The week end when DH and I were going to have a stay-cation in the children’s godfathers’ Chelsea pad had finally arrived. Hallelujah ! Of course the kids got a bug and were vomiting right, left and center. I was really tempted to hide that information from Archibald and Thor in fear they would bail out. But they did not – yeah! As we were leaving though G did try his best to ruin our plans by puking all over me with Archie turning paler and paler by the second and me trying to put on the most desperate fake smile in the world. G = little stinker.
Despite the drama we did manage to get to the godfathers’ place which was pristine. It is like a hotel room: the floor is free of clutter, the sofa is free from milk stains, all the cushions perfectly positioned and Thor had nicely put some brand new white slippers next to the bed for our use. Many emotions were colliding: I felt as if I could literally hear myself breathe for the first time this year, I got very envious of Thor and Archibald’s life, I was also exhilarated by all the things we could be doing tonight such as going to Le Singe Vert for a steak tartare, having cocktails in the Meatpacking district or go dancing in a gay bar. Possibilities were endless. But sheer exhaustion led us to curl up on the sofa and watch the pilot episode of Homeland. Of course I drifted away before the end. I was planning a great night sleep but my body had been trigged by having children. It is like having this white noise machine trapped in your body except that it does not play ‘rain in a tropical forest’ but ‘babies from hell’. I woke up at 1m, 4am and 6am expecting to hear someone cry or nurse someone. What a moron. I also kept checking up my iPhone for updates about the kids. Totally insane.
At 9am I finally got some news. The kids were having a blast. But the godfathers had a not so good night and I suspected they turned into god-bots and lost their brains some time between 1am and 4am as L was having his ‘let’s get the party started’ tantrum.
To the question ‘How many expressos did you take?’ The answer was ‘3, 4, 5…Not sure it’s all a blur’.
To the question ‘How well did they eat their lunch?’ The answer was ‘yeah, kind of ok…Not sure it’s all a blur’.
To the question ‘How often are they pooping?’ The answer was ‘Loads but…Not sure it’s all blur’.
The pinnacle was when I received this text message: Our friend Quentin might join in the morning to help out. He’s a doctor (gynecologist) so should be of use!
It was hysterical to think that to them, my kids might be as scary as (or scarier than) a vagina. I was not going back home so bring on gynecologists, chiropractors or Tae Kwon Do masters for all I care. I was not going home! Scared that they might summon us to get our arses back to Harlem our day became a marathon: lunch at Rosemary’s (yummy Octopus Salame), (disastrous) pool game, mani pedi for DH and chair massage for me, dinner at a Lao restaurant with child free girlfriends with high flying jobs. Very inspiring and a little depressing.
Finally we crashed a birthday party in the basement of an Art Gallery in Lower East Side. And that’s when I started to feel that I was coming back to reality. It was a typical New York party. Cool and unexpected venue. Check. Lots of booze and crackers to feed you.DJ. Check. Legions of young pretty girls with goddesses’ bodies and ‘blirts’ aka belt skirts (note: ladies, straight up your act. With your hot bodies, try cigar pants and a crisp tight shirt or a tux blazer with a white Tee. This could be sexy. Walking like a crab in spasm because you are wearing a belt skirt and endless stilettos IS NOT.). Check. Drugs (I suspect lots). Check. Attitude. Check. Too much attitude. Check. Fun. Oh yeah check and double check.
Oh boy, people were so stylish it was sickening. Now I understood what Archibald meant when he said ‘I’m never going onto a gay cruise. I cannot bear the thought of tucking my belly in for seven days. Too tiring…’ Bloody hell I was trying to hold in my belly all night long and I would have probably fainted if I had not been freaking over people swirling their glasses of red wine over original artwork by Keith Haring. Seriously one spill and I was out. Too skinned to pay for damages. It went from bad to worse when DH and my girlfriends started to sit on an inflatable mattress (the only chairs of the party) and yawn. If people did not know we were old before, now they knew. When we finally decided to leave the party like Cinderella or should I say like Cinderella’s granny, one of the guests tried to convince us to stay: ‘Oh no, too bad, my friend called me from another party and said he and Sting may come over’ . Me thinking: least subtle name dropping ever. DH asked: ‘Oh yeah? Is he bringing his guitar?’. Me thinking: DH is a dork! God, we have to leave now!!!
As we were heading towards the subway, laughing and admitting that Lower East Side was awesome but way too wild for us I said to my girlfriends: ‘years ago, I would have stayed, emptied all the wine glasses, tried to snog Sting or his wife and might not have left this party alive. But now…Well, Sting is not going to help me change the kids’ diapers when I get home tomorrow morning, is he?’
P.S.: Two days after the party it suddenly hit like a ton of bricks that the theme ‘Magic party’ did not actually imply that there was going be a magician but was referring to psychotropic fungi…I am such a loser.