The word to describe this weekend is: OVERSERVED.

::shudder::

Let's just skip Friday, which is what I call, amateur night. I hate going out on Friday's because all of my regular watering holes during the week are suddenly invaded by people in suits drinking girly "Sex in the City" drinks. They invade my spots and suddenly think they are the mecca of the world I rule. Unleashing their cocktail fury and blowing their load quickly and loudly on Friday night in New York City. They need to get out.

So, I often use Friday as my "off" night. Let the JV Team start. Which is what I did this week.

Cut to Saturday. I should admit right now, that I was looking for trouble when decided that I was going to wear black, thigh-high fishnet stockings, the kind with the black seam running up the back on my leg, and my black slingback heels. No garter belt. They were the thigh-highs that stay up on their own. And as soon as I put them on, I knew I was going to be trouble.

My roommates knew this too. In fact, they commented on it several times. Sometimes, you just get this internal tick (or I do) to just step up your behavior by a notch. I had that itch and just couldn't satiate it. So, I put glitter lotion on my chest, neck and shoulders. Slid on my new, blue mohair skirt, pulled on a low-cut tank top and slipped into a cardigan for warmth and flew out the door and downtown with the roommates to celebrate one of their birthday's.

I walked into the empty bar and immediately saw exactly what I wanted. The bartender. He was freaky. Long, straggly, mountain-man hair, with an equally long and straggly beard. Someone likened him to the unabomber. But I knew the minute I saw him that he needed to be my unabomber.

I have a tendency, to like the freaks. This, is not really what I need. In fact, this is exactly what I don't need. When you are flaky like me, people recommend you date your opposite. In my case, that would probably be someone kinda boring. That's why the show is "Dharma and Greg" rather than "Dharma and Zed." Which could explain why people, including my roommates mother - to whom I believe my comment was "I need a piece of that," (Oh, I'm a good time, alright) were trying to distract me from the bar.

His name rocked; a beautiful Spanish name. But I'd rather not mention it online. Due to the fact that it's recognizable and if anyone who knows him reads this, I really don't want them to tell him I am connie. Because I am going to see him next weekend. Maybe.

He's talking to my roommate and I am taking the heads off of roses and I am throwing them all over the tables where we will be sitting. I was looking at him out of the corner of my eye the entire time. Circling the tables, tossing rose petals. He kinda looked over my roommates shoulder at me and said, "Flowers, that's nice..." with a secret smile. I looked up and blushed, smiling back. And so it began.

The dance. He took care of me all night, although it was raging busy. But other than securing the story behind his 80's foam and net baby blue baseball cap (same one I had when I played kickball at age 10), I couldn't get words out of my mouth. I was captivated by this man. I was also drunk.

As an excuse for contact, I would order drinks with full one in my hand. Thank God someone pulled me away from the bar for a period because it was ugly. Toward the end of the night I found my way back to a stool, seated next to this kid who went to my college but we didn't know each other. He just graduated. I am chatting him up. The dugout comes out. It is passed around. The kid is nervous. "Are you going to do that right here�.right at the bar�?" "It looks that way," I told him. He looked a little green but he did it, and as he did, mountain man came over to see if I needed another drink. He placed his hand on my arm, I turned to him and started laughing at the kid, blowing a cloud of smoke at mountain man, which in turn, made him laugh. He had my number.

A few minutes later, I felt his hand on my arm as I was talking to another guy. I was having one of those passionate conversations that I often start - usually about not working for The Man. Doing your own thing. Being free and feeling the energy of New York. Using every day to celebrate life. Living, man, living, man. Yes, I'm pretty sure I was shouting these words. And this guy was like, "Partygirl, man, it so refreshing to see you and talk to you. I have missed you and I didn't even realize how much until I spoke to you here. I need to be back in your loop. Can I get back in? Can we start Thursday night madness, again? I know I flaked out but I really need to get back in."

Side Note: Thursday night madness, is an evening we sponsor at my apartment, where we invite a select group of people over for wine and cheese and have spoken word night. I usually bring out my drum and maracca. Sometimes there is play-dough involved. It's a very open, creative environment. Sometimes, it can freak people out, though. If you are not open to it. Or silly. You have to be silly.

