One night last summer, three girlfriends and I went into Manhattan for a special girl’s night out. We booked a room at an ultraposh hotel and met there to have a cocktail and get dolled up before hitting the town. Well, you can imagine the scene: Dance music is blasting from the stereo, the TV’s on too (even though no one’s watching it), there are two blow dryers, a flat iron, and a curling iron all being used at the same time, and every single light fixture is on, because of course we need good light to do our makeup. We were sucking enough electricity to power Rhode Island! I’m in the shower shampooing when—POP! The lights go out!

So there I am, just about to enter the rinse cycle, and it all goes black. This is followed by shrieks and cursing from my crazy friends (Brooklyn girls can pass from frightened to pissed off in about three seconds). They start yelling to me, “What the f@#$ do we do?!”

My girls know I’m the fix-it queen, but guess what? I’m naked, wet and I have shampoo burning my eyes. “What the hell are you asking me for? I can’t even find my way out of the bathtub!” Thank God someone had the brains to call the front desk. A half hour filled with the most intense giggling I can remember passed before they sent someone up to flip the circuit breaker and reprimand us for using every single outlet in the room simultaneously. Sorry, man.