by Mamrie Hart
The hotel lobby was packed full of people, and I did my best to act natural, which was next to impossible. The only thing I can compare it to is being an extra in a movie. A few years later, in my early twenties, I would pick up work as a background actor to make a little cash, and I was consistently horrible at it. Let’s say the scene was at Starbucks and I was supposed to put sugar in my coffee. A totally normal action that I do every day, right? Well, as soon as that director would yell, “Action!” I would forget how to act like a human. I would pick up the sugar and look at it like a caveman seeing fire for the first time. Super casual.
This is how I was acting in the lobby, trying to remember how to walk normally—a function I have performed since I was eight months old (#talentedbaby #dontbejealous). At one point I said out loud, “I am walking through the lobby right now.” Awkward or not, I strutted all the way through that lobby in my floor-length tan suede coat. You see, this was the winter that I decided to dress exclusively like Kate Hudson in Almost Famous. I’m talking bohemian blouses, long skirts, and those long suede coats with the fur trim. That was my uniform. I felt super Penny Lane, except that my fur was faux and I hadn’t nabbed it from a rock star boyfriend. Mine was from T.J.Maxx. Ain’t no shame in my money-saving game.
We miraculously got to the Garden and regrouped our brains before heading in. Tickets? Check. ID? Check. Possible oncoming stroke? Check. Wait, what? Am I having a stroke? I definitely smell something burning, which is a known sign of an oncoming stroke.
“Does anyone else smell burning?” They just laughed and pointed at me. Oh my god. I’m having a stroke. I have an allergy to mushrooms and the side effect is strokes. Just as I was about to call 9-1-1, Melissa brought me back to reality. “Mametown, chill. You aren’t having a stroke. You just lit yourself on fire.” Phew, I just—what the fuck! I looked down and from the way I was holding my cigarette, I’d just straight-up set my fur trim on fire. Cut to me rolling around on the corner of Thirty-third and Eighth. So much for keeping a low profile.
We made it to the show with a few minutes to spare, taking that time to buy beers the size of our heads. And thank God they were huge, because we basically all had to take out second mortgages to buy them. Just as we were about to head to our seats, Hayley stopped us.
“Shall we?” she asked, pulling out three shiny chocolates from her coat pocket. You would’ve thought they were the last Willy Wonka golden tickets, judging from the squeals we let out. We jumped up and down as our sacred Bud Lights spilled all over us. But in a moment of clarity, we decided it was necessary to play it cool and eat them in the bathroom, as if anyone could tell what they were. Obviously the smartest choice for us was to wait in line, then all go into the handicap stall together. Not at all suspicious.
Now, I had never been to a Flaming Lips show before, but I had seen one on TV. Massive balloons bounce around the audience. Beautiful projections are displayed in time with the music. Wayne, the front man, even walks over the audience in a giant bubble ball like a hamster. It’s a sight to see even if you’re stone-cold sober. And at this point (let’s be honest) I was, in fact, “tripping ballz.”
So, there we were. The entire spectacle was happening all around us. They played “Do You Realize??” with a huge time-lapsed sunset projected behind them. The three of us had our arms around each other and swayed to the music. I looked to my right at Hayley and saw a single tear running down her cheek.
They played a few more songs as we danced awkwardly, and then it was time for the big New Year’s Eve countdown. The entire arena shouted together—a little too early, if you ask me.
Twenty! Nineteen! Eighteen!
Who starts counting down at twenty? It’s like being at a surprise party and hiding when the birthday boy leaves the office five miles away. My knees are way too fucked up to be crouching that long. Just as we were rounding single digits in the countdown, a random teenage boy approached us.
“Excuse me. I know this is super dumb but I’m here with my sister and have no one to kiss at midnight. I was wondering if—”
Before Hayley and Melissa had the chance to tell him to fuck off, I screamed, “Get on in this chick gumbo!” then grabbed all of their faces for an awkward epic four-way kiss as the clock struck midnight.
The cutie, taken back, mumbled thank you and walked away with a smile from ear to ear. It was magical. We listened to a few more songs while repeatedly being yelled at by ushers to not dance in the aisles, then decided to peace out before it ended.
We stopped outside, as I lit a cigarette. “Chick gumbo? Mamie, what the hell is chick gumbo?” Hayley asked.
I shrugged. “No idea. But we gave that kid a story. And hopefully he didn’t give us herpes.” I took a long drag off my cigarette, celebrating the fact that I could still crack a joke despite having crazy brain.
“Umm, Mametown?” Melissa said. “Hate to interrupt but you are on fire again.”
I wasn’t falling for it. “Yeah, right. Like that would ever happen twice.”
She went on. “If you aren’t on fire, what’s that smell, then?” Sonofabitch. I smelled it too. Sure enough, I looked down to see my fur trim blazing again, and I proceeded to stop, drop, and roll. My signature move of the night.
Once I was completely extinguished, we embarked on our journey back to the hotel. Yes, it was only one block away. But seriously, when you are on mushrooms, tying your shoe can turn into a two-hour adventure. I distinctly remember asking a horse cop what breed his ride was, to which he replied, “Horse.” To which I replied, “A little, but only because I was screaming at the concert ’cause of all the mushrooms.”
