You Deserve a Drink: Boozy Misadventures and Tales of Debauchery by Mamrie Hart Page A
Authors: Mamrie Hart
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doesn’t let the birthday girl win?!
I’ll tell you who: my friend Alan. He came in wanting to win that night, and he wasn’t going to let minor details like whose birthday it was stop his momentum. Alan is hilarious. He drives an orange Vespa, has a pipe collection, plays the ukulele. In fact, he got me into playing too—so much so that we had a group that would meet occasionally and play ukuleles, sing songs together, and have cocktails. We called it Uke Group, because obviously it needed a name (my obsession with clubs never wavered in adulthood). I have a very distinct memory of us meeting in Prospect Park in Brooklyn to picnic and play our ukes when the weather finally broke to spring. There we were, a bunch of semihipster adults surrounded by containers of hummus, playing “She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain” on our tiny instruments as a group of kids rode by on their bikes. We actually sang softer until the “tough kids” passed, like we were gonna get beat up by twelve-year-olds. As soon as we were in the clear, we broke into a rousing rendition of “Clambake.” Alan was nice enough to even make a website for Uke Group so we could print sheet music before meetings. Depending on when you get this book, it might even still be up: www.ukegroup.net.
Alan’s passion wasn’t only for tiny stringed instruments. He wanted that trophy and spared no feelings for the birthday girl. I was bummed, sure, but the real job of the birthday girl is to keep the guests happy and get crunk. I watched the other rounds play out and noticed that someone else had the eye of the tiger: * my boyfriend. He was swinging that paddle like he was the long-lost Caucasian brother of the Williams sisters.
As luck would have it, Alan and Boyfriend were the final two in the series. At this point, I was D-R-U-N-K. As the fierce opponents took their respective sides of the table, I stood in the middle addressing the crowd.
“Listen up, ladies and germs! We have come to the championship round of my berfday Ping-Pong bonanza. The winner of this round will walk away not only with pride but also with this sweet-ass T. rex trophy that I hand-made. Gentlemen, take your positions . . . pe he he, positions . . . and play ball!”
I felt like Cha Cha in
Grease
when she lifts the handkerchief to start the race.
The match was neck and neck, the crowd watching the Ping-Pong ball like cats watching a laser pointer. There were oohs and aahs. It was like the live studio audience of
Family Matters
. When it came down to game point, I saw the fire in Boyfriend’s eyes. In my tipsy brain, he threw that tiny white ball in the air and slammed his serve like Roger Federer. In reality, it was probably just a normal small Ping-Pong serve, but gosh darnit, he won! He took it home!
Unfortunately, I didn’t want to take a certain thing home, and that was the trophy I’d made. What’s the fun in creating such a dumb prize that people are vying for just to end up bringing ithome yourself? I suggested we give it to Alan as a token of his hard work that night. It had been one of the greatest birthdays I’d ever had and I wanted to spread the cheer. But that wasn’t going to fly. In fact, Boyfriend was straight-up offended.
Yeah, he and I fought for a good hour about how I didn’t appreciate him defending my honor. I can only imagine the amount of eye rolling that must’ve gone on in the driver’s seat of that cab as we argued about Ping-Pong in the back with a small golden T. rex between us, my boyfriend going on and on about honor like he was William Wallace defending Scotland! Like most drunk fights between couples, it ended with us both passing out, waking up the next day, and calling a truce mainly because neither of us could remember the fight enough to throw details in the other’s face. The fight didn’t last, but that trophy did. And on top of the fridge is where that T. rex lived for the next several years. It’s currently defending my
I’ll tell you who: my friend Alan. He came in wanting to win that night, and he wasn’t going to let minor details like whose birthday it was stop his momentum. Alan is hilarious. He drives an orange Vespa, has a pipe collection, plays the ukulele. In fact, he got me into playing too—so much so that we had a group that would meet occasionally and play ukuleles, sing songs together, and have cocktails. We called it Uke Group, because obviously it needed a name (my obsession with clubs never wavered in adulthood). I have a very distinct memory of us meeting in Prospect Park in Brooklyn to picnic and play our ukes when the weather finally broke to spring. There we were, a bunch of semihipster adults surrounded by containers of hummus, playing “She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain” on our tiny instruments as a group of kids rode by on their bikes. We actually sang softer until the “tough kids” passed, like we were gonna get beat up by twelve-year-olds. As soon as we were in the clear, we broke into a rousing rendition of “Clambake.” Alan was nice enough to even make a website for Uke Group so we could print sheet music before meetings. Depending on when you get this book, it might even still be up: www.ukegroup.net.
Alan’s passion wasn’t only for tiny stringed instruments. He wanted that trophy and spared no feelings for the birthday girl. I was bummed, sure, but the real job of the birthday girl is to keep the guests happy and get crunk. I watched the other rounds play out and noticed that someone else had the eye of the tiger: * my boyfriend. He was swinging that paddle like he was the long-lost Caucasian brother of the Williams sisters.
As luck would have it, Alan and Boyfriend were the final two in the series. At this point, I was D-R-U-N-K. As the fierce opponents took their respective sides of the table, I stood in the middle addressing the crowd.
“Listen up, ladies and germs! We have come to the championship round of my berfday Ping-Pong bonanza. The winner of this round will walk away not only with pride but also with this sweet-ass T. rex trophy that I hand-made. Gentlemen, take your positions . . . pe he he, positions . . . and play ball!”
I felt like Cha Cha in
Grease
when she lifts the handkerchief to start the race.
The match was neck and neck, the crowd watching the Ping-Pong ball like cats watching a laser pointer. There were oohs and aahs. It was like the live studio audience of
Family Matters
. When it came down to game point, I saw the fire in Boyfriend’s eyes. In my tipsy brain, he threw that tiny white ball in the air and slammed his serve like Roger Federer. In reality, it was probably just a normal small Ping-Pong serve, but gosh darnit, he won! He took it home!
Unfortunately, I didn’t want to take a certain thing home, and that was the trophy I’d made. What’s the fun in creating such a dumb prize that people are vying for just to end up bringing ithome yourself? I suggested we give it to Alan as a token of his hard work that night. It had been one of the greatest birthdays I’d ever had and I wanted to spread the cheer. But that wasn’t going to fly. In fact, Boyfriend was straight-up offended.
Yeah, he and I fought for a good hour about how I didn’t appreciate him defending my honor. I can only imagine the amount of eye rolling that must’ve gone on in the driver’s seat of that cab as we argued about Ping-Pong in the back with a small golden T. rex between us, my boyfriend going on and on about honor like he was William Wallace defending Scotland! Like most drunk fights between couples, it ended with us both passing out, waking up the next day, and calling a truce mainly because neither of us could remember the fight enough to throw details in the other’s face. The fight didn’t last, but that trophy did. And on top of the fridge is where that T. rex lived for the next several years. It’s currently defending my
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