Friday, May 4, 2001, 8 p.m. Weight: anybody's guess. Calories:
1,200 including the Big Mac needed to "lay the groundwork in order to avoid
late night puking," but definitely not including number of alcoholic beverages
consumed. Cigarettes: as if! Drinks: Soon to be too many to count, but with
good reason….
It was to be the perfect spring weekend for the festivities of the Annual General
Meeting of the Hash House Harriers. And trying to relieve the stress of five
fulldays under the duress of a nut-job of a boss still unable to get a clue,
I headed off to the gym before showing up at the pub crawl for the Annual Meeting
of that very posh group, the Hash House Harriers.
Finishing up the total-body conditioning class and feeling the full effect right
away, I decided to make the extra effort and run a few miles on the gym's treadmill.
The club was full, and I spotted an open machine but unfortunately, it was far
too late before I realized the error of my ways. With the treadmill still rolling
along, I jumped on and fell face first flat on to the machine and took off much
like those little white gym towels that often fly off the back. Humiliated beyond
belief, I asked the floor attendant to kindly cover me up with my towel and
sweep me into a closet. But that didn't happen until the entire aerobics class
had stopped to take a look and that cute guy that's in my Spin class noticed.
Horribly mortified, but with chin up, I cleaned myself up and headed down to
the crawl, which seemed like the perfect pace for me. There was an early pack
which included JM Roy, Aussie Sarah, Steve Brett, Fireman Bob, Crofty and me.
Quickly doing my best to catch up with the very hip and ever-so-cool Sarah,
I double-fisted two pints of Harp and dabbed a bit more alcohol on my cut-up
knee as an antiseptic before heading off to the second bar.
Friday, May 4, 2001, 10 p.m. Drinks: Four. Maybe five. Visits to the bathroom:
two, but really needed to go. Calls on cell phone: Three, but missed them all.
Bugger, caller ID says it was that highly-sought-after British bachelor with
the Porsche, but he probably just can't find the bar we're in (as if I knew…).
The pack has swelled a bit. Lesley looked lovely (I'll have to find out how
she did her hair), but young Patrick arrived bombed and almost wasn't served.
In one of the bars we requested to see the little train run, then Mike Bahamonde
showed off his air cast that he got on his leg while biking in Moab. When I
asked why he was wearing biking gloves, he showed me the blisters on his hand.
It must have been the beer talking, but I recommended that he start masturbating
more often to build up those calluses. [Note to self: Recommendation not well
received by group, except for maybe a snigger out of Roy (will I ever be able
to fit in with this group???)] Moving on, we got a John and Debbie sighting,
while Sarah's hunky hubbie and cool friends (finally) showed up. British bachelor
also showed up with Cousin Paul and Bomber and we kept moving along.
Saturday, May 5, 2001, 1 a.m. Drinks: Far too many, since I actually thought
about switching to water. Number of bars on pub crawl: Nine, but there were
only supposed to be six, thank god for Ewa, such a dear in keeping us out drinking.
Cigarettes: still holding my own with none.
Late night we end up back at the Zum, where we had recently descended in Red
Dresses all drunk and stupid. Elaine shows up in a beautiful long number after
a formal soirée of some sort. I make a mental note to make a special effort
to be her friend so that I can get invited to such affairs. Soon after, I make
a note to scratch that note as I spill a beer which ends up all over Elaine's
dress. She's not worried though, as Bomber sucks up the aftermath. It's time
to call it a night, but I hope Elaine got his phone number.
Saturday, May 5, 9 a.m. Not sure how I got home, but caller ID on phone says
I called myself at 2 a.m. from my cell to check messages on answering machine,
getting none. Soreness factor: 9 ½, but not sure if it's from the beer or the
treadmill incident.
Bugger. This morning I need to make my way up to a baby shower for best college
friend. She's a love, but her and her perfect life and that of her perfect hostess
sister who just got engaged are killing me. Try to find something to wear, but
bloody scrapped knee ruins cuteness factor of mini-skirt. Also, need to get
baby shower gift card - not before downing four Advil and a Diet Coke.
Arrive at perfect people's upper West Side apartment with awful card in hand.
Run into other perfect college buddy, Bentley, who models for Calvin Klein.
She tells me she and hubby (who I introduced her to), just bought ten-acres
upstate and are beginning to build their dream home. Later I learn that my baby
gift hadn't arrived and that every Happy-Married knows that the web site where
I did my on-line shopping went under. Ostracized as a Singleton, I grab a glass
of wine (or four) and watch the clock until it's time for me to head to the
hash.
Saturday, May 5, 4 p.m. Details of hash trail: None, as didn't run, but saw
nice trail and pack marks through Central Park and followed on my own for a
bit. Number of shots of Tequila: None, but apparently not so for the rest of
the pack (and of course, Sarah) as Annual Meeting takes on the theme of Cinqo
de Mayo.
It's a good crowd. Michele invites me to assist with t-shirt sales, and sales
are brisk (minus a few offenders), but she proves she's a goddess in this area.
Heather arrives on bicycle having pounded a place called Pound Ridge (what possesses
these cyclists, I wonder). I chat up a handful of newbie and visiting male hashers
with "potential," as well as a few of the regulars.
Group is called to order and the festivities begin with various infractions
for the day's trail and the events of the evening past, i.e., Hares, visitors,
virgins and Patrick's puking. Then the real fun starts, with annual awards,
which go to: Elaine for hellish hash marks on nearly worst trail of the year;
Bob and Ed for Couple of the Year; special mentions of poor behavior to Pat
Cuff and Deb Ulis for ditching Michele on haberdashery duties and then Deb again,
along with boyfriend John, who earn Worst Trail of the Year. Then the coveted
Asshole of the Year Award is bestowed to none-other, Ewa Mobus, for infractions
too numerous to name (but are nonetheless included in this write-up). Then,
new members of the Mis-Management Committee are brought up, we eat, drink and
are merry - until Bob, Ed and Rusty decide to flash me a moon in the hallway
and the Bee Gees start playing on the juke box. Trying to prove my cool, I lead
the group in a dance called the Hustle, but which I later realize is the Alley
Cat. Then we have a group Abba-fest, and I coax my favorite Rookie Jesse, to
stay for "just one more beer." Soon enough, the beer money runs dry and there
are discussions of whether to meet up with Stud-Fossil Hasher-of-the-Past Tyree
at the Auction House or go to the Ship of Fools, where surely we would fit in
better, given the name of the bar and our level of inebriation. In between discussions
of late-night antics, NYCH3 girls join together to keep heinous female visitors
away from our men. In the end, I have no clue who made it where, but I was glad
to make it home, safe and sound for full day of recovery ahead. I think.
Cheers!