when the debate team shhhs you

This morning, I went to brunch with G, A, and J. The morning started something like this:

9:51 AM: Alarm goes off for the 5th time.
9:53 AM: Alarm goes off for the 6th time.
9:54 AM: I call/croak out to G, asking what time we're getting food. G responds to call A.
9:55 AM: Text A and J simultaneously.
9:56 AM: Conference call with A & J, wherein A tells me they would be "more than open" to "procuring brunch" at the Arte Cafe on 73rd. In an hour.

And you wonder why I love 3-day weekends. I worked last night until around 3 in the morning. Mind you, that's getting off early (that's what she said). Sundays are usually days filled with dread and disappointment of the encroaching Monday gloom. However, Sunday Fundays are days reserved for humor, merriment, and general disorder.

G and I met the boys up at the cafe. Everyone except me went for the $12 all-you-can drink deal. I went for the massive coffee deal. Our waitress looked and talked like she had a mild mental issue. She talked at length about her rooster in Williamsburg, about her desire for a black German Shepherd police dog, and bared her teeth when she felt threatened. She would frequently come to our table and shout "READY?!" as if we were participating unknowingly in a game show, or an impromptu acrobatics course. I wondered the whole time, "Ready for what?"

Apparently, for the debate team next to us. It started a few drinks into the all-you-can-drink deal, when A, true to form, whipped out his wackberry to show us a picture of some chick that'd mailed him a naked photo of herself. I say true to form because A is maybe the biggest woman-lover I've ever met. He LOVES women. And women love him. Apparently so much that they mail pictures of themselves to him. This chick, yikes.

Next, we started discussing A's old girlfriend. How possessive she was, especially. We all recalled the time our friend AM had laid her hand upon his chest at a party (upon request, claims A, since he told her to feel the weave of his shirt). No sooner had AM's hand graced A's shirt, then A's ex-girlfriend L went into a tailspin, demanding WHY AM had placed her hand on A's pecs.

Just as G was retelling this story, when she'd gotten to the "AND SHE LAID HER HAND ON HIS SHIRT" (admittedly, she was yelling..I mean it was 4 drinks in), one of the 13-year-old NYC Prep kids next to us went, "Shhhhhh."

Everyone went silent. I rapidly fast-forwarded in my head and wondered if this would be the second restaurant in one month that I would be asked to leave.

G looked shocked. "Did that teenager just SHUSH me?"

We all just stared. G continued her story.

After that point, whenever appropriate, G would raise her voice to make a mental note or announcement to the general public. "I WONDER IF THEY'RE HAVING A SALE AT L.L. BEAN FOR BOOKBAGS FOR HIGH SCHOOL," she'd say in their direction. "I WONDER IF I'LL WIN THE DEBATE TEAM MVP AWARD THIS YEAR!" she'd throw in the general direction of the boy who'd shushed her.

"Are you still going after that kid?" inquired J after about 1/2 hour.
"Shh, let me focus. I'm watching that anorexic kid who shushed me steal fries when no one's looking," replied an absorbed G.

A birthday cupcake came out for another patron. Our high school friends joined in the singing.

"OH, SO IT'S OK TO SING WHEN IT'S A FUCKING BIRTHDAY, JUST NOT TO TELL STORIES?" shouted G to no one in particular. "I GET IT."

When the kids took out their money to pay, G had reached a heckling level, and she inquired openly about their moms, their fashion taste, and their inability to consume alcohol in public.

It was beautiful. As brunch should be. And now we're watching football.