Saturday night recap:
7:30: dinner @ Sullivan Diner with Mrs. Dynamite and Scott. A burger for Scott, grilled cheese & bacon for Mrs. Dynamite, and grilled chicken club with guacamole for Kid Dynamite. 1 bottle of pinot noir.
8:30: Off the Wagon on MacDougal Street. I elected not to ask the bouncer if I got a prize if I was the oldest person in the bar as he checked my ID. We basked in the glory of old school college bars, watching NYU juniors play beer pong with pitchers of Bud Light, and trying to no avail to get Scott to hit on the sloppy young co-eds. After finishing my pint of Sam’s Winter Ale, we moved on.
9:30: Down the Hatch on W. 4th St: the sister bar of Off the Wagon, and equally collegiate in atmosphere. We were impressed when the couple next to us wasted no time in starting their night: 6 tequila shots lined up and slammed in 3 minutes. Mrs. Dynamite and I repeatedly urged Scott not to be too picky with the ladies “look bro, at this hour you have to take WHATEVER you can get.” But Scott was unfazed, glaring at me: “It’s not even 10 o’clock,” although in Kid Dynamite time that’s basically 1am.
11:30: Home in bed with Mrs. Dynamite and Oscar. Yep – this is my life – who could ask for more?
but then it gets interesting:
3am: Mrs. Dynamite gets up to go to the bathroom. After several minutes, and the sounds of repeated toilet flushing, I come to the conclusion that something is awry. I hear Mrs. Dynamite repeatedly opening and closing the bathroom door, going into the kitchen and back, and I decide to go check on her – hoping I won’t find her in tears with her head in the toilet. She only had 2 beers and is no lightweight, so I’m not sure what’s up.
As I approach the bathroom door, open a sliver, I catch the surprising site of her in her bathrobe – why the bathrobe? What happened to her clothes? “You ok?” “Yeah – GREAT,” she replies sarcastically, in good spirits, laughing at her predicament.
“WHAT happened?” I’m not sure I want to know, as the bathmats are in the washing machine, along with the shower curtain and all Mrs. Dynamite’s clothes, and the unmistakable smell of chunder hangs in the air.
“You don’t want to know,” she assures me. “You KNOW I do,” and I do!
“I was feeling fine – I got up to get a drink of water, and as soon as I put the glass to my lips, I projectile vomited. EVERYWHERE,” she calmly laughed.
“Drunk?” I didn’t quite get it.
“No, just full stomach syndrome I think,” the two tall Bud Light draughts had taken their toll in volume, not alcohol.
I gestured at a spot on the bathroom door frame where some residual high velocity spatter was still lingering.
“You don’t understand,” she gave me the details, “it was EVERYWHERE. I had to get into the shower with my clothes on to wash the chunks off!” I began laughing hysterically as she recounted the gory details.
“I tried to put my fingers over my mouth, but it shot out the sides- I looked like I’d just won a pie eating contest!” mmmmm… Grilled cheese & bacon colored with pinot noir, and Bud Light for volume. Sounds delish. “I can’t get the smell of puke out of my nostrils. Does my hair smell like puke?” She was concerned.
“You’re all good baby,” and she was – which is the only reason I’m able to re-tell the story here – Mrs. Dynamite was fine, able to laugh her way through the whole situation, concerned only with how she was going to clean up the destruction without waking up my cousin who was visiting for the night, and sleeping on the Aerobed downstairs. So Mrs. Dynamite selflessly tiptoed around the crime scene, dabbing, scrubbing, and wiping down the chunder chunks, without even making enough noise to attract Oscar to check out what was happening.
That’s my girl.

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