That Chicken Could Really Sing

Note: This was written Friday night. I’m on the Amtrak home right now and in Newark, New Jersey.
Here’s what it looks like IN REAL TIME!

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Greetings from beautiful Spring Street Station in Soho. That’s in New York Ci-tay, for you uninitiated country folk. I’m having my first “girls weekend.” Not my first girls weekend since Charlie was born– I think my first girls weekend ever. I’ve never been young, you see.
I took the train from Union Station this afternoon and arrived, underdressed, at Dos Caminos in Soho around 8:30 pm. I’m here for the bridal shower and bachelorette party of my oldest friend. (Our moms were best friends & pregnant at the same time, so we’ve been pals since we were fetuses.) Charlie is at home with Andy, crying his face off and wishing his mother was more dedicated to child-rearing.

Pardon me for a moment: OH MY GOD WHY WON’T A C-TRAIN EVER COME?

As I was saying, I’m away from the baby for two full nights. I left a cold & rainy DC in my skinny maternity jeans & my purple cowl-neck maternity sweater (a.k.a. my good clothes), thinking I looked like quite the hip woman-about-town. I arrived in Manhattan to find everyone in their black, sequined clubbin’ tanks (or their white chiffon counterparts); those high-heeled booties I don’t understand; bling for miles; and pants… that actually looked a lot like mine, except for without an elastic waist band. For the record, I have that sequined tank top in my top drawer, but didn’t know where I was supposed to wear it. To here, apparently. As it was a beautiful evening in Manhattan, and hot as balls in the party-time dining establishment, my DC rainstorm-sweater was not the thing. So I stripped down to my oversized, turquoise wife-beater with a patch of baby vom on it. Classy. Everyone was drinking passionfruit margaritas, but tequila is not my drink & I opted for an IPA. (Fine, three IPAs and a glass of champagne.) But before any of this, I used my shady, manual, back-up Medela breast pump in a stall at the women’s room at Penn Station. It took 23 years and yielded 10 milliliters, which I promptly flushed down the public toilet, because I’m not lugging a travel cooler around New York for the weekend.

UPDATE: I don’t think the C train services this station this time of night. DAAAAAAMNIIIIIIIIITTTTT. I’ll take the A-Train, like that song advises.

Our dinner ended at about 11 pm, and the maid of honor / party planner then marched us next door to some bumpin’ club. So after I cane-walked up the stairs to the club with my late grandmother’s polka-dot travel bag in tow, I excused myself so that I could make it to my friends’ couch in Bed Stuy at a reasonable hour. Because 11:00 AT NIGHT is not a reasonable hour to start doing things. Come on.

The main thing I learned this evening is that it is always a good idea to hire a woman dressed as a chicken to put on a sombrero and deliver a singing telegram to the bride. Always. 10 points to the groom-to-be for making this happen.

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