As typical when any holiday weekend rolls around, this 4th of July, it was only hours before the sky would be dark that I had solid plans for the evening’s celebration. With the East River fireworks show having been relocated to the Hudson, the idea of going up to my friend’s Brooklyn rooftop got the ax earlier in the week. When nothing else came up, I waited and waited, sure that eventually someone would call to offer up another equally appealing suggestion. With Plan A having been a Brooklyn evening, clearly I wasn’t thinking any big hurrah. Jeans and a tee sounded perfect. So when my friend Milda called and suggested a late day picnic in the park and maybe a festive drink over fireworks, I quickly agreed. In my mind I conjured up a New York City style quintessential Independence Day picnic of Martha Stewart proportions, chock full of beautiful food and wholesome family fun. In my dreams.
So, the plans were taking shape. But with holiday weekend sluggishness and trying to cram too much into too little time (which is a regular and seemingly incurable weakness of mine), I was late arriving to Milda’s. So, we redirected ourselves away from Central Park and decided to head up to her roof instead. Not so Martha, but low key and lovely just as intended.
Cut to: Three hours later (and don’t ask me how we arrived at such a place), the two of us at a party on a rooftop bar in the Meatpacking District called ‘Plunge’. Imagine the scene: 200 party people filling up every available square inch of floor space on a roof deck whose center is taken up by 45’ pool. It was the closest thing to Vegas I’ve ever seen, with mm-cheh, mme-cheh dance beats reverberating, chicks in high heels and skimpy bikinis and playboys with fat wallets showing off their riches at tables stocked with endless bottles of liquor and a colorful assortment of mixers. Martha was at this point completely out of the picture, and I felt like a guest star on ‘The Hills’.
I’m no LC, but I did have a summer sundress to wear thanks to quick thinking after the maybe cocktail Milda had mentioned. Surely the diesel doorman wouldn’t have let me into the elevator had I still been in the less than glam jean shorts and Vans from earlier. And thanks to the generous hosts, friends of M’s that invited us to the shindig, I was soon in a hazy state so much that the ridiculousness around me was actually entertaining. I even laughed—once I was able to open my eyes and catch my breath—when an overzealous, or perhaps just over-indulgent and thus over-intoxicated idiot sprayed an entire bottle of Veuve into the crowd and ended up dowsing me from the neck up. Yes, you heard me right. So much for primping.
In the end though, I have a good lot of laughs about the night and have come to the conclusion that it wasn’t the worst place to spend my 4th. The view of the fireworks show was pretty awesome and definitely better than the one I would’ve had from my own roof. And being, not dined, but wined, err—boozed at a venue requiring bottle service starting at $275 without having to drop a dime—well, that’s a New York evening every gal should enjoy at least once.