So, this former participant, who stopped coming, wants back in. "Yes!" I said. "You're in." So I was so busy, I didn't realize when the mountain man put his hand on my arm, waved, and gave me a small smile, that he was leaving. I thought he was just going to the other end of the bar. Until my friend next to me, said "Partygirl, babydoll is leaving. Are you going to let him leave without doing anything?"

Shit! I threw back my glass of champagne I had just ordered and without even thinking, stood up on my stool and screamed to the mountain man, who by now was almost at the door to leave. I was above the crowd, screaming his name. He didn't hear me at first but then I caught his eye and he saw me and I waved for him to come back. He suddenly smiled when he saw me and started making his way through the sea of the people toward me.

I had no idea what I was doing but all I knew was that I couldn't let him leave. In retrospect, my friend told me it was like Rose calling for Jack as the Titanic sunk. I was still standing on my chair when he reached me and all I could think of to say was, "Where are you going?" He said he was going home, what he actually said was "I live in the Catskills. I am into the nature. I keep an apartment in the city but spend most of my time up there. It's peaceful." And before I could say anything he said, "Come here" and he started hugging me and said "come back and see me next weekend. I'll be here."

I had nothing clever to say. So I smiled at him and he smiled back and then he left.

It was shortly after this that I realized I was drunk. Really, really drunk. I had to houdini.

I got busted as I left and my roommate yelled after me, so I turned and gave her a quick wave. And she was about to make me stay, but she looked at my face, and she knew. I had been overserved. I had to take myself out of the game.

I walked out into the cold, behind a big guy in a warm, down jacket. I tripped in a crack in the sidewalk and must have said "whoa" because he turned around to check on me and when he saw me laughing he smiled. He kept turning around the whole time that I followed him to the corner, I guess to make sure I was okay. Either that or he was amused by my drunken stumbling?

We got to the corner and he smiled at me. He said, "you must be freezing. You can have the first cab." Thanks, I said through chattering teeth. Then I looked at him again and said, "Don't know you?" and he said, "Yeah, you look familiar." I said, "You're J.'s friend! I met you at SNL a couple of weeks ago when he was in from LA!" "Yeah," he said. "That's right!"

The next thing I knew, he said, "we'd better get you into a cab" and before I knew what was happening, I felt his hand, lightly but firmly placed on my back, guiding me safely across the street, where there was a cab waiting. He said, "You know, we should really get together" and I said "Yeah, that would be fun�is this cheesy if I give you my card?" He said no, as he opened the door with one hand and placed me gently in the cab with his other hand, making sure I was properly in and then shutting the door. He knocked on the back of the cab to signal to the driver that I was ready to go.

I didn't even get a chance to think about how nice it was, to be guided like that, before the next terrible thing happened. The Vodka and the massive quantity of red wine and the champagne all decided to rebel in my empty stomach. Hadn't really eaten all day. I can't really hold my liquor anyway. I can drink beer until I float, but liquor=sick for me.

The taxi had only been going for a few blocks when suddenly it all came up and I shut my mouth and evaluated my options. I looked at my new black Kelly bag and I thought, God, I just can't do that. It's so cute. The window was one of those child-proof things so that wouldn't work. I had only one option. My scarf. I pulled it off and violated it. The driver never even knew.

By the time I reached my apartment, it was like a new day. So I thought I should eat something. Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs. Ate it in 2 seconds flat and went to bed. Locking and then bolting my door, because I knew late-night was coming and I didn't want any surprise visitors in my bed.

No sooner had I laid down, than I knew, there was another problem. I bolted out of bed as the stomach was violently lurching. The door. Fuck! I fumbled with the locks, but the 5-second delay made it too late. I made it to the bathroom door, facing the closet when Chef Boyardee volcanically erupted. It was terrible. I was turning my head trying to make it to the toilet and you could follow my trajectory in the aftermath. I would liken it to the "Witches of Eastwick" - the cherry scene. Think about it.

I could hear voices downstairs. FUCK. People were over for late-night. And I had to clean this up before they found out! I cleaned everything, twice, floors, sink, bathtub, tiles�you don't even know. Got back to my room and laid down, and it happened again. Finally got back to my room and passed out.

I was feeling slightly mortified about this collegiate behavior, until I spoke with my friend the next day. She's 30 and engaged. She left the party two hours before me, fell in a deli trying to get a bag of Frito's, took out an entire display, then peed her pants while laughing at the fall. She threw up the next day.

I have never peed my pants. I'm ahead of the curve.

But I would like to admit, that I do need a caretaker.

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