Natty Shermans, $4 and some vaseline

Friday night one of my best friends from college, Renee*, was in town. Never wanting to be a dull hostess, we made plans to go out dancing on the Lower East Side. Pianos was our first destination -- known for a high percentage of hipsters and sweaty sweaty bodies on the upstairs "lounge" dance floor, it promised to be a good time. It turned out that it really was a high percentage of guys that stood behind us like paper weights and attempted to slowly grind up on us, along with crazy Spaniards with spastic dance moves. I decided Pianos is only good for people watching. Elaine* did meet a slightly cute guy who followed us to Ray's pizza (my favorite destination for late night food -- last time I was there two guys got in a fist fight over parmesan cheese), convinced he was going home with her only to meet the end of the night with, "well I guess the closest Path station from here is 14th street...," she told him.

Saturday night I went out with the Venezuelan. I was pleasantly surprised to receive a text message from him on Friday asking me what I was doing during the weekend. We finally made plans for Saturday night -- his friend was having a party at Plumm and I planned on meeting him there. After staying out until 4 am on Friday night, Saturday afternoon I was feeling pretty lazy and the idea of having to be cheery and possibly speak Spanish with a guy that I didn't know was not amusing me. Even after showering and obsessing over outfits for the night, the nervous energy was still not coming. To make matters worse, Elaine* and Andi* were lying on the couch eating peanut butter crackers and watching Law and Order: my idea of a perfect evening. Yet, I somehow managed o peel myself away from Stabler and Benson to get in a cab and head to the westside. Because I had only met the Venezuelan once, I was nervous a) that I might not recognize him b) he might have super swanky friends that would notice my blazer was from the Gap c) he could possibly stand me up like the Lawyer if I was 2 minutes late. Luckily, everything went well -- it usually does when there is bottle service and lots of loud Rhianna involved (please do not think I go places with bottle service on a regular basis -- usually "bottle service" signifies me bring a flask into the bar). In fact, we had so much fun dancing, that I threw my non-designer Gap blazer down on a couch so we could hit the dance floor. When we turned to leave, I went to get my jacket and...it wasn't there. In a more rational state I probably would have been mad and then left the bar, but in the haze of Saturday night I thought, "well, guess I have to take someone else's coat then!" The next morning, I went to grab my blazer so I could go to brunch with my sister and instead of a black velvet blazer on the floor there was a black, fake leather, hooded bomber jacket. "Ahh!" I shrieked, and grabbed a cardigan instead and ran out the door.

Later that day, recounting the evening to Andi* and Elaine, I tried on the strange coat. It was made of polyurethane and smelled of old cigarette smoke. "That is the nastiest jacket I've ever seen," Elaine said, "couldn't you have at least stolen, like, a Chloe blazer or something attractive?" I put the hood on and reached in the pocket; a slim box of Nat Sherman naturals mint 100's, $4, and Vaseline appeared. Yuck. "Well I don't care. I am going to wear this f-ing coat everyday of the winter, just watch me. I don't care! And $4 - thats dinner!!" I yelled. I mourned the loss of my blazer, but then realized the "leather" jacket perhaps represented my recklessness Saturday night. Oh well. But, did mention I'm probably going to see the Venezuelan this week? Vamos a ver.