On Saturday I traveled up to New York City with a few of my girlfriends. Nothing says, “klassy” like being drunk by 11:30. We are awesome. Far more awesome, I should add, than the bathroom at the Macy’s in Hearald Square. Good lord almighty, is that place a shithole. Literally. Walking in there was like walking into a sauna – that smelled like baby powder. And poop. Let me tell you something, the last thing a girl wants when she gets off a freaking New Jersey Transit train is to be in a powdery-poop smelling sauna. No good.
The best part, by far, was when the five of us had a drunk lunch at Tom Colicchio’s (from “Top Chef”) Craftbar. We easily spent 20 minutes discussing the merits of Tom Colicchio’s balls. His risotto balls. Foxy Luv went so far as to offer our waiter to go into the kitchen and thank “Mr. Colicchio” (as she called him) for his “moist and delicious balls.” The waiter was not amused. Though Foxy threatened to flip the table a la Real Housewives of New Jersey style, we were able to calm her down with promises of another drinks.
I too did my part in keeping it klassy. Sure, I may not have shouted about balls and offered Tom Colicchio a ball rub, but I did manage to steal two little signs for the handicap bathroom. Yeah, that’s right. I said it. Because you just never know when you’re going to need a “no smoking” or “employees must wash hands” sign for your guests.