As we entered the lobby, I reminded my friends, “Be cool.” Meanwhile, my jacket was still lightly smoking. (Ahh! A smoking jacket! I wish I would’ve made that pun that night. Guess I’ll have to wait till the next time I set myself on fire.) We made it through the sea of bitches in sequins and squeezed into the elevator as it was closing.
There were three guys already in the elevator, and we lined up in front of them. It was dead silent. Now, elevators are always awkward. That’s a given. Whenever I am in an elevator with one other person, it doesn’t matter if it’s a hot UPS deliveryman or an old lady with three poodles, I always picture us making out as the doors close. This is the kind of fucked-up mentality you develop when you watch too many romantic comedies. I also think that most women meet their dream man by being clumsy, and anything can be solved with a dance montage. Thanks a lot, Cameron Diaz!
As soon as I heard the ding of the elevator doors closing, I visualized a three-on-three make-out session and couldn’t stop giggling. The rest of the elevator was completely silent, which made me giggle even more. I briefly considered asking the guys if they wanted some chick gumbo, but I decided against it (thank gawd). Even imagining asking them made me laugh even harder, but with my mouth closed. I felt like a kid in church who has heard someone fart. You want to crack up but you know your mom will slap you. My cheeks went flush.
“I am burning the fuck up in here—anybody else?” I asked, hoping to break the awkwardness.
“Maybe you’re on fire again,” Hayley replied matter-of-factly.
I looked down earnestly to make sure. “Nope. I’m good.” This elicited zero reaction from the guys behind us. Nada.
Finally we reached our floor, and immediately fell out of the elevator and lost our shit. I’m talking, on the floor, army-crawling while laughing. I was laughing so hard that I started to pee my pants, which made me laugh even harder.
“I just peed my fucking paaaaants!” I exclaimed.
“Then take them off!” one of the girls yelled.
Take them off? Brilliant. The girls started chanting, “Take it off! Take it off!” as I got down to my bra and panties. That’s when I noticed the carpet again.
“It really does look like it’s dancing,” I said in awe.
“It�
��s fucking beautiful,” Melissa added. Then, as if on cue, we began singing “Do You Realize??” to the carpet, swaying back and forth as I stood in my skivvies. By the time we got to the second verse and Hayley’s single tear started making its encore appearance, someone cleared his throat.
We looked behind us to see the three dudes from the elevator. “Ummm, excuse us.” They had seen the entire thing, and they were not at all amused. Which, calm down, three dudes, it’s NYE in NYC. Like, don’t go to New Orleans on Fat Tuesday to check out the ironwork. They scooted past us, hugging the wall like they were on the edge of a building. Granted, we looked like rejects from a Hunter S. Thompson–themed strip club.
I picked up my pants and we booked it down the hall and into our room. “Guyz, I have a brilliant idea,” I said as Melissa and Hayley lay on the bed plotting how to get food to the room without having to leave the bed. “Why don’t we fill up the tub with all that shitty champagne we brought? We can ring in the New Year bathing in champagne. That’s gotta be good luck or some shit.”
I didn’t even wait for their reaction before I began unwrapping the foil off the bottles. I was ready to get fancy. Bathing in champagne sounded like something Marie Antoinette would do. That, and have crazy hair, and insist people eat cake. I could get on board with that.
One by one, I dumped the champagne bottles, excited for such a lavish nightcap. I called to the girls to come in. “You ready for luxury?” I asked as the last of the bubbly poured into the tub. They looked at my masterpiece for a few seconds, then Melissa spoke.
“That’s, like, four inches deep.” And she was right. All that champagne, all those bottles combined, only added up to a few yellowish inches. A few unimpressive yellowish inches. It looked like a toddler’s bath after he’d taken a whiz in it. Hayley and Melissa went back to the bedroom to continue their mission for snacks. I’m telling you, when you are on mushrooms even the simplest tasks feel like an adventure. Them talking about how to get pizza sounded like a plot to take down the Soviet Army.
“Y’all are missing out!” I shouted as I peeled off my panties and lowered myself into the cold tub. I’m going to be honest with you, dear readers. It wasn’t the most comfortable experience. I wouldn’t recommend it at all, actually. It was cold as shit, and the bubbles didn’t so much tickle my skin as they made my crotch burn. But in that moment, I didn’t care. I wanted to remember this New Year’s Eve, with its music and its adventure. All that setting myself on fire had turned me into a phoenix rising from the ashes. I sat in that shallow champagne birdbath and thought to myself, This year is going to be good. I can feel it. . . . Or maybe that’s the mushrooms talking.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have so many people to thank, or “give props to,” as the kids say, for helping this book become a real thing.
First and foremost I want to thank my Internet peoples. You know who you are. The views, the gifs, the comments, the seats at live shows, and the general positive energy you throw my way daily is so very appreciated. Y’all are the raddest group to have backing me up, and I want you to raise both hands right now and high-five yourself. . . . Do it. . . . I’ll wait. . . .
