can it be that it was all so simple then

I was recently asked what my favorite memory was. Okay, it was in one of those myspace survey things, and it was one somebody else filled out, so in actuality, I wasn't asked anything, but it got me thinking. What is my favorite memory?

It didn't take very much thinking at all. Always, forever and ever, for the rest of my life, my very favorite memory ever will be my 18th birthday. I imagine that even after I'm married at Cesar's Palace in Vegas where I will fly all my closest friends for a weekend-long boozed-up celebration of me and my perfect, funny, smart, beefy, fun, wonderfully charming and manly husband, and even after I have curly-haired, well-behaved children for whom I will throw big extravagant birthday parties complete with ponies and clowns in the backyard of my beautiful four-bedroom home which will be painted white with blue shutters and have a lilac tree in the front, I will still think of my 18th birthday as my very favorite memory EVER.

Guess who this memory stars? Yes, that's right. Missmo and Am and that's it. No guest stars. Except maybe Bertha, Missmo's 1989 Mustang convertible with the black rag top. We'll never forget that beast. We drove it down to South Beach, where we stayed at the Breakwater Hotel, with NO PARENTS. Just me, Missmo, my sexy black and white leopard print XOXO dress (which I still have, by the way), and Missmo's knee-high white leather go-go boots. Except about a week before our departure, Bertha started acting like a pubescent teenage girl and would just completely shut off whenever she felt like it. It didn't matter if we were on I-75 going 89 miles per hour or in the Taco Bell parking lot at 1 a.m. She'd just shut off.

So Missmo brought Bertha to the mechanic a few days before we left, who said that there was nothing wrong with her and we'd be fine to take her to South Beach. We trusted this mechanic, oh naïve teenage girls that we were, plus to have anybody tell us that our Super Duper Parent-Free Birthday Weekend at the Coolest Place on Earth would have to be cancelled would be the Worst Thing that Ever Happened, so we gladly took his advice.

So we're on Highway 1, bumping the DJ Clue and Puff Daddy (back when he was Puff Daddy) mixed tape (which Missmo still has, by the way), totally oblivious to the fact that we were totally going the wrong way when Bertha shut off. Luckily, however, out of nowhere, there was like a little spot where you could pull off the highway. In the miles and miles of Highway 1 that we had theretofore traveled, there was not one spot to pull off. It was a miracle, I say!

So we're sitting there on the side of Highway 1, no idea what to do, visions of sipping Malibu and Pineapple (because that was our drink back then) at Liquid dancing through our heads, when all of the sudden a tow truck pulls up behind us. So we're all "Yes, we're saved!" We get in the truck, the dude puts Bertha on the back, and we're on our way to South Beach!

Now, mind you, the Breakwater is on Ocean Ave (more about the Breakwater later). So we're on our way, butterflies in our stomachs, when all of the sudden it hits us. We're about to be TOWED ONTO SOUTH BEACH. Better yet, we're about to be TOWED ONTO OCEAN AVE. The humiliation was overwhelming. We were both near tears as we pulled off of Collins and onto Ocean. We begged, PLEADED with the tow truck driver, couldn't he drop us somewhere else or at least give us a discount since it was my birthday and all? He wasn't having any of it.

So sure enough, we pulled up in front of the Breakwater, and the valet guys had to actually valet park the car from off of the tow truck. Missmo and I ran into the lobby of the hotel as fast as we could so that nobody could identify us as the owners of the First Car Ever to be Towed onto South Beach and Valet Parked off of the Tow Truck.

Now, let me tell you about the Breakwater. It's classic South Beach. Missmo and I swore there would be house music in the lobby and a pool on the roof. We envisioned young, studly Cuban bellhops who would offer us champagne and strawberries when we arrived and accompany us to the clubs at night.

Not so, my friends. First, we were disappointed to learn that there was no pool; however, if we were ever on the beach and needed to take a shower, we could do so there for a mere $5, just like the European tourists standing next to us had done. Okay, we figured at least the rooms would be nice, and maybe there was still hope for the hot Cuban bellhops. Well, the bellhops never arrived with the champagne, and once we got to the room, we were appalled to find lots of polyester and bright blues and yellows. To top it all off, the toilet didn't flush.

So you might ask, "THIS is your favorite memory?" Yes. That weekend was the most fun I've ever had in my entire life. We hit Cameo before it was Crowbar and Prince's old club, and we had no problem getting served, which is a huge deal to 18-year-olds. We witnessed our first major bar fight, in response to which Missmo actually threw me on the floor and herself on top of me. We met our very first drag queens, and we saw topless dancing girls kissing on the balcony of a non-strip club for the first time. (I distinctly remember looking at Missmo and both of us screaming "Eeeew!" at the same time and turning to the boy I was talking to asking "Do you like that? Would you like to see your sister up there doing that?" Oh, so naïve I was back then.)

