Martinis & Oily Bohunks: A Night Out With My Family & Members of My Church Choir

Today I shared the link for this site with two of my favorite people and much to my chagrin; my Uncle Tom, or Unc as I call him, said he wouldn't mind being the "butt" of one of my stories. Well, I don't think he gets that title in this one, but he is definitely my costar.  

This one's for you, Unc...

Now, it's helpful to know in the beginning here, that my Uncle Tom is my dad's youngest brother and while this apple didn't fall too far from the tree, people sometimes wondered if my dear brother and I hadn't been part of a different branch. If you know what I mean and I think you do.  Yeah, we are frighteningly like Uncle Tom.  Our inappropriate sense of humor is a dead ringer for his and our ability to make a  mockery about the most serious of topics has always caught people off guard. 

This tale starts with me at the tender age of 21 driving from where I studied in Lock Haven, PA to the suburbs of Pittsburgh.  For what, you ask? A yearly pilgrimage to Uniontown, PA with my dad and my church choir. Seriously, I'm not making this up. My church was an interesting blend of traditional and, well, completely bizarre.  We had all the normal stuff; Sunday School, choir practice and the occasional too long sermon, but we also had a hall--with a bar--with a liquor license.  Yeah, sounds interesting, right? Believe me, it is.  Great people too. I grew up with at least eight sets of honorary grandparents, which believe me, when my birthday rolled around was sa-weet!  Ah, back to trek westward on I-80. It's a crumby drive and more often than not (including this trip) landed me in a heap of debt via a friendly Pennsylvania State Trooper, but when all was said and done, I made it to Unc's house where I was welcomed, as always with people hugs and doggy kisses. My Uncle Tom and Aunt Bobbie always had food and booze to great me and their company was one word: primo.  

My father called to inform me that we'd all be going to dinner at Monterey Bay Fish Grotto, which I have to admit made the speeding ticket totally worth it! So, having gotten done up for a 4 Star dinner, we piled into the car and met up with my grandfather and his wife, Gertie, for drinks at bar while waiting for my parents and the choir members. There would be 14 of us total for dinner, so take a moment and imagine that amount of alcohol I'm about to ingest while we wait--go ahead. I'll wait. Yeah, it's about to go down Holy Ghost style.  

While at the bar, being the little explorer that I am, I came across a "Specialty Martini" list.  Oooooooohhh! These look like fun, I thought. Just then, I heard it--

"Ezmeralda, do you want one of those?" Yes, my Pap Pap called me all sorts of nicknames, but Ezermalda was because I was a wild little gypsy as a child apparently. Not much has changed actually.  I picked a Watermelon Martini off the list and thanked my Pap Pap for my drink while clinking glasses with his vodka tonic.  

So, while waiting for our group to arrive, I played Russian Martini Roulette to see which ones were with best and on arrival of my parents and visiting choir members--I finished off the list.  Eleven in total, all while the other 13 members of this little party enjoyed their Manhattans and scotches and God-knows-what-elses.  

Yes, it's far to say that we were all feeling no pain by the time dinner rolled around.  The table was long to accommodate a party of our size and I took my customary seat between my father and my uncle and near enough to my grandfather that I could tell him about school and answer all of his questions about my studies (not that I was in any condition to do so).  As dinner progressed, the conversation turned to my parents' upcoming 26th wedding anniversary and how I, as good child, had arranged for them to renew their wedding vows at church.  Yeah, wrong topic of conversation when you have Unc and I sitting next to each other.  

Why? Oh, I'll tell you why. 

Have you ever seen 16 Candles?  Oh, you have? Yeah, so have we--somewhere in the neighborhood of 100 times.  This is how it went...

Unc: Where are they doing this?

Me: At da chuch! Dey getting maddied!

Unc: MADDIED?

Me: Yeah, MADDIED! Jeesh!

My mom and Aunt Bobbie by this time were laughing both with and at us, but my father (who has a limited base of knowledge with movies of the 80's) was completely stupefied. This led to him saying, "What?" over and over and to us taking this insanity further with, 

Me: She getting maddied to oily BOhunk!

Dad: What? 

Unc: She getting maddied to oily BOhunk!

