I decide, since it’s the eve of the Memorial Day weekend, to pop into Bemelmans for a cocktail. The minute the weather warms up, it seems, so do I. So what if it’s pouring.
So here I sit, on a corner banquette, in my new, cheap J.Crew Factory dress, it’s alterations tripling it’s cost, with my favorite strappy, Valentino sandals showing off my newly painted (damp), pink toes.
Why, I feel just like a calf about to be let loose at the rodeo.
Alright, maybe not a calf, but it’s mom, who looks pretty damned good for her age…as long as you squint.
I’m not the only one with spring, holiday…heading to the Hamptons, fever. The room is packed for 2:30 in the afternoon, many Manhattanites, clearly getting their beakers wet for the weekend.
As for me, I’m in heaven having so many nuts in my midst, as well as a gigantic bowl of potato chips. Takes so little, doesn’t it?
I’ll start with the tall couple in matching outfits pawing one another like panda bears, betting they’re from Texas, her boobs bopping up and down, his huge arms wrapped around them like sweaty salamis.
And she giggles. I just love that, how at her age, oh yes, neither one of them are youngsters, she can be so happily pubescent. Such a pity she can’t bottle it since, such cooing would make a great stocking stuffer.
Two stools down from Giggles, sits a very well-dressed (hate to use the word fat), fat woman reeking of cologne if my memory serves me, is Chanel No. 5. I had an English boyfriend who used to bring me bottles from the Duty Free Shop at Heathrow. I hated it, smelling more like bad air freshener, since they always seemed way past their selling date…but of course being from Connecticut, the pretentious, we’ll just pretend, capital of the world…it’s the thought that counts.
Next to Smelly is a pencil thin man in a dark suit, with a back so straight you could bounce balls off of it….alone, drinking something dark, to match his suit perhaps, neat, just like him. Smelly keeps looking his way, but he’s definitely not interested. After all, a man who, let’s hope has a stuffed nose, needs to be careful since she could easily break him in half, making two pencils out of him.
Across the room are a group of five in their 30s, drinking champagne, celebrating something I hope comes with an expense account. If they clink their glasses one more time, I’ll scream, FIRE…and that’ll teach-em to be so fucking happy.
The barmaid in her red jacket that makes her look like a bellhop, is cleaning up, and I don’t just mean tables. A crowd like this, providing they’re generous, or just drunk enough, no longer able to count, could tip over her tip jar. I sure hope so since, if you can afford drinks at the Carlyle, you can afford buying your server a new jacket.
I spot a man I know who spots me…damn..I do not want company, not when I’m having so much fun alone, dissing with such delicious detail, but here he comes.
“Hi, how are you?” said Jack, I’ll call him, his bow tie slightly askew. “I was just thinking of you.”
“You were, were you?” That’s what they all say. He was thinking of me, and a blonde, and a redhead our faces interchangeable.
“Mind if I sit down?”
“No, providing it’s over there,” I say, pointing to a deuce by the door.
I know…Susannah, you could use a little male company, but actually he’s such a bore, that the one and only time we had dinner, my head started to nod almost landing in my salad. A girl doesn’t forget a thing like that. And no, he’s not the type to pick up your check. He’ll actually sit and sip your drink, thinking it’s cute.
This is what happens when you’ve been to that rodeo one too many times. You’ve read all the scripts by now, knowing why, how rarely, one ever gets made.
My notepad, since now bulging with tittle-tattling tidbits says, it’s high time we leave.
I finish my Stolly on the rocks with extra, extra, extra lime…leave Laurie a tip that could easily pay, at least, for new sleeves, and stroll happily home, maybe not in a straight line, but it is the start of a holiday, after all.