It was a rite of passage. We were never the same after that. We were no longer the teenage girls who sat out on my mom's lanai smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap ABC liquor. We were the party girls who partied like rock stars on South Beach. After that, we were there every other weekend. There was a new outfit for each trip. We switched to a different hotel, where we made friends with the manager (MISSMO!! WHAT WAS HIS NAME?!?!?!), and we went to Cameo often enough to know we HATED that stupid bouncer with those gay-ass tinted sunglasses. Some people had freshman year of college; Missmo and I had freshman year of the University of South Beach, and I've got ten bucks that says it was better than any frat party.

Ahhh…those were the days…

yet another reason why i love this city (despite the cold)

Earlier today I was feeling kinda blue for a variety of reasons (mostly the $200 I had to drop this morning on an eye exam and glasses and worrying about a friend who's in a bad shape right now). But when I went to get on the metro, there were two dudes standing at the top of the escalator, one with a trumpet and one with a saxophone, and guess what they were playing? "Kind of Blue." So thanks, dudes at the top of the Metro Center escalator playing "Kind of Blue," you took my blues away this morning.

the bennigan's parking lot incident of 2005 (well, one of them)

Missmo and I were on the phone last night, and we were laughing about the drunken incident that I talked a little bit about in this week's Silly Bitches Association of America (SBAA) survey. We both decided that to really appreciate the story, you must know the whole thing. We think it's hysterical now, although that night neither of us thought that there was a damn thing funny about it. Those of you who know us will see the humor in the story too, we believe.

So let me give you a little background. I was home for Christmas break, and I had met this dude (go figure – a dude causing trouble) who, for reasons that are far beyond the scope of this post, Missmo DID NOT like. But I liked him. I liked him a whole lot. So the one night we went to Bennigan's, which believe it or not is the Bonita Springs premier hot spot, and he was there. So I got on the vanilla Stoli and Diet Coke, and Missmo got on the Citron and cranberry, and next thing you know, I'm all at the bar with this dude, chatting him up all night and Missmo's running around Bennigan's, growing more and more unhappy with the situation.

So then the lights come on and it's time to go, and I go and find Missmo, or she finds me, whatever, and she turns around to me and she's like "They [the dude and his cousin] are scumbags and I told them that." So I'm like "What? Why would you do that?" And she's like "Cuz, Am, they're scumbags." And then I'm all "Missmo, why are you being such a hater? You are being such a hater right now." And what's really funny about that is that I was using the term "HATER" in all seriousness, and it was just pissing Missmo off that anybody, especially me, would call her a hater. So I can't really remember what was said after that, but I remember standing in the Bennigan's parking lot, telling her that I didn't care, I wasn't getting in the car with her because she was being SUCH a hater, and I was just going to get a cab.

So next thing you know, I'm standing in front of Bennigan's, waiting for my cab, nose all up in the air and shit, and she pulls up. First it's all civil, and she's using an appropriate volume, and she's like "Amy, come on. Get in the car." And I'm all "No." And that just pissed her off even more (she's a fire sign) so then she busted out with the "AMY [MIDDLE NAME] [LAST NAME]! YOU GET IN THIS GODDAMNED CAR RIGHT NOW, I SAID!!!" So now everybody who knows her, picture Missmo in the front of Bennigan's, leaning into the passenger side of the Benzito, and screaming at me with the finger all pointing at me and shit. And then me in front of Bennigan's, arms folded in front of me, nose up in the air, pretending like I can't hear her. In front of Bennigan's, I said.

Well, eventually I actually did get in the car and she did drive me home. We screamed at each other the whole way home. I mean, the whooooole way.

I'm giggling right now because anybody who knows us knows that this is so unlike us. This is actually the one and only time we had a huge argument like that, and we've been as close as we are now for a decade. (I love saying that). Anybody who doesn't know us and witnessed this might have thought we were lovers or something the way we were carrying on. We know that really we're sisters, and we can scream at each other and say nasty things to each other (i.e., "I can't believe you're breaking up with me over a boy!" "I'm not breaking up with you!" "Well I'm breaking up with you!") and it doesn't change a thing because we got it like that.
So the next day, I waited til like noon and called her, and of course, everything was fine. It was like "You pissed me off last night." "Well you pissed me off." "Well, want to come over?" And, it turns out that she didn't really tell the dude and his cousin that they were scumbags. That's just what I thought she said. So actually, I was being the HATER that night.

dude, i'm from florida!

In the past three days, I've been told twice that I should have a coat on. It's really embarrassing, because I really don't know any better. I mean, I know when I'm cold, but I'M FROM FLORIDA, PEOPLE, where we wear flip flops all year long.

