My Friend's Big Fat Drunk Russian Wedding

So my homegirl CeCe planned her wedding for this summer, and I secretly tried to think up at least three crafty reasons why I couldn’t attend - but she was way ahead of me. Knowing damn well how I feel about weddings, she assured me that (a) I didn’t have to be in it, (b) didn’t have to stay all night, and (c) there would be Russian cuisine and a full bar, so how could I say no to any of that? Plus, I kind of dig experiencing new cultural extravaganzas, and this would be my first official Russian Jewish wedding. 

 

So after months of waffling around, I decided at the very last minute to go ahead and make an appearance.

PRE-WEDDING

Main problem: Wardrobe. Most of my non-work gear consists of ripped jeans, t-shirts, bohemian style maxi dresses, and general Barfly attire. Since I hadn’t shopped for an outfit, I lifted some virginal white frock looking type dress from my closet, and paired it with nude Steve Madden wedge sandals. Threw in a matching clutch, and good enough. I also decided to bring out my inner sophisticate, and smoothed down my hair and attached one of those princess looking bun things on top of my dome, instead of rocking my usual wild-girl-on-the-loose curls. Put on a nice string of pearls with matching earrings, and gave myself a nod of approval as I headed to the car.

As I made my way to the door, my 23 year old son/roommate rushes in, looking concerned.

“MOM, okay tell me, what happened.” He sounded very distressed. “Did somebody DIE?”

I turn to glare at him. I’ve raised dude to always compliment a woman’s appearance, especially when it’s clear she’s made a little effort. Here I am trying to get fancy for a wedding, and he thinks I’m dressed to go see a corpse.

  

“No one DIED, son” I sigh heavily. “I’m headed to Cece’s wedding. I’m trying to look…calm. Conservative!”

“Oh, ok,” he goes. “You just look like one of those stiff southern ladies who spend all their time in church. That’s all,” he shrugs. “You look nice though. Regular,” he says while walking back to his room.

I drive to the wedding and think, I look regular, I look regular….what the fuck is that supposed to mean?

THE WEDDING

I got there extra early. Because, stereotypes. The photographer snapped a few candid shots while CeCe and I fawned over each other. It was only when CeCe forwarded me the pictures a month later, that I realized I did look like a stiff southern lady who spent all her time in church. (Hit me up privately for pics, they’re hella embarrassing) And furthermore, everyone was wearing BLACK. I didn’t know people wore black to weddings. Was it a cultural thing? I was later informed that (a) one shouldn’t wear white to a wedding even if it is in the middle of summer, because it’s seen as rude toward the bride, and (b) when an event takes place after 6pm (which this one did), it is general etiquette to wear black. So here I am, the only brown girl in the place, wearing the only white dress in the place. Yeah, I’m sure I didn’t stand out AT ALL.

I was seated next to a few friends of CeCe’s – a cool couple from Texas, and we shot the casual shit before the wedding began. The three of us hit it off really well, because we all liked to say fuck a lot. We vowed to sit together at the same reception table, because fuck all the careful planning and seating arrangements made months ahead of time -  we were gonna make it happen. Our group  would later be remembered as The Crazies at Table 9. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

The ceremony was traditional. Very lovely, very quick. The Chuppah, the signing of the marriage contract, breaking of the glass, all completed within thirty minutes. Now that’s my kind of ceremony.

And then, the Mazel tov-ing began.

THE RECEPTION

Everyone was guided toward the lavishly stocked open bar, while the reception tables were being set up. A live band and DJ started playing and spinning. There was a great vibe, everyone made their rounds and introductions, we were all smiling and laughing and getting tipsy. The beautiful bride appeared and declared “No one eats until we’re all drunk!” So after about four rounds of Chardonnay, we are all escorted to our tables. 

Among my group was the cool Texas couple from earlier, a guy named Chad and his date, and few other randoms, and another couple made up of a very easy going Filipina chick (Divina), and her very boisterous Ukranian husband (Max.)

Max, it turns out, was a boss. He immediately waved over a server and questioned why there was only one (very tall) bottle of Grey Goose at the table. Russian tradition is that we ALL have a personal bottle to drink from, he says. I let out a somewhat sophisticated sounding laugh, and let Max know that hey, I could drink wine until the cows come home, but not shots. Shots of any kind usually end up with me becoming very goofy or very aggressive, and overall just very messy. Tonight was to be my refined, conservative, regular persona…

The beginning of dinner

“TONIGHT,” Max bellowed, “YOU DO SHOTS. WE ALL DO SHOTS,” he commanded, and jumped up to take a long slug from his bottle. And I said, oh okay, and everyone shouted MAZEL!, and the entire table threw back the first round right then. Because, peer pressure, in a thick Ukranian accent.

