I kept it on the DL Friday and Saturday, Thursday was a banger upper. Let's not even get into it.

Sunday, on the other hand, was ridiculous. We went for the snowload. I did some serious shopping in the morning and then headed down to the SoHo Grand for the second day in a row and bellied up to the bar.

The kids were pretty banged up by the time I got there. Some of the Philly kids were in town for the w/e and staying at the Grand. At one point, I went to the bathroom with a friend. We were in stalls side by side. I was hanging in my stall, minding my own business, when I hear my friend, Drunkey McGee say, "Partygirl, stay put, I'm coming over."

I move to unlock the stall door, and get hit in the head with a Coach bag that came flying over the 8 ft marble wall that separated our stalls. As I looked up in surprise, I see my little friend's head peeking over the wall, and one petite leg slug over it.

She scaled the wall. I shit you not. I wasn't sure what the hell was going on, until I saw her shimmy down the walls of my stall, yelling "Daredevil!" and land in front of me, with one foot directly into the toilet bowl.

These are my people.

Later, mid-blizzard, we ended up in the Japanese karoake bar around the corner, competing against a table of Japanese, singing in Japanese, fighting for mic time and drinking Mai Tai's. Just my group and the Japanese. I believe there was some nudity from my group. The night usually ends with some type of nudity.

And then there was another bar. And then, I had the brainstorm to head to a dive in the East Village. We walked in after last call and then were stuck on 14th St. for about 2 hours.

I was wearing flats and no socks. Not blizzard attire.

My friend got me to a bodega, where the men took me into some scary back room and let me regain feeling in my feet next to a radiator from 1956. I think it was running off of the plutonium that Saddam's been looking for. The thing was toxic, as was I, so I kept mumbling to myself to not let my skin touch the radiator, because I couldn't feel it but I knew it would burn me. "Hot potato, cold potato" I mumbled. I bought a pair of trouser socks while my friend stood outside and tried to hail a taxi, or really, any passing vehicle.

A bread delivery van pulled up, and the guy was a total dickhead and wouldn't give us a ride, even to his next delivery, so unbeknownst to me, my friend lifted some bread from the truck. The next thing I know, I see him standing outside on an abandoned 14th Street, dancing in circles under a street light, face up to the snow falling everywhere around him, holding a brown grocery bag filled with with baguettes and his free hand up in the air conducting his own personal symphany. I'm not going to lie, it was the greatest thing I have ever seen.

I stood, speechless, staring out the door.

We ended up getting home, somehow, someway. It took forever and a day. I think I got home around 6am.

Yesterday involved massive quantities of eating. I feel like a sloth.

Today, while still feeling like a pig, I spoke with one of my shore friends who told me that her kamikaze surfer husband had taken the day to walk down the street and surf. Apparently, he also surfed last week, in the ice and snow. That's when I started to truly filthy. I gotta get to the gym.

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