Ever since I had started my new job I had been looking forward to a tradition I had relished in at my old job—the work happy hour. Some people may dread them for fear of spending more time with coworkers, aka drinking too much and embarrassing themselves. I was different—I happened to love them. Perhaps this has something to do with the fact that I do tend to drink too often, but I also love to see people outside of the professional environment. It can be fascinating, in a morbid-car crash type of way.
My first time getting drinks with coworkers was planned because of a potential new living situation. One of the girls in my department had a friend moving to New York from Atlanta, and she needed a place to live. I was scheduled to move out of the Shwick soon and after emailing with her a bit we decided to meet on this weekend when she would be in town. Two of the guys in the sales department, one of whom happened to be my coworker's boyfriend, also met us. The potential new roomie turned out to be fairly cool and we were all having a good time drinking beers and talking about her impending move to New York. Things got a bit awkward though when the other sales guy, in mid-convo, asked me for my number. Not wanting to be rude in front of everyone and at a loss for how else to avoid it, I reluctantly gave it to him. Subsequently I have received a late-night text from him every Friday night, which I choose to ignore and then feel badly.
This is because I have spending them with Jersey. Despite my initial qualms, he was growing on me. Yes maybe his sense of humor isn't so great, and I am much more interesting and better-traveled than him. But he is consistently nice to me, and acts very interested. He remembers things that I tell him and takes me out for meals, with no regards for the cost. He even calls me! And the other night, after taking me out, he drove me all the way back to Brooklyn in his Range Rover, when I was hesitant to stay the night at his apartment. So when towards the end of happy hour, he texted me to come meet him out at his happy hour across town I decided that I would. He was pretty wasted when I met him and he paraded me around, introducing me to all his coworkers. They were fairly nice and I chatted with one of them about his family's handbag business for quite awhile. After a bit we decided that it was dinner time, so Jersey and I hopped in a cab. Listening to him slur cross streets to the cabbie, I knew that we could not be eating in public so I told him we would have to order delivery at his apartment. Obviously this was taken to mean something else, and once inside he pounced. True, I was not as eager to leave as I had been the time before, and there was apparently no way he was letting me. We ended up hooking up in his living room, with a view 18 stories above Hell's Kitchen. We never made it to dinner.
In the morning, we got brunch in the neighborhood and it was only moderately awkward. Halfway through, I received a call from Polish Princess, who had just returned to NYC from her epic South America tour. I had obviously been unable to meet up with her the night before so when she invited me for brunch later that afternoon I agreed. Two brunches in one day, that's what's up. So I headed from Hell's Kitchen to Williamsburg, where I met a large group of people, most of whom I didn't know, at Rye. I told myself I wasn't going to eat, but of course ordered a massive helping of eggs, in addition to a Bloody Mary. Brunch was roughly three hours long--the randoms turned out to be really cool and we all had some hilarious conversations. Afterwards, I knew I needed to take a nap rather than going with Polish Princess to her fav bar, as I hadn't been home in over 36 hours and I looked a hot mess.
Back to Bushwick I went, where I passed out for a couple hours and got myself together for Saturday night.
I had Salma's bday party in Alphabet City, but first I was meeting Yahtzee. I had recently confessed to him that I had made out with the hot Irish coworker at 1 Oak and he wanted us all to hang out again. I wasn't expecting much as this was a very classy man. He used to manage Marquee, he has his own clothing line, he is hot AND Irish. So I probably wouldn't be someone he would choose to go after, other than for a quick makeout at a club, but I was definitely willing to hang out with him again. So I chose a cute, but not too over the top outfit and headed to the bar where they were (also in Alphabet City, how convenient). This outfit included a pair of crazy tights, which I discovered had a hole in them on the subway. My dress turned out to also be much shorter than I remembered and I slightly resembled a cheap hooker. So much for trying to be classy.
Hot Irish was just as hot as I remembered. He was with a group of equally attractive Irish people, and Yahtzee. Hot Irish was friendly when he greeted me, but quiet. When he introduced me to the group, my knees buckled a bit, because of how my name sounded with his accent. One of the girls, who could have been a model, started talking to Yahtzee and me, asking how we knew each other. Of course, this gave us an opportunity to launch into our Croatia story. Usually people get bored within 5 minutes, but it turns out this girl had had her own sloppy night at the club we had gone to, El Fuego, and we all cracked up at the coincidence. She also discussed what a “sweetheart” their friend was, who happened to be the guy with the Harry Potter glasses and the bad attitude who had gotten handsy with AD at 1 Oak. I chose to just smile and nod at this.
The night progressed well, although Hot Irish and I didn't have a whole lot to say to each other. He had recently dressed the famous golfer Rory McIlroy, in a suit from his clothing line. Yahtzee had sent me an article about it, like a giddy little schoolgirl. So when we inevitably started to discuss that I asked if he had Rory's cell phone number. He said he did and I told him that we were all going to drunk dial him and leave him a drunken voicemail. This cracked Hot Irish up and I was pleased to have broken through his stoic exterior. I haven't seen him since and there have not been any other club nights, but when I get word that one is scheduled I will probably pee my pants from excitement.
I then convinced Yahtzee to head to Salma's bday with me, which was being held at a disgusting dive bar, though he was unaware of this. I only saw her for a few minutes but we had a good chat and agreed that we need to go out for Guggenheim drinks soon. Yahtzee took one for the team and was good company. We dipped out early to get food and when I burped loudly while eating it, like the classy lady that I am, he chastised me by calling me a “fucking pig”. True—I had gone to brunch twice that day afterall.
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