The spread

We were treated to a six course Russian spread. (and individual bottles of vodka) Beautiful cuisine. Absolutely awesome. Black bread, golubtsy, Pirozhki, shashlik. There was also beef tongue, which looked pretty peaceful, considering some poor cow lost its tongue and we were now laughing and drinking over it. During dinner, the bride and groom’s relatives and friends took the mic, telling funny stories and offering well wishes. After every speech, everyone took a shot. (Tradition, Max says). Even though I was cheating by only taking a few sips at a time versus downing an entire shot, I was beginning to feel the slide. You know, the slide that happens when your brain goes from “whoa, better slow down,” to “DUDE GIMME FIVE MORE SHOTS.”

Next thing I know, we're all on the dance floor. The bride and groom are engaged in the Horah, and then other people start Horah-ing for the hell of it. Some were unsuccessful, and when they fell out of the chair and hit the floor, they basically started doing rhythm-less forms of drunk break dancing. I salsa danced with a 90 year old man in a walker, while people egged us on. Very emotional men interrupted the music to cry out tributes and recite poetry from the Old Country. The band belted out Michael Jackson’s “Rock With You,” complete with Russian lyrics. Some dude was grooving on the dance floor in his tuxedo shirt, tie, socks, shoes, and underwear. NO PANTS. We never found out what happened to his pants. Texas couple secured a corner and dry humped each other for the rest of the night. Max partied so hard he accidentally stepped on his wife’s foot and broke her ankle. 

MESS.

(taken sometime before/after dance floor)

POST RECEPTION

After six hours of hardcore partying with The Russians, it was clear I couldn’t drive. I could barely make it back and forth to the ladies room. But knowing myself and tendencies, earlier in the evening I’d sent a text to an Ex, letting him know I was in his neck of the woods for a wedding, and would give him a call once done. And anyone who knows me, knows that’s code for head’s up, I’ll probably be sloshed in a few hours and will need you to pick me up so I can crash at your place tonight. 

  

So I ring up said Ex, and slur into my cell phone: “Hey, want to come up here for a drink or two? You’re totally invited…” He shows up in twenty minutes, sternly eyeing me and shaking his head. “What’s up with this dress?” he asks. “You look like a fancy napkin..” I tell him to shut up and pull him into the party mix, introduce him around. 

“Hey everybody, this is my Ex. He’s not getting any ass tonight, I just needed a ride….” Roars of laughter erupt, and soon enough Ex and Max begin shotting, for who knows how long. I was napping on a bar stool when Ex tapped me on the shoulder, and led me to the valet. I fell asleep in the car.

 EX’s HOUSE

“Good lord, I’m gonna be sick,” I say, two steps inside his doorway. “Have any Pelligino?” He says no, but goes to fetch me a Ginger Ale instead. I hate Ginger Ale. He knows I hate Ginger Ale. Ginger Ale makes me sick, even when un-intoxicated. “Just drink some,” he hands it to me, all pushy like. I sing, “oookaayy” and take a few sips, then promptly upchuck all over his hardwood floor. And this WAS ALWAYS OUR PROBLEM. Him always thinking he knew what was best for me, and always being totally WRONG. 

I head to the bathroom in silence. Peel out of my STUPID DRESS, brush teeth, and climb into his bed in my bra and panties. As I floated off to sleep, I heard Ex making sounds in the kitchen, readying to clean up the mess I left on his floor, one could only assume. I’m pretty sure he slept on the couch. 

When I woke up, there was a bottle of Perrier next to me on the nightstand. (Awww.) (But see – stubborn. Because, didn’t I ask for a Pelligrino?) We lightly fussed about the others annoying ways, while I got dressed so he could drive me back to my car. He dropped me off, eager to go for his morning run. I couldn’t wait to get home, destroy my dress, and snatch the bun off my head. 

Almost a week later I sent a simple text to Ex: Thanks for the Ginger Ale. xoxo

I even documented the whole thing when I posted this:

When recounting the wedding story to one of my friends, especially the fiasco resulting after too many vodka shots, he calmly summarized that THIS IS WHY WE SANCTION THE RUSSIANS. (Very clever, You.)

