Yesterday, I wrote about how my Good Friend and I were able to do a post-break up social activity together. I felt this was an achievement; both the action and the writing about it. But, I have this problem in life where no matter what I do, my parents do something more exciting. In fact, at the very beginning of our time together, I told my Good Friend that I was hesitant to have him meet my parents, because he would probably like them a lot better than he liked me.
For a while it was a joke that he actually did like my parents than he liked me. (When it stopped being a joke, we knew it was time for us to stop.) Regardless: anyone will tell you that my parents are way way cooler and a lot more fun than I am. My dad invented a vodka cocktail called “West Side Slinger” served exclusively at his apartment. My mom likes Gang of Four. They love you, especially if you can sound intelligent and make fun of ME at the same time.
So it didn’t surprise me that after I went to a nice tame, movie with the Good Friend, my parents, divorced for a solid 7 years now, would decide to double date with their respective wife/and boyfriend. Nor did it surprise that they got rip-roaring drunk and stayed out until 2 am. But it did make for some funny stories.
First of all, let it be known. I DID have a date of my own last night. Because I’m sick, we both agreed that going home after dinner ended (11pm) was not a bad idea. But I got home and felt bored and kind of lame. I BlackBerry messaged (BBM) my dad to see how dinner had gone. Little did I know, “dinner” was far from over. He let me know they had gone to drinks, gone to dinner, gone to another party and were now on their way to East Village for Artichoke pizza, (and that “Mommy says hi.”) Beyond grumpy, I succumbed to my hacking cough and went to bed, feeling more pathetic and old than ever (and way more pathetic and old than my parents. Never a good thing.)
Then, I woke up a few hours later with another message from my dad letting me know they were going to ANOTHER bar. Let me be first to tell you that nothing is worse than waking up at 3am, knowing that you went to bed at midnight on a Saturday, and reading a play-by-play of your parents’ bar crawl.
It wasn’t much consolation that both my parents were debilitatingly hungover today while I was going running, doing hours of philosophy homework and then “rewarding” myself with yoga class. It was cute that my mom refused to admit that she was hungover and tried to pretend she was getting the New York stomach virus. A BBM conversation with my dad:
Me: Wanna come to Brooklyn for dinner?
D: I can’t. I’m hungover.
Me: So I heard.
D: We had fun. Mommy got a little tipsy.
Me: She’s refusing to admit that she’s hungover.
D: Wow. There is no way she’s not.
Me: She’s lying about it.
A phone conversation with my mom, later:
Me: Listen, you don’t have the stomach virus. You’re hungover. Daddy says you are.
M: I’m not hungover. I woke up! I ate breakfast!
Me: What does that mean? Sometimes I don’t get hungover until 3pm.
M: Really?? What? Why? Do think it’s genetic?
Me: I don’t know. Maybe it’s the way you metabolize alcohol. Sometimes I don’t feel it until later.
M: Well, I didn’t start feeling sick at three. I started at noon. It’s obviously not the same thing. It’s something I ate.
Me: Mom, if you got sick at noon, you’re hungover.
M: Oh. Ok.
So. Back when I didn’t think I was going to publicly (for all my 4 blog readers) embarrass my parents, I thought this would be a funny post, in light of the rain this weekend. Happily, the video is a Wedding gone horribly awry. So without further ado: November Rain. If you wanna love me, darlin don’t refrain..