My friends. Maegan, Melissa, Hayley, Ashleigh, Erika, Joselyn, and Kirby for letting me share stories about them and also making sure that I survived those moments in real life! Everyone thinks their friends are the shit, but mine really are, and I am forever grateful to them for accepting and even encouraging my crazy.
A special friends shout-out to Hannah and Grace. You guys are as supportive as you are inspiring. I really won the ultimate scratch off of friendship, and I am going to stop because I know how Grace feels about sincerity. Y’all are my bras to the titties of life. #ohhohhhpartygirl
My family for allowing me to share a peek into the unique freakness that is us. Mom, Dad, Anne, Dave, and Annie. Although I can’t remember if I actually got permission, so I am going to keep things moving. . . .
Extra huge thank-you to Keal for being my number one across the board in all categories. BFF, BF, BB (Beanz Butler). Thank you for always having my back when I need you, and refilling my wine when I REALLY need you. xo
My team. Vincent, CC, Cait, for putting so much time and trust into a woman who makes the majority of her living off taint jokes.
My editor, Kate Napolitano, for always being on the same wave length and for not only letting me let it all hang out in this first book, but always telling me to “Mamrie-ify” it.
And finally, BEANZ HART. Yes, I am thanking my dog. You might say dogs can’t read and this is pointless and I say, FUCK OFF. Beanz, thank you for accompanying me on all my writing retreats to Palm Springs and always being super stoked when you see me even if I’ve only been gone for five minutes.
*If you are just pretending to be interested in it so you can eventually drop a deuce in their bathroom, you’re not fooling anyone!
*Did you know that spell-check makes you capitalize the word Internet? I’m sorry, Sir Internet, I didn’t realize how formal we needed to be. I’ve surfed you while using my bare chest as a burrito plate, but I’ll respect your new status position.
*Or still casually trying to take that shit in the bookstore. Honestly, buddy, just go. No one is paying that much attention to you. Drop the ego.
*“What’s the deal with airplane snack prices? I know we are twenty thousand feet in the air, but does that mean the prices have to skyrocket?” —my Jerry Seinfeld impression
*Don’t you miss the days when you could get out of anything by mentioning your period? It’s like boys in high school confuse the menstrual cycle with leprosy.
*If this is not already a drag queen’s name, you guys need to step up your game.
*You know the ones. They’re meant to honor late cousin Melody, but poor Melody ends up looking like Steve Buscemi.
*Which wasn’t very far, because it’s a contact lens; it weighs nothing. But in my drunken mind, she threw it so hard that it blew the toupee off the bartender.
*I would later work at the same place and witness Stevie Wonder dominating at air hockey, if that gives you any indication of the awesomeness of these stories.
*It happened. It was the beginning of the end.
*One who drinks too much, and gets around, and makes mistakes . . . but an adult nonetheless!
*The fact that Jimmy Buffett doesn’t have a restaurant named “Jimmy Buffett’s Buffet” is one of the world’s greatest pun travesties.
*Claudia Kishi would have joined my Sew Cool Club. Why couldn’t I have grown up in Stoneybrook?
*Luckily, this was still the glorious time before phones had HD video and cameras. Back then, if your flip phone did have a camera, every pic ended up looking like a blurry photo of Bigfoot.
*The French word for balls is les couilles. It’s a feminine noun. That makes zero sense. Don’t you dare tell me French isn’t hard as les couilles!
*’Cause they probably had.
*Obviously this is a huge generalization. I was friends with lots of incredible sorority girls in my day, so don’t get your Tri-Delt panties in a wad, ladies.
*Some people might say it’s way too risky to fry okra topless, what with the four-hundred-degree splatters of oil flying out. But I think life is no fun unless you take risks. Also, my chest is covered in oil-burn scars.
*But he probably would’ve been so scared his balls would’ve crawled inside him like two falafels in a pita pocket.
*Rest in peace.
*For those slow on the upkeep, douches actually are made of vinegar. You’re welcome. Take a sip for your ignorance.
*If you don’t get this reference, drop what you are doing and drive/fly as fast as you can to the southeast of America. Pull into a Bojangles’, order a Bo-Berry Biscuit, and experience it. I recommend doing drive-through, because you might need to be alone for this one. . . .
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br /> *Luckily, and honestly, I couldn’t find a pic of that. But just imagine Gone with the Wind, except I’m gone with the whiskey. And my date was on acid, with a fake musket. FUN!
*When I was a camp counselor, I performed MC Hammer’s “U Can’t Touch This” but with all the words changed to be about poison ivy. I dressed like a poison ivy plant and made my campers be my back-up dancers.
*And sometimes I look at it again when I get super drunk and watch my own videos (usually paired with me screaming, “I am a delight!” as I eat mashed potatoes with my hands).
*Never use your own name. As you can see, I use the fake name formula of A Southern Woman from the Civil War Era + Almost a Town in Arizona. Works every time.
*Although, just to be safe, I always dressed up when I went to the mall, and I definitely played my flattering angles when hanging at the food court. All those girls in Seventeen magazine would say how they got “discovered” when they least expected it. You’d better believe I wasn’t going to be caught off guard in dirty overalls with a Cinnabon in my hand.
