I find myself in a lot of high pressure situations, none of which have to do with the fact that I work in crisis management. Maniacal activist investor? Big whoop. Uranium leak into a pristine wilderness? Snooze. 60 Minutes pounding on the front gates of a CEO’s home inquiring about trips to Thailand? La-di-freaking-da. None of that gets me as riled up as a heaping dose of nostalgia or random neighbor’s housewarming party. Let me be frank: I like to spice things up when they don’t need spicing.
I make a big deal out of almost everything for no clear reason, except to perhaps position myself as the biggest dramatic dumb dumb in the history of chickenheads. Meaning, what should be a routine holiday office party at a bowling alley or cousin’s Bar Mitzvah in Great Neck – seemingly low key, manageable events – often turn into weird debacles resulting in lost dreams, smeared brie on a Halston dress, microphone grabs, parental anxiety, and muddled shame. If there were an Academy Awards category for Most Likely to Consistently Harass a Bartender/Embarrass Herself – I’d be Meryl Streep.
Speaking of bartenders (Sup, fellas?) I’d like to introduce you to Babygirl’s recipe book:
- The North Cackalacky – 2 parts Bourbon, 2 parts aerosol hairspray, a sprinkle of Republican dry humping, a pinch of homesickness, Bacon garnish. Serve from a monogrammed mason jar glass on a front porch while listening to Wagon Wheel.
- The OWU Reunion – Empty out a sad, smelly pickle tub and replace contents with the following heady mixture: shattered dreams, a Ginger’s soul, stolen promises, Jolt soda, stale Timmy Ho’s coffee, Lithium, regret, battery acid, and a reservation at Dorsia. Shake well, enjoy over dry ice and pour into a roadie cup that says F*CK DENISON.
- The Family Vacation – Hollow out a coconut and refill with half of a Maureen Dowd opinion piece, 2 quarts overly competitive Type A German Jews, 1 Tecate, 3 Claritin, stir up until someone cries or loses their fly rod.
- The Always a Bridesmaid – Blend 30 years of patriarchal Disney movies and false expectations together in a blender with 1 yard of navy tulle; slowly add in bad kharma, poor choices, 1 bottle of oaky Chardonnay, 2 oz. of Eau de Douchebag aka Polo Sport, a controlled substance of your choosing, and finish with a sprig of mint. Best served from a pitcher stolen from the children’s table while trying to exfoliate off a botched spray tan.