Since it was Jeff's birthday, and since I had already had my romantic rendezvous for the trip, I agreed to head out with Jeff to some of Paris's finest gay clubs. I actually enjoy going to gay clubs. It's a crowded room full of typically very handsome men (often shirtless) who flirt with me but aren't trying to get me to have sex with them. I mean, come on, that's a gold medal night for a girl.
The problem was: we had no idea where Paris's finest gay clubs were. I'm typically a planner. When I go to Disney World, I plan every day's itinerary to the minute, including what ride route we're going to take. I make restaurant reservations six months in advance. I have literally said to someone, "I'm going to the movies that day" when they offer plans for a date three months into the future. And this Paris trip was no different. I had spreadsheets drawn up of where we were going, what we were doing, with included attachments of the walking maps to get there. Jeff had one job. ONE JOB. And that was to choose which club he wanted to go to, and find out where it was. The night of our birthday festivities, we went to a pub near the hotel for a kickoff beer and I said to Jeff, "So, where are we going?" And he answered, "Oh, I don't know. I figured we'd just ask the bartender where we should go." I responded, "Oh yes. The straight German bartender with the neck tattoo who hasn't stopped talking about Manchester U? I'm sure he knows where the gay clubs are."
When we asked the bartender if he knew of a good gay club to go to. He looked at us with a blank stare. Then said, questioningly, "I think that there are a whole bunch on Saint-Michel" and proceeded to give us directions.
Jeff and I paid up and headed down to Saint-Michel. Once we got there, we walked up and down the street, but couldn't find any club, let alone a gay club. So, we stopped someone for directions.
"Excusez-moi? Do you know of any gay clubs in this area?"
"Yes, they're on Saint-Michel"
"Ok, thanks."
We once again walked up and down Boulevard Saint-Michel. By this point, I was getting tired and a little bit cranky and frustrated at Jeff for not doing his research. We stopped another person for directions.
"Excusez-moi? We're looking for a gay club?"
"There's some on Saint-Michel."
"Do you know what it's called in particular, or where on Saint-Michel it is?
"No, I'm sorry," with a sympathetic look.
What was this? We were on Saint-Michel. Where was this ghost gay club that everyone kept talking about? I took out my phone and consulted google, which also told me Saint-Michel. Was this some conspiracy between the French citizens and Google to turn gays off to the city of Paris? Finally, I said to Jeff, we need to find some gay men and get them to show us. Now, this is harder than you think. The "Gay or European" game was invented for a reason. It's really tough to tell the difference sometimes. But, when a couple of men walked toward us with their hands touching, I knew we had found our saviors. Unfortunately, they didn't speak English.
Since one of them had a more Mediterranean look, I took a shot and asked if they spoke Spanish. And the one that I had pegged for a Spaniard said, "Ah! Si!" So, in my broken Spanish, I said, "Estamos buscando por un club donde...um, los muchachos se gustan los muchachos." The Spaniard laughed and then translated to French what I had asked for his boyfriend, who also started laughing. Their answer: Saint-Michel.
After forty-five minutes of walking, Jeff and I decided to call it a night and go back to the hotel. We hailed a cab and started driving back. The cab turned onto a street called Rue du Temple. I looked out the cab window...men were coming out of the clubs onto Rue du Temple in droves. Men holding hands, men making out with each other on the street, men skipping to each other. I'm not being offensive. There were literally men skipping to each other on Rue du Temple. The irony was too much for us and we decided to keep heading home and try Rue du Temple the next night, which we did.
The next night, we did have a blast on Rue du Temple. A bouncer stopped us at the door and warned us that we were heading into a gay club, which I thought was nice, as he didn't want an unassuming American couple to walk into something that they weren't ready for. Both Jeff and I yelled excitedly, "We know!" and walked into a soapy naked guy in a shower with a bunch of men crowded around him watching. I met some boys from Chicago and danced with them for most of the night. And later I had a very nice conversation with the naked man in the shower. His name was Jean-Baptiste and he was in grad school.
So, did we ever solve the Case of the Ghost Gay Club at Saint-Michel, Nancy Drew? Well, although we thought we were walking down Saint-Michel, we were actually walking on the street perpendicular to it. So while we were hitting Saint-Michel at the corner, we weren't actually going down it. Mystery solved. Americans are dumb.
Showing posts with label Trips. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Trips. Show all posts
Friday, May 9, 2014
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Tales from France, Part II: The Tale of the Dutchman
Notwithstanding the misadventures in customs, I was so excited to be in Paris. I had never been before and on the way to hotel, I was out the window like a teen in a rom com during a music montage.