And since then, Ex has been blowing up my cell, inquiring when we can grab some dinner. Like, blowing me up non-stop. All this, even after I used him for a ride and a crash spot and vomited on his floor.  Since when did being a drunk mess start being a turn on? 

Ladies, are we on to something here?

The Summer of Fuckery: Installment One

C.A.W.

Summer  2008 will forever be known as the glorious, exciting, harrowing time I went completely off the rails. Alas, it was the first time since my rebellion filled adolescence that I consciously went rogue, and decided to give no fucks about the societal impositions that suggested how I should be living my life.

It also helped establish the C.A.W. movement, but more on that later.

After a particular mentally bleak winter, June had swung around and my birthday was finally on the horizon. I’d completed a year of self-imposed celibacy to get my mind right about a variety of shit, and was game and ready for action.

Basically, I was determined to get laid.

Looking back, I approached this goal with all the subtlety of a grizzly bear - ravenous and on the hunt.  To this day, I firmly believe there was some funky planetary alignment going down, combined with an undetected pheromone leak into the balmy Los Angeles basin. This unique set of circumstances also propelled me into my first full-scale manpage.©  (Similar to a rampage: a manpage is a course of wild and uncontrollable behavior involving exclusively the male species.) .

I'd decided to up my inner vamp, sex kitten, femme fatale game. Which in layman’s terms, meant I spent the entirety of the summer acting like a big ole’ happy slut.

There were the usual recruitment activites: happy hours on hotel rooftops, Taco Tuesdays, sports bars, jazz lounges, Throwback Thursday’s, reggae night, salsa Sundays. I turned into a vicious flirt on every dance floor, veranda, and bar stool. I drug my girls along; made them accomplices to my fuckery, and ignored all rational advice. I sized up every dude within eyesight; praying to stumble across a bootleg version of Idris. (no dice) But if some guy met even the minimum attractiveness quotient, had a nice grill, and didn't say anything too ridiculous, he was hastily promoted to the front of the list.

There were a flurry of prospects.  Plenty were weeded out early on by their mere stupidity, cluelessness, boring ass drag, or questionable sexuality.  I’d engaged in the kissing game with a few, but none had inspired me to full on attack. Then, just as I was about to online shop for wine and dildos – he appeared. A shiny new someone.  He was a colleague, a fresh transfer from another department - tall and athletic, perfect teeth, quasi-metro swag, with sun-kissed bronze skin of the Latin persuasion.  We were introduced, and he could clearly observe something up with me, considering I shook his hand a little too long while politely eye-fucking him.

Turns out he was intelligent and fun and mischievious, and seemingly ready to come outside and play. A week later, we had our first martini lunch date. Screwing around at work was an all-around horrible idea, and so of course, I proceed with a quickness.

Fast forward a month. Our liasions had included fondling in the botanical garden, kissing in an elevator, and pawing each other in the parking garage after sundown. I’d told him all about my celibacy jaunt, and current mission. He was amused, which was cute – but all I really needed to know was if he was down. I laid it all out, like a business proposal. No drama, no regrets, all enjoyment.

We kissed on it, and promised to be discreet.

Our version of being discreet was holing up in my office the next day for lunch, where a variety of adult shenanigans quickly went down. Necking and groping ensued. His pants dropped, my bra unclicked. I slipped him the foil packet I’d secreted in my skirt. It was all so exciting, risky, and we were intoxicated with anticipation, and dammit I was finally about to get laid; and then this whole scene was completely eviscerated when some student worker barreled into my office and busted us in the (almost) act, approximately ten seconds later.

My goofy, horny ass forgot to lock the door.

I was fucked. And, ironically this is what I wanted.

Right?

There was major fumbling, a few "oh shit" and "sorries" offered as we regrouped. The student worker shot back out the door, to bleach his stunned eyes no doubt. And me? I hid in my office the rest of the afternoon, ignoring multiple texts from my would-be lover to meet with him after work. I couldn't do it, my high was completely ruined. The dude from the mailroom had seen my tits, for christ's sake.

Later that eve: Completely demoralized, I recounted the grisly details to my girls. I prepared myself for the laughter and ridicule; how the infamous retellings of my latest dick fail would go down.

One of my consigliere’s caught me completely off guard when she said:

“Sometimes we’re just nasty. Don’t feel bad. Women fought for the right to fuck around at work…”

Did we?