Sunday night I was just wearing a sweater, and I thought that this was sufficient because earlier that night, I met up with Julia Gulia, and she's a veteran Washingtonian, and she wasn't wearing a coat. In fact, she referred to the weather as "medium." Thus, I figured it wasn't really coat weather, because if it was, Julia would have a coat. So I went out without a coat, and later somebody told me that he was surprised I wasn't wearing a coat and he figured I was just trying to show off the goods or something along those lines. I was mortified, because that so wasn't what I was trying to do, and the fact that somebody, especially this somebody, would think so made me feel totally uncool. The truth is, I'm just a silly bitch who doesn't know when it's appropriate to wear a coat because again, I'M FROM FLORIDA, where you can go swimming in the Gulf of Freaking Mexico in mid-October.

So just now, I was downstairs smoking a cig and this woman walked by and was like "You need a jacket!" But I was wearing a jacket! A suit jacket, but still! But then she threw a "But you look very nice" in there, so that was nice, but makes me wonder if she too thought I was standing out in the cold coatless so that I could show off my impeccable fashion sense. But guess what? Not the case. It's just that I'M FROM FLORIDA; thus, my idea of a jacket is a Gators hoodie sweatshirt.

Tomorrow I'm wearing a coat. In fact, I'm not going to take that goddamned coat off all day.

new big wong

is the name of a Chinese restaurant down here in Chinatown. And that just cracks my shit up. Because it reminds me of "wang." Call me immature. I don't care.

But even better:

Me: Is that "I Want to Know What Love Is?"
Colleague (looking at me like I'm crazy): Noooo.
Me: What is it?
Colleague (looking at me like "are you for real?"): Foreigner, "Juke Box Hero"????

i hate me a tourist

This morning was supposed to be one of the most exciting experiences of my life. I was supposed to sit in on a US Supreme Court argument. Not only that, but I was supposed to sit in on a case that involved an issue that I argued in my national moot court competition last year.

But the TOURISTS ruined it all. I got there an hour before seating began, and the line was already huge. And it was full of TOURISTS. So when they cut off the line for the people admitted for the morning argument, and I watched them all go in there with their stupid "Washington, DC" t-shirts, it was all I took not to tackle them down and scream "WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT STIRONE AND COTTON AND NEDER?!??!?!? I BET YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT AN INDICTMENT IS!!!!"

I did get to do the three-minute tour, though. Once I got through security and I stood in that huge, grand marble hall waiting to be let in the courtroom, I actually got butterflies in my stomach. And when they let us in, and I saw all nine justices sitting up there, the lush red velvet drapes behind them, the whole thing took my breath away. I mean, I spent the last three years of my life studying this place, and then I was there. I immediately recognized Ginsberg and Roberts and Thomas and Scalia and Alito. I was so excited I almost burst. The Government was arguing, which is the side that I argued at my competition, and I was pleased to hear a touch of one of the arguments I had made. Ginsberg asked a question, and then I almost wanted to wrestle the Government lawyer from the podium and answer myself. "Yes, Justice Ginsberg, that is correct. However, this Court must keep in mind that..." Ahhh...I can see it now...

Anyway, the issue dealt with the omission of an element of a crime from an indictment, and I'm pretty positive that the Court will rule in favor of the Government, given its conservative disposition. Scalia and Roberts didn't ask any questions as I sat there, and I was sure it was because they both had already made up their minds. But then, when the guard indicated that our three minutes were up and we needed to leave, and as my heart fell to the ground, ROBERTS ASKED A QUESTION. AND I DIDN'T HEAR IT. I was so mad! Of course, all the stupid TOURISTS with their stupid gay t-shirts got to hear it, but by then they probably were sitting there all smug and shit, tuning out the entire thing because they had no idea what the fuck was going on anyway.

ARRRRRRRRGH!!!!!

reasons why i shouldn't have passed the bar (BUT I DID!!!)

I PASSED, bitches.

But now looking back at it, I can't hardly believe that I actually passed. And this is why:

1. Often times, I brought my Barbri books up to my restaurant and studied for the bar at the bar.

2. I didn't attend either of the torts lectures. Didn't even bother to go down to the Barbri office and make them up. Shit, I didn't even read the torts section of the Barbri outline.

3. Come to think of it, I hardly ever read that Barbri outline.

4. Actually, I probably didn't do anything they told me to do.

5. Missmo and I got kicked out of the marine barracks at 3 a.m. two weeks before the exam.

6. What the fuck is an equitable mortgage?

7. I kept telling myself "Well, if I don't pass, I'll just lie and tell everyone I did pass and just take it again in secret."*

8. I kept telling myself "Well, I'll really buckle down come July." Then July 1 came and I was all "Well, I still have like a month." And then one week til the exam came and I was like "Well, if I study 8 hours every day, I'll be fine." And then I was all "Well, 8 hours is really a long time. Four hours will cut it." And then it was "Well, I've been at it two hours. I'm tired. I need a nap."

9. THE RULE AGAINST PERPETUITIES.

*But really, I really did pass. No, really. I did.