You Deserve a Drink: Boozy Misadventures and Tales of Debauchery (29 page)

According to my pupils, I
was
feeling it.

Everyone except Melissa, Hayley, and I was going to see their favorite third-tier jam band, the Disco Biscuits. While I give the band kudos for the great name, the actual show was highly lacking in both disco and biscuits and so it wasn’t for me. Plus, we three troublemakers were seeing the mo’fu’in’
Flaming Lips
!

As soon as we left the room, I immediately felt a tingling sensation throughout my body. The walls of the hotel looked like they were pulsating a little. They looked like how a didgeridoo sounds, if that makes sense, but I know it doesn’t, so fuck it. The floral-print carpet that I hadn’t even noticed coming into the hotel became
so
vibrant. The designs in it were ever-so-slightly moving. It was literally a magic carpet. I could’ve stayed in that hotel hallway and watched the carpet dance for hours, but there was no time to spare. There were Flaming Lips to be watched.

The hotel lobby was packed full of people, and I did my best to act natural, which was next to impossible. The only thing I can compare it to is being an extra in a movie. A few years later, in my early twenties, I would pick up work as a background actor to make a little cash, and I was consistently horrible at it. Let’s say the scene was at Starbucks and I was supposed to put sugar in my coffee. A totally normal action that I do every day, right? Well, as soon as that director would yell, “Action!” I would forget how to act like a human. I would pick up the sugar and look at it like a caveman seeing fire for the first time. Super casual.

This is how I was acting in the lobby,
trying
to remember how to walk normally—a function I have performed since I was eight months old (#talentedbaby #dontbejealous). At one point I said out loud, “I am walking through the lobby right now.” Awkward or not, I strutted all the way through that lobby in my floor-length tan suede coat. You see, this was the winter that I decided to dress exclusively like Kate Hudson in
Almost Famous
. I’m talking bohemian blouses, long skirts, and those long suede coats with the fur trim. That was my uniform. I felt super Penny Lane, except that my fur was faux and I hadn’t nabbed it from a rock star boyfriend. Mine was from T.J.Maxx. Ain’t no shame in my money-saving game.

We miraculously got to the Garden and regrouped our brains before heading in. Tickets? Check. ID? Check. Possible oncoming stroke? Check. Wait, what? Am I having a stroke? I definitely smell something burning, which is a known sign of an oncoming stroke.

“Does anyone else smell burning?” They just laughed and pointed at me.
Oh my god. I’m having a stroke. I have an allergy to mushrooms and the side effect is strokes.
Just as I was about to call 9-1-1, Melissa brought me back to reality. “Mametown, chill. You aren’t having a stroke. You just lit yourself on fire.”
Phew, I just—what the fuck!
I looked down and from the way I was holding my cigarette, I’d just straight-up set my fur trim on fire. Cut to me rolling around on the corner of Thirty-third and Eighth. So much for keeping a low profile.

We made it to the show with a few minutes to spare, taking that time to buy beers the size of our heads. And thank God they were huge, because we basically all had to take out second mortgages to buy them. Just as we were about to head to our seats, Hayley stopped us.

“Shall we?” she asked, pulling out three shiny chocolates from her coat pocket. You would’ve thought they were the last Willy Wonka golden tickets, judging from the squeals we let out. We jumped up and down as our sacred Bud Lights spilled all over us. But in a moment of clarity, we decided it was necessary to play it cool and eat them in the bathroom, as if anyone could tell what
they were. Obviously the smartest choice for us was to wait in line, then all go into the handicap stall together. Not at all suspicious.

Now, I had never been to a Flaming Lips show before, but I had seen one on TV. Massive balloons bounce around the audience. Beautiful projections are displayed in time with the music. Wayne, the front man, even walks over the audience in a giant bubble ball like a hamster. It’s a sight to see even if you’re stone-cold sober. And at this point (let’s be honest) I was, in fact, “tripping ballz.”

So, there we were. The entire spectacle was happening all around us. They played “Do You Realize??” with a huge time-lapsed sunset projected behind them. The three of us had our arms around each other and swayed to the music. I looked to my right at Hayley and saw a single tear running down her cheek.

They played a few more songs as we danced awkwardly, and then it was time for the big New Year’s Eve countdown. The entire arena shouted together—a little too early, if you ask me.

