Wedding Crasher: Part II

Saturday morning I was in full primp mode. Nails painted, eyebrows tweezed, legs shaved, Spanx squeezed into. Then came the wardrobe crisis—black, strapless Nanette Lepore or fun, flirty polka dots with a tulle underlay? Would the Irish folk appreciate my electric blue suede peep-toes with the ruffle detail, or should I keep it classic in black satin? I decided to text Billy Blue to see exactly what sort of nuptials I was about to attend.

BB: After wedding we party on a boat. Boarding is at 6:30 P.M.

BOAT!? BOAT!? My stomach dropped and panic set in. The last time I was on a boat was this past summer for a Mad River-sponsored booze cruise, in which I was a deep shade of olive green, nauseas and unable to consume alcohol for the entirety of the three-hour ride. Frantically, I dug through my drawers to find my bottle of Dramamine, which had expired six months ago but was my only saving grace at this point considering Billy was picking me up in less than twenty minutes.

I did a final spritz of my Lanvin D’Arpege and was out the door to my awaiting chariot (ok so it was an ’01 Volvo with a missing sideview mirror, but a chariot nonetheless). Billy looked dashing in his tux. I took a deep breath and buckled my seat belt. Here goes nothing, I thought to myself. If nothing else, this is great material.

“So is this one of those super long wedding ceremonies or are they an “in-and-out, let’s get to the party” kind of couple?” I inquired about the ceremony. I was hoping it was the latter but, of course, it was the former.

“What do you consider long?” Billy asked as he handed me the program for the ceremony, which was a good twelve pages, front and back, ten-point font.

“Umm, anything more than twenty minutes.” I replied without ease. I didn’t like to stay in churches for an extended period of time, for fear that the walls would start to tremble or a fire would spontaneously combust in the pew where I was sitting.

“We’re Roman Catholic. It’s definitely more than twenty minutes.” Billy replied with a chuckle.

I decided to change the topic. Why dwell on the fact that I would be in a church longer on this day than I had been cumulatively for the past three years?

“So, any pertinent information I should know about your family members? Any topics that shouldn’t be broached?” I asked.

“Well, let’s not discuss your sex columnist hobby for starters. My mother would croak,” he replied.

“Understandable,” I respectfully responded, nodding my head assertively. Little did Billy know that my mother is one of my biggest supporters and has read every single article I’ve ever written.

“Also, umm, well you might get some weird looks when I introduce you to people,” Billy added with uncertainty.

I nervously laughed, unsure of where his comment was going. “And why would that be?” I asked, unconvinced that I wanted a truthful answer.

“Well, everyone will be expecting my ex as my date. And most of my relatives have met her before, at least once, so they might just be a little surprised to see someone new,” he answered.

I let this information process for a minute before responding. “So when exactly did you two break-up? And how long did you date?” I asked as I nervously fiddled with my Blackberry. This car ride was getting more and more awkward by the minute.

“We broke up a few months ago and were together for almost two years.”

My head involuntarily rolled back and I stared in silence at the ceiling of his car. F*ck me.

“So I’m your back-up date.” I stated rather than asked.

“Well she was originally invited, back when we were together. So…yes?” he replied with severe hesitation, his eyes darting back and forth between me and the Long Island Expressway.

Back when we were together? It was effing sixty days ago! It hit me all at once. Not only was I the back-up date, I was the rebound…

Wedding Crasher: Part I

It was a Friday morning and I could barely keep my eyes open or my breakfast down. I had had a fabulous date with Billy Blue the night before that started at Pio Pio and ended in my bedroom after two pitchers of sangria. Two orgasms and one hangover later, I found myself counting down the hours at job number one before heading to job number two when my weekend could officially begin. I desperately needed a bed and an IV, but instead I had a full inbox and a project due by five o’clock.

As I was attempting to coherently answer an email from my boss, my Blackberry’s familiar ding and flashing red light alerted me that I had just received a text message. It was from my beloved Billy Blue.

BB: I wasn’t sure if you said that you could make tomorrow’s event. I understand if you can’t.

