I don’t think I am still welcome at the W Hotel. 

This is story from years ago that I am finally willing to tell publicly. You see I haven’t taken any fun trips lately.  I used to travel a lot. When you are on the road as much as I was, you start to realize that when you are in a different place – you can be anyone you want to be.  One night in March, in the Upper East Side of New York City… I apparently decided that I was a rock star.

Or maybe I just really wanted a change and wanted to end up in a circle with strangers drinking coffee and admitting that I have a problem; that I was ready to surrender to a higher power.  I don’t know what I was looking for but it was apparently at the bar in the W hotel.

I met a friend there.  When I arrived he was sitting at the bar and turned and waved.  The woman standing next to me surveying the bar scene literally looked at me and said “Lucky, girl.”  I wish I had thought before I spoke but I didn’t…. cause looking back my response was terrible.  Absolutely awful.  I said “I’ll be sure to tell his wife.”

In my head that sounded like “Oh, that’s nice.  He’s my friend.  There is nothing romantic happening. His wife will be glad to know that her husband is still considered so handsome.”  Instead, I realize I might have sounded like I was a hooker.  I am hoping it was one of those expensive call girl kinds and not a cheap one.

My friend Mark is a good man and he knows me well.  My Makers and Seven was waiting for me upon arrival with a simple nod from him to the bartender.  We sit there chatting, people watching… and I notice a good-looking man at the bar.  He is wearing a purple tie, that I remember clearly.  I remember because as I notice him.. he notices me, too.

Now, if this “eye meeting across a crowded room” moment had happened here in Dallas, you can bet your sweet ass that I would have looked away and probably moved seats… scared that he might actually speak to me.

But not in New York.  Nope I was in “go ahead, mistake me for a high-end call girl” mode.  So I did what any sane woman would do.  I looked across the bar, smiled and said “Hey, Purple Tie.  You going to keep looking or come over here and talk to me?”

Mark spit his drink out… of his nose.  So Purple Tie joins us.  We all chat and laugh.  He tells a story about being in the secret service… I say that I am Britney Spears personal assistant.  Its going well…. our relationship is off to an honest start.  Mark excuses himself and never comes back.

Holy crap.  My friend is an idiot.  What responsible man leaves a drunk 30 year old in a bar with a strange man?  For God’s sake, he is a father. He is my friend.  He should know better.  At least know better than to leave ME alone.  I text him just that… he thought he was being helpful.  He though that Purple Tie and I … with our relationship founded on truth and honesty… were really hitting it off.  I laugh and say no big deal.

The next thing I remember is waking up in my hotel room.  One knee-high black boot throw over the door between the bedroom and the parlor.  I am still in the bed and fully clothed.  The contents of my purse are in the middle of the floor in the parlor.  Oh, God.  I’ve been robbed.Wait, that’s my wallet.  Not robbed.  OK.  Good start.

I slowly roll over.  Oh, thank God.  Alone. I look in the bathroom and the parlor.  Totally alone.  Once the relief of escaping “biblical knowledge” of Purple Tie washes away.  I am completely baffled.  How in the world did I get back here and what in the world happened?  And then I know.  I know exactly what happened.

I was roofied.  Roofeyed?  I have no idea how you spell it … but I know how it feels.  Even today, years later the entire night is still blank.  Yeah, nothing.

Here is what went down at the W on Lexington Ave in New York City.  At least what I know of it.

My texts kept getting stranger and stranger.  Mark returns with two additional friends.  This is what he finds.

Me.  Leading a group of about 15 people “my BFFs” in tequila shots.

Then there is me telling the ENORMOUS bouncer at the door that we don’t have men like him in Texas, while feeling his arm muscles.  To which he asks, “Bald men or black men?”  Apparently I responded… both… with a dreamy expression on my face.  Good Lord.

But by the end of the night, everyone in that bar was my best friend.  They loved me.  I was a crazy fun hit.  I wasn’t scared of anything.  I was totally free and fun.  And I don’t remember it all.  My finest moment conquering years of fear about what people thing of me… is because some guy in a Purple Tie slipped me a mickey.

Apparently my way home was over the shoulder of one of Mark’s friends.  My “way too long, almost white trash” hair bouncing back and forth as I just continue to talk, talk, talk, talk, talk all the way back across the street to my hotel.  At which point, we gave the front desk clerk my ID and I look up from my perch and smiled.  Its important they the know its really you when you show them your ID from a giant man’s shoulder and another grown man carrying your purse.  And even from that place, I am a stickler for hotel security.

The only thing I really know for sure is that if Mark and Co. had not returned.. I would have been on an episode of Law and Order:  SVU.  But I learned the following lessons:

One, totally let him BUY you the drink, but don’t let him bring it to you.  Two, if you are going to become a crazy person – that’s fine- just make sure you bring three really big guys with you to have your back.  Three, tequila shots with new friends are never a good idea.  Four, bold is beautiful but can totally get you roofied.  To be fair to Purple Tie, I can’t actually prove that he doped me.  The bourbon and tequila might have had the same effect.  I can’t be sure.  But I feel better about myself if I blame it all on Purple Tie.

The reason I am telling this story now, is that I started missing the road a little bit.  I wished I was still traveling the world.  And then I remembered that I can’t actually be trusted alone.  Someone has to be there to tend me.

So, adoring public, if any one wants to hit the open road… let me know.  Price of admission is only one crazy drunk bitch that requires tending.  Taking applications now.