In my family, baseball is like a religion. In fact, I'm pretty sure my mom would be more likely to accept an interfaith marriage than if either my sister and I were to marry, let's say, a Red Sox fan. Needless to say we take our season tickets very seriously and we are loathe to miss one of our regular Sunday home games. So you can imagine how hungover we had to have been this morning when Jess and I couldn't get our asses to the Bronx to make the 1:00 pm game time. And what a game to miss.

We celebrated Ron & Joe's engagement party in Jersey yesterday with grain alcohol and chicken parm. It was fun to see everyone. In fact, I had so much fun I think I'll wait a while before smacking Ronnie in the back of the head for making everyone RSVP in April as if he was trying to get an accurate head count for a state dinner with the fucking QUEEN. I mean, he is a queen but that is beside the point.

Afterwards, I ended up at Sullivan Room. If, like me, you are a former club kid but in your old age you would rather shave your head than set foot in another club, check this place out. Good DJs, low-key vibe. Just don't do what I did and drag your drunk, sorry ass all the way up the stairs and out into the street before you realize you left your bar tab still open and your credit card and ID with the bartender. On my way back up, I realized that the banister was no longer secured into the wall and I nearly bit it walking up the stairs. Would have been an interesting, albeit not surprising, way for me to kill myself.

In other interesting developments gleaned from my nightlife experiences, lately I'm like catnip to boys who are bit too young for me. Must be something in my perfume.