“Tomorrow’s event” was actually his sister’s wedding, and in my hardly-sober haze, I had forgotten that Billy had so kindly invited me the night before during our date. We had only known each other for approximately one week and sixteen hours, but apparently he could tell that I would be great wedding date material. And I had to admit, I was happy to hear that he wouldn’t be spending his weekend with some other date whom might have the opportunity to enjoy the same performance I had received at the Love Shack a short twelve hours ago.

But my pounding head was trying to convey to my texting fingers that it was too soon for me to meet Billy’s entire family, including his sixty-seven cousins who were flying in from Ireland. I quickly surveyed three of my co-workers who had not consumed a massive amount of headache-inducing sulfites on their Thursday night to confirm my reservations. They all agreed it was too soon into our relationship to attend such an important family event, as well as reminded me that I probably should have looked in the mirror before heading to work this morning. Confused and offended, I headed back to my desk to reply to Billy.

BG: I do want to go but probably shouldn’t. What if you don’t like me in a week?

BB: I don’t place rules on anything. Whatever happens happens.

While I rarely abided by rules, I did have both lunch plans and a birthday party to attend on Saturday, so I declined his invitation and tried to revert my focus back on work. I immediately regretted my decision but knew it was too late to revoke my declination. I left job number one dismal and dehydrated only to head to Mad River to sling Coors Light and cranberry vodkas to over-consuming, under-tipping customers for the next three hours.

Upon my arrival to the bar, I immediately called a conference with Annie Smalls and Jenny Saurs to discuss my piss-poor decision of the afternoon.

“What’s that white stuff on your shirt? It looks like…ummm…you know…” Annie interrupted my frenzied explanation of “to-go or not-to-go.” I looked down to find a suspicious white substance crusted on my shirt, but that was the least of my worries at this point in my dim day.

Jenny saw my despair and broke it down for me, “Bacchus, since when do you follow rules? Weddings are fun and they’re Irish so you really can’t go wrong. Just shut up and go! And put some blush on or something. You look like a member of the Addams Family with all that paleness.”

Finally, the answer I had been looking for (aside from the comment about the insipid state of my skin). I quickly texted Billy and told him that I had changed my mind and that I was in for the wedding. After not hearing back from him for a good forty-five minutes, I was certain that I had already been replaced by a back-up date.

He finally replied with instructions to be ready by one o’clock. I went straight to bed after my shift, making sure to put on extra eye cream and take an on-the-verge-of-toxic dosage of vitamins. I needed my A-game if I were going to meet this man’s mother in addition to dozens of crazy Irish folk. If only I had known that I was, in fact, the back-up date…

And the Award Goes To....

Thanks for tuning in to my titillating 2009. Here are this year's fabulously reprehensible Sex & the Upper East Side Award winners...


Most Scandalous Rendezvous
Eat your heart out, Carrie Prejean! The Donald ain't got nothin' on you. Congratulations to our winner Leigh Lewis for Most Scandalous Rendezvous. Nothing like a little job security during a recession year...

Leigh Lewis: 48%

The Realtor: 26%

Jeremy: 13%

Hershey: 13%


Best Walk of Shame
Hats off to The Valentine and Benjamin--their walks of shame were so defaming our voters couldn't decide who was sorrier as they sauntered back to their respective zip codes.

The Valentine: 35%

Benjamin: 35%

The Accountant: 18%

Harry: 12%


Dick Move of the Year
Jimmy Whisk by a land slide! Commiserations not-so-much--this kid still has a sick Gossip Girl move that works like a charm every Monday night during prime-time.

Jimmy Whisk: 70%

Bacchus/Juan Jose: 15%

Bacchus: 10%

The Trader: 5%


Man of the Year
And the most coveted award of the 'hood goes to my personal pick, as well as the constituents', Billy Blue. The UES clearly hearts my newest heartthrob. We hardly know him, but so far this fresh meat has been nothing but fabulous. Let's hope he sticks around for 2010...

Billy Blue: 52%

The Realtor: 21%

Jimmy Whisk: 10%

Jeremy: 10%

Benjamin: 7%

Hershey: 0%


Happy holidays! Bottoms up, pants down.

xoxo,
Bacchus