...and on and on until we could take it no more. My dad finally just laughed with us, but even that night when we were on the way back to Unc's house, he and I were in stitches while Aunt Bobbie drove us home to avoid us needing actual stitches. 

I guess I remember this night for a lot of reasons, even 11 years later.  I spent some serious QT with the family that weekend and it was great.  It wasn't terribly long after that that my Pap got sick again, so I remember him being so healthy and fun then.  And that thoroughly confused look on my dad's face was priceless.  I only get to go to Pittsburgh to see the family once or twice a year, but the next time I go home, I'm asking Papa K if we can do a dinner at good old Monterey Bay and Unc's part of the deal.  End of story. 

In case you needed a reminder of the brilliance of any scene featuring The Donger and Jake Ryan--here's all you need to know: 

Peer Pressure, Ain't It a Bitch?

Well, folks you must all be wondering why we're here. If you're not wondering, then why are YOU here? I  suppose it's a moot point, I'm here and it's nice that you're here.  

Anyway--I'm here because my best friend decided that all the inane stories I tell her on the phone needed to be shared with the general population.  Also, I need a creative outlet. Oh, I could paint I suppose, but I'm a horrid painter.  Or I could take up skeet shooting, but living in a city, that doesn't seem like the best idea.  Don't get me wrong, I have things to do that I love when I'm not working. I read, I bake, I randomly break out into song in my kitchen, but I need something more.  So, here I am.

In honor of my best friend, Christina (you'll be seeing a lot of her name here), I give you the story of New Years Ever 1999.

Winters are cold "as a witches thorax" in Philadelphia, so we are pretty limited in our New Years Eve plans. We can't really slut it up the way they can in warmer climates, not that either of us would (me being a homegrown, American chubby girl and Christina having good taste), so we took Option B.  What's Option B, you ask?  A private party at a family run establishment where everyone knows our names--and yes, they're always glad we came.  

Having been promised a designated driver to get us home safely, Chris and I partook in a few shots courtesy of the bottle of Stoli I'd boosted from my parents' wet bar and the lemon we'd snuck up to her room.  Then, feeling warm and tingly via the lemon drops, we proceeded to the bar. After several more hours of drinks and a ride home (while trying to keep up the pretense that we weren't drunk) from Chris' mother, we decided that it was a good idea to go to bed.

Now, 84% of drunks would fall asleep on the floor, right? Well, not these drunks.  After a few moments of testing which direction the room was spinning in, I was informed that there was a futon mattress in the basement! "If we carry it up here, you can sleep on that!"  

I thought this sounded brilliant!  Don't judge me. I was 18 and had a fifth of Stoli in me. 

As stealthily as possible for two intoxicated teens, we picked our way down two flights of stairs and found the futon.  It really did look comfy and in hindsight, I was probably drunk enough that I could've slept in the basement and not cared, but alas, the plan was in motion and so were we.  

Together, we heaved and hoisted this hunk of dead weight up the basement stairs.  Once there, we pulled and tugged our way to the other stairs, all while trying to stop the giggles and jokes about moving dead bodies.  That was when everything changed! 

For the second leg of the journey, that mattress took on so much extra weight! It was suddenly so heavy and only now, over ten years later do I realize two things...

1. Gone were our liquid muscles

2. Gone too was the adrenaline rush that goes with the booze and giggle fits...

I soon realized something else, though--We had an audience. Yup, Mrs P was home from ferrying the rest of the drunks home and was now watching up try to pull a mattress up her stairs.  We looked at one another and made a pact right there, to try our best to look or at least act sober, and at the time, we thought that we did a pretty damn good job.  Ahh, to be young and ignorant to my own shenanigans again.

Finally, after a lot of work, we made it to the bedroom and into our jammies and bed.  

It's a story that we still tell people and it's one that still amuses us to no end, although we may be biased.

I learned something that night. After six years of friendship I learned that she is truly my person.  In the words of those dopey bitches on Grey's Anatomy, "She's my person. If there was a dead body in my livingroom, she's the person I'd call to help me move it."  Surely, if two 18-year-old kids can move that mattress, we could move a body. Either way--She's my person and that's what got me here.