2002-02-24 - 10:57 a.m.

The crazy Romanian Girl had managed to bathe herself, almost Carrie style, in cheap red wine.

She put the knife down, handed me the bottle, and ran crying into the bathroom.

Poor thing.

Suddenly, the crazy Romanian Girl was the big hit at My S.' Valentine's Day party.

She was all over the place and causing quite the scene.

My blawze! My new blawze! I just spent $30 dollars on that blawsze!

She kept rubbing at her ridiculous zebra-stryped, wine stained blouse, and eventually wore a hole in it.

My S., (who I suspect has a secret fetish for lending her clothing to others) provided the crazy Romanian Girl with this crazy sleeveless red tank-top. This was actually an improvement for the crazy Romanian Girl, who was in fact extremely concerned that the new shirt didn't match her shoes.

I pointed out that her shoes were the same color as the carpet, which helped a little.

The Vegas band members had this uniform thing going on--white dress shirts and black trousers. They stayed at the party when they were finished playing, and were having a pretty good time. One of them hit on the crazy Romanian Girl for quite some time. Nice guy, actually.

The Spaz-that-everyone-wants-to-curl-up-with-by-a-fire decided to smoke the crazy Romanian Girl up. She had never smoked before, and was already pretty drunk (in a good way). Great way to get your I'm not interested in you message across.

Asshole.

This other dude had shown up a little bit ago--I had met him before, nice guy. At the time, he had been wearing this T-shirt with all these lines of code printed on it. If you spoke computer, the T-shirt was actually supposed to be funny (like on the Simpsons when Bart goes to genius school and the answer to a complicated math problem is R-D-R-R-). He's an interesting looking fellow�he has the same body type as the Dwarf from the Lord of the Rings movie, and a true mullet�long straight Marsha Brady hair in the back, and short up top, like an Eastern European hockey player.

God, this dude was a dork (in a loveable way). He had brought a duffel-bag full of Heinekens, and insisted on putting them all in the very full fridge.

He was the one who had brought over all that DJ equipment, and he took over the spinning for the evening.

He didn't do a bad job selecting songs (some Madonna, some other dance music and so on), and he didn't play his songs so loud that you couldn't talk, which was much appreciated.

But he was fun to watch, because he took his DJ-ing so seriously. If a record skipped, he'd get on the PA and make some sort of statement blaming someone else for the skip.

This was the funny part about him--he was pretending to scratch records! One turntable would be playing something, and giving off a vibe of utter concentration, he'd move the other one around, but to no effect. No sounds, nothing. He was faking it! I almost wanted to request Girl You Know It's True, but I restrained myself.

The crazy Romanian Girl offhandedly mentioned that she knew how to bellydance. My S.' eyes lit up, and she ran into the other room to tell He-Man. After much coaxing, the crazy Romanian Girl agreed to dance, and He-Man played his belly-dancing record.

That was fun. The room was almost entirely bare, the lights were low, bras and panties were hung from a makeshift clothesline in the corner (to complete the Valentine�s Day effect) and here's this girl dancing around the room all by herself. And doing a damn good job!

My S. pressed the button marked crazy Romanian Girl bellydancing in my living room, and all of a sudden the room was packed, no talking, everyone breathlessly watching the performance.

The Spaz-that-everyone-wants-to-introduce-to-their-parents walked in and casually started talking to her, as if she was not bellydancing. And he didn't get the hint.

Finally, I anonymously cried Do not distract the performer!

When the bellydancing was over, everyone applauded and converged back into party formation.

Very impressed with the crazy Romanian Girl�she became my hero for the evening, of course.

Every time I went to the kitchen to grab a beer from my semi-hidden stash, I noticed that two or three had gotten up and walked away. I didn�t really mind at all�I had brought extras for just this purpose. There were three beers left, so I gave one to C. (from work), took one for myself, and hid the last one in the other room�in the pocket of my coat. But here�s the funny part.

Remember that dwarf-looking guy with a mullet that I was talking about before? And he had brought a duffle bag full of beer? Well, they were all gone, and he had only had three! He was livid, and made quite the (justified?) stink about it. I felt really bad for him, and equally bad for My S., who became the lone recipient of his futile wrath.

