Threes Company

Two days from now, my sister will be a squatter in my apartment - specifically, she'll be occupying the eight foot space behind the couch, which is actually, by New York City standards, not a bad deal for the money. She's planning to fill this space with an air mattress, which means her room will officially be smaller and more dimly lit than a jail cell. Welcome to Manhattan. Nevertheless, she's excited to move in and I'm excited to have her. Also, it'll be nice to push the couch a little closer to the TV.

Yesterday, I asked her how our parents felt about her moving out - they've had at least one of us living with them since the day they were married (we like to reference me as the surprise and not the accident;) and since my mother is a lot like the tortured Harry Burns from When Harry Met Sally and my father is (I swear it's true, all gay jokes aside) more of an optimistic Sally Albright, the two of them alone together should either be like a continuation of the Rob Reiner movie or the climax of the War of The Roses. And I almost shudder to think which of those it'll be.

"There is no winning! Only degrees of losing!"

"I loosened the bolts on the chandelier. I was going to drop it on you."

(I do love that movie, but thank God there are no chandeliers in my parents' house. Which is not the first time I've had that thought.)

"Are they looking forward to it?" I asked my sister. "Being alone with one another?"

"I think they're both looking forward to and dreading it."

"They'll have to occupy themselves without any outside help," I said. "Or maybe they'll finally leave the country."

"Mom would never travel. Too many germs that don't speak English. She'll watch a lot of Seinfeld and make him do her shopping for her and eventually Dad'll hang himself. Hold on, I'm putting you on speaker."

"Forced suicide? Too easy. Mom would never actually kill him," I said. "I don't think. Has she ever?"

"Have I ever what?" asked my Mother, now on speaker.

"She wants to know if you've ever tried to kill me," clarified my father.

"Oh," said my Mother. "When do you mean?"

"What do you mean, when do I mean?" I said.

There was a slight pause, and finally my sister said, "Hold on, Mom's counting."


In mostly unrelated news, this past Friday I went bar-hopping in the East Village (something I haven't done since grad school), which began with the idea of socializing but slowly devolved into a sad attempt to reclaim my lost youth. I'm not old in comparison to, say, the Earth, but I'm old in comparison to that twenty-four year old still power drinking and getting jiggy with it at twelve am. Meanwhile, I'm exhausted by twelve-thirty and by one I'm practically curled under a bar-stool. By two I've begun nursing a migraine of epic proportions, and by three am the migraine culminates in a melodramatic almost-vomit into a trash can on the corner of Broadway, two blocks from my apartment. Additionally, there are contacts in my phone I don't remember entering, entire text conversations I don't remember having, and a cab ride with some hot guy who I vaguely recall making out with, which may or may not explain the ten dollars I used to have that I can no longer account for. God, I hate being too old to be stupid. Remember when alcoholic amnesia was a badge of honor and not absolute Patheticsville?

"Seriously, I just woke up and he was lying under the coffee table with my underwear. I don't know what happened to the Snickers."

"We did it where? And people were just walking in and out the whole time? No, I don't want to see the photo on your cell phone! Well, why the hell would you let me drink that much 151?!"

"What do you mean I vomited over the railing? When the hell was I on the roof?!"

All true stories.

(Okay, so maybe that shit was always foolish. I just hate that my brain has finally aged to the point where foolishness has ceased being awesome.)

Oh, and did I mention I have a twenty-four year old moving in with me in two days? I think I'll just try and convince her that the place to be is Bed Bath & Beyond, and at least then I'll get some new towels out of it. But no more heavy drinking. At least, not in bars. Not for me. Although Halloween is coming up and my sister will be here and I'd hate to limit my options...

Damn, stupidity is tempting. Especially around family.

PINK: Still a Rock Star

Tonight, I saw P!nk (oh, if only I was cool enough to pull off Ja!me) in concert, and learned a valuable lesson about stress relief: sometimes, all you really need is to sing "now it's full of evil clowns, burn it down, burn it down" with an arena full of screaming, drunken imbeciles.

PS: the giant Tinkerbelle in the photo to the right is actually P!nk, singing upside down in a floating hammock.

Dear Britney,
YOU LOSE.
Love, P!nk.

(Photo by Lisa Gwasda.)