroom and then in the corner of the living room. I dragged myself through the house leaving blood everywhere as I crept to the phone and finally dialed her number.  

“You’re not gonna believe this, I’m bleeding. I fell off the fire escape, and..”

(Cutting me off) “Oh my God Is Smokey OK?”
“I’m fucking bleeding, he’s jumping all over me, HE’S FINE – I’m not OK!”

“Are you drunk?”

“Of course I’m drunk, what would I be doing on that fire escape if I was sober? It’s not even attached to the house! I need help over here. I can’t get off the floor”

“Go to bed and call me tomorrow – you’re so dramatic” and she hung up.

I think that’s the exact moment I knew that I would marry that girl.

I got Weezie’s answering machine next (she told me later that she was in bed hysterical laughing listening to me leave the message because all she could understand was me slurring “Hooka…Hooka…it’s not right…I fell off the fire escape…you have my keys…”

I finally got a friend to come over and take me to the hospital and a few hours later I was back in my bed with torn ligaments and a slight concussion after a good “talking to” from the doctor in the Emergency Room about drinking. I was so out of it that I was agreeing to his points and nodding to everything he said and didn’t realize that he was talking about me. I stupidly thought he was just making small talk about the way people drink when they’re in college.

I had just fallen asleep when I woke up to Weezie hysterical laughing as she stood above me dangling my keys. I tried to explain what happened, but she just kept laughing. She thought it was poetic justice for me leaving her alone at the Formal last night.

When my girlfriend came over, she couldn’t believe how seriously I was hurt. She thought I was just drunk and rambling on when I called her. I immediately forgave her because I was in love with her. I also immediately forgave her because no one else would take care of me and clean up my apartment and I was starving. I was heavily medicated that day but still made it out to the bars two nights later.

I wish I could say that night was a wakeup call for me and that I never got that drunk again, but that would be a lie. I had to leave school early and get an incomplete in all my classes and I looked like Mikhail Gorbachev with that big gash that went from my hairline to the top of my nose. I made scars trendy way before Harry Potter did but it didn’t go away for over two months and I had trouble with my left shoulder for much longer than that. I was in a sling and it was impossible to do anything for myself. I wish I could also say that was the last time that I got hurt while I was drunk (see broken ankle number one, broken ankle number two, St. Patrick’s Day 2009 when I fell face first into a brick wall and looked like Rhianna, etc.) As the saying goes: if you fall off the horse, you get right back on and I‘m pretty sure that applies to fire escapes too.