And it was Saturday, too, and after 11:00. Stupid Massachusetts Blue Laws�he was stuck sans beer for the night, and if he didn�t have a stash at home, he was screwed �till Monday.

As it turned out, he did have a stash at home. Good for him.

But alcohol was getting scarce. The punch My S. had made was gone, and the crazy Romanian Girl was slurping down the last jell-o shot right in front of me. The three bottles of wine the two girls had brought were no more.

Here�s the deal�I think that almost all of the guests had arrived planning on just having one or two beers. In fact, the Mulleted Dwarf was the only person (that I had noticed) that had arrived with booze in tow. Some kid arriving sans booze planning on having just one or two, multiplied by 40, equals prematurely dry party.

Also equals time for me to get going. Rounding up everyone and figuring out how to get back home (the trains had stopped running) took the obligatory half-hour. The homeward bound party turned out to be C. (from work), the crazy Romanian Girl (grudgingly, I should note), the Spazzy-guy-that-everyone-wants-to-become-pregnant-by, and myself.

Oh yeah, and here�s something I didn�t find out �till later. There was this Mr. Cool guy that thought he was the bomb-diggity (apparently). He started hitting on the crazy Romanian Girl, and she noticed that he was holding her missing bottle of wine. All sultry, she asked for a sip, and then went on to pour the content of the bottle down his gleaming white shirt! Damn! I�m sure glad that she�s on my side.

So now there�s two wine-stained shirts�a murder-suicide.

We said our final good-byes. For me, this turned out to be the time period where I did the most talking with strangers.

Idiot.

I had conferred with several people, and they all kinda agreed that maybe the place to wait for the bus could possibly be down the end of some street. Since I know Dorchester like I know the back of Larry King�s hand, I decided to lead the way.

Well, we found the stop, and all involved sans me decided to smoke a jibba whist waiting for the bus.

The wait wasn�t that bad, and the bus was joyously deserted. We sat in the back, and the crazy Romanian Girl and the Spazzy-guy-that-everyone-thinks-can-perform-miracles kinda snuggled together. How sweet.

Asshole.

The bus ride was rilly, rilly awesome. We were headed to Government Center, where we could change for another bus that would take us home. This was a great big relief. The big bonus for me was that the bus went down Dot Ave, which I had never been down before.

I went up to the front to hang out with the bus driver, explaining that I�m from J.P., and that my parents had sternly warned me to never ever under any circumstances even think of setting foot on Dorchesterian asphalt.

That�s what all the Dorchester parents tell their kids about J.P., he said.

He gave me a mini-tour and we had a good time talking.

C. (from work), the crazy Romanian Girl, and I were all headed back to Allston. The Spazzy-guy-that-everyone-wants-to-erect-monuments-in-honor-of was heading somewhere else. C. (from work) and I had to pry the now pretty wasted crazy Romanian Girl away from him�do his dirty work, no less.

Asshole.

I had to piss like Secretariat, so I climbed the stairs to the top-level courtyard of the city�s main courthouse. I was obscured from view by all but this crazy homeless lady. I didn�t really care all that much about her. I rather enjoyed pissing on the courthouse courtyard. I had once-a-week-jury duty for seven or eight months straight last winter.

Assholes.

When I got back, C. (from work) and I split that last beer I had snucken into my coat pocket. Rilly, rilly good.

The bus ride home was very fun�the crazy Romanian Girl kept going on and on about how she can never show her face at work again after all of the wacky things she had done. C. (from work) and I spent most of the ride stroking her ego and telling her that everyone at the party loved her (which was true).

We got off at Packard�s Corner so she could puke.

And onto Store 24, where she got a shrink-wrapped turkey sub. I waited in line for her�she had given me her wallet. The smallest bill was a $100! Jezus Christ!

And on to her place. It was a short walk, really, but it took us quite some time to make it to her apartment. I got two free Guinnesses for my efforts, and we stayed with her for awhile to make sure she was ok.

C. (from work) and I parted ways at my apartment, I got upstairs and somehow managed to get inside my apartment. I brushed my teeth, took a preventative Excedrin, and went to bed.