My friends were there for a work thing. Our first day, my friend, Jeff came back from his meeting and said to me, "There's a co-worker of mine here that is soooooooo your type. You are going to love him." I had already been familiar with some of Jeff's co-workers, having attended holiday party/happy hours with him in the past, but I had never met this one, the Dutchman, since he's based in the Netherlands. That night, we met up with all of the co-workers for dinner. I could feel Jeff's "I-told-you-so" gaze on me, when I shook the Dutchman's hand in introduction and my eyes lit up. I believe that I stumbled a bit. It was mostly a blur. It was like meeting Conrad Birdie.
On the walk to the restaurant, I maneuvered my way next to the Dutchman and engaged him in conversation. When we got to the restaurant, I made sure that we were sitting next to each other. It would have been nice of me to sit next to my friend, Jeff, the one who had actually invited me to Paris, but this was not a time to be nice. I was on a mission. And when you're on a mission, you're rude.
During dinner, I laughed at all of the Dutchman's jokes. I made coy moves like touching his arm at times, sharing my food with him, tucking my hair behind my ear in what I hoped was an adorable fashion while praying that my fingers wouldn't get caught in my wind-blown knotty curls ruining the whole move. I conveniently ignored the other 11 people sitting at the table. The only time I looked away from the Dutchman's eyes was in confusion when the restaurant started inexplicably blasting Blurred Lines on their speaker system while they brought out a cake with sparklers on it for Jeff's birthday. Oh, did I mention that I was ignoring my friend who invited me to Paris on his birthday? I'm not proud of my behavior, but I knew that Jeff, as a true friend and wingman, would understand.
The Dutchman seemed charmed and as engaged with me as I was with him. I learned later that the whole table was interested in watching this romance bloom. At one point, the Dutchman asked me, "So what is the story with you and Jeff?" Now, here was the dilemma. Jeff isn't in the closet by any means, but he also doesn't broadcast details about his personal life. And this is not just a work thing. I'm one of his best friends, and will only learn about a new guy that he's dating about three to four months into the relationship and that's only if I ask, "Are you seeing anyone?" I didn't want to "out" him. But, I didn't want the Dutchman to think that there was any possibility that Jeff and I had a thing, or that he would be interfering with any form of relationship.
So, I said, "Jeff and I are just friends."
The Dutchman looked skeptical, "A friend who brings another friend on a work trip to Paris?"
Oy..
So, I said, "I'm not exactly Jeff's type," with a meaningful look.
The Dutchman got it right away, looked surprised for a moment, and then his face relaxed, "Well, that's good news for me, then," he said.
After dinner, everyone hung out in the hotel bar for a while, and then one by one decided to go to bed. The Dutchman and I figuring that the night was still young and so were we, decided to go out on the town. We ended up chatting in a cozy bar near the Champ Elysees, and on the walk home, he finally kissed me. It was incredibly romantic. He was a little bit concerned that he was being unprofessional, until I told him that Jeff had essentially pimped him out.
There's nothing funny about this story or weird about the Dutchman. It was a night of romance and just what I needed to get my mind off of Coop. It was a perfect night. Here's the Dutchman's version of it:
"I drank a lot of wine in Paris and ended up hooking up with one of my co-worker's friends. The end."
Stay tuned for Part III and my experiences in Gay Paris...literally, I hung out in a bunch of gay clubs in Paris and I'm going to tell you about it.
My friends were there for a work thing. Our first day, my friend, Jeff came back from his meeting and said to me, "There's a co-worker of mine here that is soooooooo your type. You are going to love him." I had already been familiar with some of Jeff's co-workers, having attended holiday party/happy hours with him in the past, but I had never met this one, the Dutchman, since he's based in the Netherlands. That night, we met up with all of the co-workers for dinner. I could feel Jeff's "I-told-you-so" gaze on me, when I shook the Dutchman's hand in introduction and my eyes lit up. I believe that I stumbled a bit. It was mostly a blur. It was like meeting Conrad Birdie.
On the walk to the restaurant, I maneuvered my way next to the Dutchman and engaged him in conversation. When we got to the restaurant, I made sure that we were sitting next to each other. It would have been nice of me to sit next to my friend, Jeff, the one who had actually invited me to Paris, but this was not a time to be nice. I was on a mission. And when you're on a mission, you're rude.
During dinner, I laughed at all of the Dutchman's jokes. I made coy moves like touching his arm at times, sharing my food with him, tucking my hair behind my ear in what I hoped was an adorable fashion while praying that my fingers wouldn't get caught in my wind-blown knotty curls ruining the whole move. I conveniently ignored the other 11 people sitting at the table. The only time I looked away from the Dutchman's eyes was in confusion when the restaurant started inexplicably blasting Blurred Lines on their speaker system while they brought out a cake with sparklers on it for Jeff's birthday. Oh, did I mention that I was ignoring my friend who invited me to Paris on his birthday? I'm not proud of my behavior, but I knew that Jeff, as a true friend and wingman, would understand.