Twenty! Nineteen! Eighteen!

Who starts counting down at twenty? It’s like being at a surprise party and hiding when the birthday boy leaves the office five miles away. My knees are way too fucked up to be crouching that long. Just as we were rounding single digits in the countdown, a random teenage boy approached us.

“Excuse me. I know this is super dumb but I’m here with my sister and have no one to kiss at midnight. I was wondering if—”

Before Hayley and Melissa had the chance to tell him to fuck off, I screamed, “Get on in this chick gumbo!” then grabbed all of their faces for an
awkward
epic four-way kiss as the clock struck midnight.

The cutie, taken back, mumbled thank you and walked away with a smile from ear to ear. It was magical. We listened to a few more songs while repeatedly being yelled at by ushers to not dance in the aisles, then decided to peace out before it ended.

We stopped outside, as I lit a cigarette. “Chick gumbo? Mamie, what the hell is chick gumbo?” Hayley asked.

I shrugged. “No idea. But we gave that kid a story. And
hopefully he didn’t give us herpes.” I took a long drag off my cigarette, celebrating the fact that I could still crack a joke despite having crazy brain.

“Umm, Mametown?” Melissa said. “Hate to interrupt but you are on fire again.”

I wasn’t falling for it. “Yeah, right. Like that would ever happen twice.”

She went on. “If you aren’t on fire, what’s that smell, then?” Sonofabitch. I smelled it too. Sure enough, I looked down to see my fur trim blazing again, and I proceeded to stop, drop, and roll. My signature move of the night.

Once I was completely extinguished, we embarked on our journey back to the hotel. Yes, it was only one block away. But seriously, when you are on mushrooms, tying your shoe can turn into a two-hour adventure. I distinctly remember asking a horse cop what breed his ride was, to which he replied, “Horse.” To which I replied, “A little, but only because I was screaming at the concert ’cause of all the mushrooms.”

As we entered the lobby, I reminded my friends, “Be cool.” Meanwhile, my jacket was still lightly smoking. (Ahh! A smoking jacket! I wish I would’ve made that pun that night. Guess I’ll have to wait till the next time I set myself on fire.) We made it through the sea of bitches in sequins and squeezed into the elevator as it was closing.

There were three guys already in the elevator, and we lined up in front of them. It was dead silent. Now, elevators are always awkward. That’s a given. Whenever I am in an elevator with one other person, it doesn’t matter if it’s a hot UPS deliveryman or an old lady with three poodles, I always picture us making out as the doors close. This is the kind of fucked-up mentality you develop when you watch too many romantic comedies. I also think that most women meet their dream man by being clumsy, and anything can be solved with a dance montage. Thanks a lot, Cameron Diaz!

As soon as I heard the ding of the elevator doors closing, I visualized a three-on-three make-out session and couldn’t stop giggling.
The rest of the elevator was completely silent, which made me giggle even more. I briefly considered asking the guys if they wanted some chick gumbo, but I decided against it (thank
gawd
). Even imagining asking them made me laugh even harder, but with my mouth closed. I felt like a kid in church who has heard someone fart. You want to crack up but you know your mom will slap you. My cheeks went flush.

“I am burning the fuck up in here—anybody else?” I asked, hoping to break the awkwardness.

“Maybe you’re on fire again,” Hayley replied matter-of-factly.

I looked down earnestly to make sure. “Nope. I’m good.” This elicited zero reaction from the guys behind us. Nada.

Finally we reached our floor, and immediately fell out of the elevator and lost our shit. I’m talking, on the floor, army-crawling while laughing. I was laughing so hard that I started to pee my pants, which made me laugh even harder.

“I just peed my fucking paaaaants!” I exclaimed.

“Then take them off!” one of the girls yelled.

Take them off? Brilliant. The girls started chanting, “Take it off! Take it off!” as I got down to my bra and panties. That’s when I noticed the carpet again.

“It really does look like it’s dancing,” I said in awe.

“It’s fucking beautiful,” Melissa added. Then, as if on cue, we began singing “Do You Realize??” to the carpet, swaying back and forth as I stood in my skivvies. By the time we got to the second verse and Hayley’s single tear started making its encore appearance, someone cleared his throat.

