Saturday is now officially bone-crunching, stone-hauling, back-breaking, working day. When I first signed up for that blessed ESL teaching stint, I never realized that half of my weekend would get so cramped up and spill into Sunday, which I’d waste writing in this blog and trying to get rid of a hangover.
I did not take spring fever into account. My phone rings, my friends make plans, my sister visits, my parents shop, my cousins run and I go crazy trying to find a quiet corner and two minutes to read some useless whodunnit novel that I forget as soon as I finish. People want to party and they want to party now.
This particular Saturday, I found myself in a marathon again. I woke up energized, still pumped from Grindhouse the night before and set to teach my dear 60 year old pupils yet another piece of English, once I cleared up their minds from that “brain incontinence” nonsense, and taught them how to speak without mumbling.
I had also promised my friend to help with her fashion show, so I overcame my fears and tribulations over the fat rolls, big hair and espadrille lacetied shoes, and went with her to help. A shout out to Miss D. and Miss F., the best part of my gene pool.
We were showered and dressed, we found the place on time, and a parking spot in Wall Street, on a Saturday evening. And there the miracles ended.
The wimpy doorman decided we were not good enough to get into the party on our own recognisance, and we had the wrong directions (thanks to a mindless secretary). He kept us waiting and frantically calling the party people for more than half an hour. Then he suggested we were in the wrong place and should possibly look for a Brooklyn address. Excuseee meee? I yelled at him, he snivelled at the party host, and we were all ushered into the party before we could do further damage.
The party was at the terrace with “real grass’ and a killer view of downtown Manhattan, but I was not about to take lip from the scareddy cat host, who appareantly did not have enough clout to throw the party in the open, but was doing it “on the sly”. I do not care whether people make enough money to afford a two bitty piece flat in a doorman building in Wall Street and open a fake tan account, I draw the line at being talked down at and treated like the little match seller (Andersen). I was there to do work for free, so do not pick a fight if you do not have the nuts to see it through.
Anyway, after free drinks and apologies of some sort, we were calmed enough to go around and enjoy whatever party was happening (it does not hold a candle to our fun), and prepare the models for the show. Of course, once it was my friends turn, the party got busted and they all went inside like the good little highschool kids they were. Unbeliavable. The models decided to walk anyway so they did and showed the dresses, escorted by their very own loud mouth (yours truly). If we have to burn bridges, we make sure the fire is unforgettable. And that the host is kicked out by the residents board for a party he did not even enjoy.
We were mad, pumped and made up, so we gathered our faithful crowd, and partied until 3.00AM in CAVOS (Astoria) ending it all with a cute waiter and tasty souflaki in Uncle Georges.
The moral Boys and Girls?
1. Never back down in front of jerks, no matter how high up they live.
2. If you gotta go down, go down with a bang.
3. Choose comfortable shoes and do not leave your jacket in the car.
4. At the club, sit on the woofer for good vibrations.
5. Drink vodka straight up, any other combinations guarantees headaches and no fun.
6. Be grateful for your unbelievable supporting friends.
Eh, I need to see Grindhouse again.