You all are going to enjoy this update. Sit back, relax, make yourself comfortable.

But first, I have to tell you, that I know a secret....A delicious, Diaryland secret. I love secrets. I love the whole pretense of a secret...the passing of a secret, when I lean close to someone and I whisper in their ear, something absolutely confidential and the combination of juicy information and my warm breath makes them shiver in delight. Yes, I looooooovvvvveee secrets.

But enough about me;-)

*~*

The newly unemployed Gingi and I went out for drinks on Friday night. So we are in this fabulous spot in alphabet city and the place was teeming with eligible men. Partygirl was going out of her mind. As I scoped the room and leaned over to point someone out to Gingi, I see this guy walking toward me in the darness of this bar. The light is streaming in behind him, blacking out his face and blinding me until he is just about in front of me, and in that split second, I feel recognition.

It is one of my flatmates from London. When I went to school there, I lived with 29 people. It was crazy. 29 of us sharing a kitchen. You can imagine.

So I point and scream "You!" (Subtley, anyone?) And he recognizes me and kneels down to chat. He is totally surprised and he says, my GOD, what happened to you? I asked what he meant and he said that everyone else in the house kept in touch and occasionally they get together and they wondered what happened to Partygirl...he said, "The last we heard from you, was when you called from Germany, crying, with no passport and no money. We told you to call us back in 10 minutes and we would figure something out. Everyone in the house took up a collection and we were going to wire money to you. But you never called back. That was 6 years ago!"

"Oops. Hahahahahaha." That would be my response.

In actually, the story was that I landed in Austria with no money, but I did have my passport. I was supposed to be traveling with friends, but one of my friends had gotten her foot run over by a moped in Rome the week before and my other friend had passed out on her way back to Rome from Munich and the German police had double stamped her Euro-rail so she didn't have enough left to make the trip.

So I decided to make the nearly month long trek alone. This is actually a much longer story than I want to get into here, so let's leave it as, I had been semi-strip searched leaving London and in the rush to make my plane, forgot to grab my purse out of the scanning belt. Once on the plane, I realized my mistake, but they said if I got off the plane, my luggage from the last 8 months of living would be destroyed in Austria - assumed a terrorist device. So I stayed on the plane and the gay steward sat and held me as I cried myself across the Continent.

Anyway, what's even funnier was that this flatmate drove me nuts. We started out as friends, and had traveled to Amsterdam together. But toward the end of our stay, the kid totally flipped. I guess, what happened was Partygirl happened to have gotten a few people in the house high, and him and this other guy just totaly flipped out and was like "I'm never coming down." And Partygirl was sympathetic at first, but then one of them called a doctor to the house, and Partygirl was like, "Dude, it's pot, you need to chill."

But the kid flipped and I left the scene and headed to the apt. of some of my friends who attended LSE. When the smoke cleared I returned to the house, but the other kid (this kid from Friday night) had like flipped his lid or something because a few weeks later, I came in after like, 48 hours of partying in Camden (at the Underworld)and, quite frankly, I needed a rest. But this kid, chooses this night to decide to make a suicide plea. So, he calls the police or a hospital or something and the next thing I know the kid locked himself into my bathroom and the police are at the house and the ambulance and everyone's all concerned and talking and I am like "Will everyone shut the fuck up???" My head is pounding, I am going through major detox and this freakshow has locked himself in my bathroom and is screaming through the door.

I am not happy. So I open my bedroom door, walk over to the bathroom, stand behind the police and yell "Jesus Christ, if you are going to kill yourself, do it already so we can all get some fucking peace here. Or, fucking open the door and come out."

Apparently, some of the housemates did not find the humor in this. Whatever. He ended up coming out of the bathroom and they took him away. I waved from my window.

This could be why that guy I work with told me I reminded him of Angelina Jolie in "Girl, Interrupted." Hmmmmm? I'll have to mention this.

Anyway, I forgot all about this incident because I am a different person now. Shortly after that, I found the Grateful Dead and became a much better person for it.

So end up catching up with this kid and drinking my way through Friday night.

*~*

Cut to....Saturday morning, walking into my apartment building. I look at the apartment next to the elevator and have deja vous. 1C. Could it be just from when I dated the guy in there? The apartment has turned over twice since he left. The new guys moved in a couple of weeks ago, but they are friends with these idiots. I start to shake off this feeling, reminding myself that I haven't even met these new guys yet, when I get this dreadful feeling: I was in that apartment last night.

I run into the elevator and hit the button for my floor like a maniac and I ask myself, "how could this be?" followed by, "What have I DONE?!?" It all comes back to me. After leaving gingi last night, I passed a minor contruction area on my way home. I told the taxi to let me out of the car. I ran and grabbed an orange flourescent traffic cone and ran with it to my apt. building, no doubt giggling to myself the entire way.

Because you know I thought this was the funniest thing ever.

But instead of taking it upstairs to my apartment, at 2:30AM, I start banging on the door to 1C. Banging and banging and I could hear them asking "who is it?" I am whispering my name and apt. through the door and finally I am like, "Open the fucking door." So this guy opens the door and I am like, "Hi, I'm Partygirl and I live in Apt. X." Sleepy guy is like, "Hi." So then, I push open the door further with my foot and I am like, "Here! I brought this for you" and I drop the cone in his apartment and he's like what's this? And I say, "it's for you." And this guy is not getting it and slowly the drunk Partygirl is starting to see that this incident is not as funny to the recipient as it is to the giver and so she is like, "Oh, tell Jason (former apt. resident) that Partygirl stopped by and dropped this off from him. And by the way, we are having a party next weekend and you are invited...bye!" And with that, I jumped into the elevator.

WHY, why, why, whyyyyyyyyyyyyy do I do things like this? I really should not be allowed out of my apartment. I mean, I'm 27, why would I even think of stealing a traffic cone? Aren't I supposed to grow out of this? Good Lord.

*~*

Cut to Saturday, when Partygirl steps into a scene from her username's movie. I go to the deli to buy some beers. New Indian guy at the deli and he's HOT. I mean, I'm not into Indians at all, but this guy is the epitome of tall, dark and handsome. So, I come in and these guys are always friendly. They all say "Hi! Pardygirl!" (they mispronounce my name and I don't have the heart to correct them - it's been 2 years). I say hi and head back to the beer area. I'm totally baked so I don't notice the handsome guy kneeling and stocking the shelves.

I hear him say "Hi Pardygirl!" and I look down and he's at my feet looking up. he says, "Pardygirl you always wear skirts." I absentmindedly say, "What? Skirts, oh, yeah, I hate pants." He says, "Not many girls do that, I like skirts, it's nice when you wear them." He stands up and puts his arms out for me to load six-paks into them as we always do, and I say thanks, for the compliments and the help. He says "No Heineken?" but with an accent so I have to ask twice what he's saying and I say no, I have some at home. I'm switching it up to the Red Stripe.

I turn and head the counter and he follows me and I hear him sniff, yes, SNIFF my hair and I am like "What the...?" And he says, "That's a nice fragrance you are wearing Pardygirl." I said thanks and smile and he asks me what it is I am wearing. At this point I am just totally bewildered and can't even remember what I was wearing. So I run out of the deli with my beers before I can get myself into any more boy trouble, and I mutter under my breath, "No, you can not date the Falafel/Deli guy."

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