We looked behind us to see the three dudes from the elevator. “Ummm, excuse us.” They had seen the entire thing, and they were not at all amused. Which, calm down, three dudes, it’s NYE in NYC. Like, don’t go to New Orleans on Fat Tuesday to check out the ironwork. They scooted past us, hugging the wall like they were on the edge of a building. Granted, we looked like rejects from a Hunter S. Thompson–themed strip club.

I picked up my pants and we booked it down the hall and into our room. “
Guyz
, I have a brilliant idea,” I said as Melissa and Hayley lay on the bed plotting how to get food to the room without having to leave the bed. “Why don’t we fill up the tub with all that shitty champagne we brought? We can ring in the New Year bathing in champagne. That’s gotta be good luck or some shit.”

I didn’t even wait for their reaction before I began unwrapping the foil off the bottles. I was ready to get
fancy
. Bathing in champagne sounded like something Marie Antoinette would do. That, and have crazy hair, and insist people eat cake. I could get on board with that.

One by one, I dumped the champagne bottles, excited for such a lavish nightcap. I called to the girls to come in. “You ready for luxury?” I asked as the last of the bubbly poured into the tub. They looked at my masterpiece for a few seconds, then Melissa spoke.

“That’s, like, four inches deep.” And she was right. All that champagne, all those bottles combined, only added up to a few yellowish inches. A few
unimpressive
yellowish inches. It looked like a toddler’s bath after he’d taken a whiz in it. Hayley and Melissa went back to the bedroom to continue their mission for snacks. I’m telling you, when you are on mushrooms even the simplest tasks feel like an adventure. Them talking about how to get pizza sounded like a plot to take down the Soviet Army.

“Y’all are missing out!” I shouted as I peeled off my panties and lowered myself into the cold tub. I’m going to be honest with you, dear readers. It wasn’t the most comfortable experience. I wouldn’t recommend it at all, actually. It was cold as shit, and the bubbles didn’t so much tickle my skin as they made my crotch burn. But in that moment, I didn’t care. I wanted to remember this New Year’s Eve, with its music and its adventure. All that setting myself on fire had turned me into a phoenix rising from the ashes. I sat in that shallow champagne birdbath and thought to myself,
This year is going to be good. I can feel it.
 . . .
Or maybe that’s the mushrooms talking.

I
have so many people to thank, or “give props to,” as the kids say, for helping this book become a real thing.

First and foremost I want to thank my Internet peoples. You know who you are. The views, the gifs, the comments, the seats at live shows, and the general positive energy you throw my way daily is so very appreciated. Y’all are the raddest group to have backing me up, and I want you to raise both hands right now and high-five yourself. . . . Do it. . . . I’ll wait. . . .

My friends. Maegan, Melissa, Hayley, Ashleigh, Erika, Joselyn, and Kirby for letting me share stories about them and also making sure that I survived those moments in real life! Everyone thinks their friends are the shit, but mine really are, and I am forever grateful to them for accepting and even encouraging my crazy.

A special friends shout-out to Hannah and Grace. You guys are as supportive as you are inspiring. I really won the ultimate scratch off of friendship, and I am going to stop because I know how Grace feels about sincerity. Y’all are my bras to the titties of life. #ohhohhhpartygirl

My family for allowing me to share a peek into the unique freakness that is us. Mom, Dad, Anne, Dave, and Annie. Although I can’t remember if I actually got permission, so I am going to keep things moving. . . .

Extra huge thank-you to Keal for being my number one across the board in all categories. BFF, BF, BB (Beanz Butler). Thank you for always having my back when I need you, and refilling my wine when I REALLY need you. xo

My team. Vincent, CC, Cait, for putting so much time and trust into a woman who makes the majority of her living off taint jokes.

My editor, Kate Napolitano, for always being on the same wave length and for not only letting me let it all hang out in this first book, but always telling me to “Mamrie-ify” it. 

And finally, BEANZ HART. Yes, I am thanking my dog. You might say dogs can’t read and this is pointless and I say, FUCK OFF. Beanz, thank you for accompanying me on all my writing retreats to Palm Springs and always being super stoked when you see me even if I’ve only been gone for five
minutes.

*
If you are just pretending to be interested in it so you can eventually drop a deuce in their bathroom, you’re not fooling anyone!