Page Twenty-Six: The Mafia Doesn't Exist

Thursday was bitter sweet. I sent Anna off and picked Rachel up. I wish I could put our vacation together into words. I'll start by saying the mafia does exist. Then I will tell you that we have befriended a few mobsters. Hopefully I won't regret saying any of this. Hopefully Don won't be sitting on my couch in a suit with a cigar tonight when I come home from work.

We have spent two of our evenings turned into nights on Mulberry St. drinking wine and having fake birthdays. After bottle number three, a version of the happy birthday song that had a raunchy, Italian undertone, and a free t-shirt, we headed with our new friends to the Mulberry St. Bar. There we taught the mafia men how to take a shot like a Texan and we snagged another free t-shirt. Rachel and I were wearing both of them by the end of the night.

The mafia does exist and they're a pretty rowdy crowd, if I do say so myself. Who knew people who looked just like my grandpa could be so much fun?

Later we met up with two of my friends and they came back to my apartment with us. I spent the rest of the night and into the morning searching Direct TV tirelessly for Family Guy, laughing with the Asian boy, Andrew, Rachel and a precious Turkish boy who ironically is named Turk.

Let me set the scene:

Madison Ave. (a place where a girl like me really doesn't belong. I have a hard enough time purchasing trail-mix and Duane Reade.) The club was called Bruno and it was filled to the brim with people my parents age and older. Rachel and I ventured there with the mafia knowing that we live life like it's a movie script.

The man and the woman at the door knew that we were coming. The man greeted us and the woman said follow me. It didn't look like a club or a bar or a restaurant. It looked like an apartment building for the rich and famous. We walked down a hallway and then the woman pressed a button. The wall slid open and we walked inside to a table. Don handed the woman a roll of cash.

I learned to never walk in front of the boys in a place like this, because "you will get a better table if the men are in front". The mafia men didn't like our location. So with a raise of his hand and a whisper to our hostess, the woman found us a better table and kindly made the people sitting there move...so we could have it. Seriously?

Rachel and I danced the night away in a 45-year-old fashion.

Any description of my last couple of nights really do the real thing no justice at all. I have a funny life.