I remember the suffrage movement, and then that Lilly Ledbetter Act, but..

She went on: “Fuck ‘em. It’s your damn right if you want to get a little cock at work. You better walk in with your head held high tomorrow. If you get shit from anybody - start a protest. Fight for your fucking around rights at work. We can print up T-shirts, create a logo, throw up a website; the whole nine.”

My eyes narrowed, thinking of a name for this suddenly righteous campaign.

“Cock at work?”  I offered.

“Hell yeah," she answered. "Cock At Work.”

And with this the C.A.W. movement was born. Now when any of my crew is thinking about a tryst with a fellow co-worker – we recount my cautionary tale, then start a shrieking chorus of: caw caw caw,  like the sound of a raven swooping down mercilessly on its prey. It is both a warning and rallying cry.

It means: Get yours, girl!

But first, lock the damn door.

Twenty-Twice: The Chronicles

And so it's been said that "Life Begins at 40," and "The 40's are the new 30's,"  "The 20's are the New Zygotes," to infinity and beyond.  But I've stumbled on a brand new phenomenon that puts all the other bullshit mantras to shame.

Ever since arriving into 4-OH! territory, the shift in my universe has been titanic. I'm talking increased enthusiasm, creativity, and energy. I'm talking the horniness of a sixteen year old boy. And my lifestyle habits? A pure 180. I eat Fruit Loops for dinner. Take pole dancing and salsa lessons for exercise. I'm juggling lunch dates, dinner dates, martini dates. Pulling all nighters, and nursing wicked hangovers in my office the next day. My girls and I text incessantly about the next hang-out or happy hour. It generally appears that I cannot sit the fuck down.

I'm acting like some wayward twenty year old, yes?

Precisely. Because I AM twenty years old.  Twice.

Yes, goddamnit: Twenty-Twice. The new adult version of adolescence. Or as it pertains to me:  Mommy Gone Rouge. Now that my spawn have been raised and deemed acceptable to participate in society, I've got freedom and no curfew. I roam around unsupervised; spending loads of time purposely accosting trouble.  It's all pretty radical.

A decade ago, I'd be in bed with a book by 10pm.

Now the fact that a portion of my personality has been stunted since age 22, might play a small role. Right after college, I enrolled in an Accelerated Life Course called the One Fell Swoop Plan. Meaning, I dove head first into the trenches of husband, home, offspring, career and all its trappings before the rickety old age of 30.

Good times, they were. A wonderful and terrifying crash course. (My sanity was nearly totalled.)

So, suffice it to say I crammed in loads of  grown up experience at warp speed. I've done the wife thing, the motherhood thing, the existential crisis thing; the divorce thing, the self-destructive thing, the nervous breakdown thing.  The recovery, healing, and reinvention things.

Now I'm mastering in Advanced Life Studies and feeling pretty fearless. One could say I'm in a furious state of becoming. Only now I'm receiving lectures from my twenty-one year old son about responsibility, and the courtesy of making a simple call when I won't be home for dinner.

Hot child in the city.

Oh, and I'm not alone. My girls are experiencing it too.

"We're called 'The Regressives,' Amy Sohn explains. " With our children now school-aged, our marriages (now over), or entering their second decade.... we're behaving like a bunch of crazy twentysomething hipsters."

Especially now - since we have wisdom, confidence, and a bit of financial stability on our sides. Did I mention we look (and feel) better than we did in our 20's? We've evolved into intelligent, charismatic, ballsy bitches with senses of humor and lots of swag. No more school-girl insecurities. Most of our hang-ups have been smoothed out by experience, forgiveness,  and self-acceptance. And really good therapists.  We know the cornerstones of a healthy existence involves the gym, the spa, the winery, and ultrahot sex. And occasionally, some high quality cannibus.

We're hot. We're horny. We're here.

We're renaissance women. Who understand the importance of building financial portfolios, continuing our educations, and keeping a properly stocked slut bag. Boss chicks; who bump to Wiz and proclaim yolo in between business meetings, cocktailing, and corporate life.

Hell yeah, fuckin' right.

So this is where I chronicle my Twenty-Twice ruminations, challenges, and exploits (along with a few guest appearances.)  And stay tuned ya'll, 'cause I'm totally benjamin buttoning this shit.

For the first glimpse of the Twenty-Twice saga, start here.