The Dutchman seemed charmed and as engaged with me as I was with him. I learned later that the whole table was interested in watching this romance bloom. At one point, the Dutchman asked me, "So what is the story with you and Jeff?" Now, here was the dilemma. Jeff isn't in the closet by any means, but he also doesn't broadcast details about his personal life. And this is not just a work thing. I'm one of his best friends, and will only learn about a new guy that he's dating about three to four months into the relationship and that's only if I ask, "Are you seeing anyone?" I didn't want to "out" him. But, I didn't want the Dutchman to think that there was any possibility that Jeff and I had a thing, or that he would be interfering with any form of relationship.
So, I said, "Jeff and I are just friends."
The Dutchman looked skeptical, "A friend who brings another friend on a work trip to Paris?"
Oy..
So, I said, "I'm not exactly Jeff's type," with a meaningful look.
The Dutchman got it right away, looked surprised for a moment, and then his face relaxed, "Well, that's good news for me, then," he said.
After dinner, everyone hung out in the hotel bar for a while, and then one by one decided to go to bed. The Dutchman and I figuring that the night was still young and so were we, decided to go out on the town. We ended up chatting in a cozy bar near the Champ Elysees, and on the walk home, he finally kissed me. It was incredibly romantic. He was a little bit concerned that he was being unprofessional, until I told him that Jeff had essentially pimped him out.
There's nothing funny about this story or weird about the Dutchman. It was a night of romance and just what I needed to get my mind off of Coop. It was a perfect night. Here's the Dutchman's version of it:
"I drank a lot of wine in Paris and ended up hooking up with one of my co-worker's friends. The end."
Stay tuned for Part III and my experiences in Gay Paris...literally, I hung out in a bunch of gay clubs in Paris and I'm going to tell you about it.
Monday, May 5, 2014
Tales from France, Part I: Le Straight Par-ee
I've had a busy couple of months. Started a book club. Got promoted at that attorney gig that I do in my spare time. Went all Fatal Attraction on Coop by cutting up a Christmas/birthday gift and leaving it on his doorstep after he asked if he could have it back. Welcomed the Sox back to Fenway on a winter(?) day:
Seriously, someone needs to have a talk with Mother Nature.
Mel: Mother Nature, I found snow in my backyard on April 15. Where did you get it?
Mother Nature: Mel, I...
Mel [interrupting] Answer me! Who taught you how to do this stuff?
Mother Nature: YOU, all right!!! I learned it by watching you!!!!
Ok, what is happening?
Anyway, perhaps one of the most exciting things that I did recently was take a trip to Paris. I briefly mentioned a fling with a Dutchman, but I didn't really get into any of my Parisian adventures. They started from the moment that I got off the plane...
If you've ever stood in line in customs waiting to enter a foreign country, you will be able to relate to this feeling. For some reason, even if you're not smuggling anything in, or doing anything remotely illegal, you always feel like you're doing something wrong when you stand in line at customs. For me, personally, I always draw a blank at the questions that the border officer asks me. All of the sudden, I can't remember where I flew from, where I'm going, how long am I staying... I once answered "three days" when I knew I was staying for seven and then corrected myself right away, and then went back to three days for some reason so that I wouldn't seem suspicious. So, already I was very uncomfortable. It didn't help matters that the customs area was being kept at a balmy 101 degrees, that's 38 degrees Celsius.
After standing about 20 minutes in line, one of the customs officials announced something in French, opened up one of the ropes and a bunch of people went to a lineless area on the other side of the room. I'm not sure if you've noticed that a major difference between men and women is that men have a tendency to act first and think later. So, as you might imagine, even though the men in the line that we were in didn't speak French and had no way of understanding the announcement, they all saw a shorter line and similar to what happens when they see power tools or sausages, all of the men (including my two male friends) made a mad dash for the open rope, with their respective women trailing behind in a chorus of "What did that announcement say though?" "Is this line just for the French citizens?" "Why didn't they announce that in English?" And sure enough after standing in that line for 20 minutes, and making it toward the front, we learned that that line was for European Union passports only. So, back to the original line (now about twice as long as it was before) we went.
By this point, we had been in customs for 40 minutes. I was sweating bullets from the heat and also because I had convinced myself that while we were standing in line, someone had planted 1200 grams of cocaine in my suitcase and I would be thrown into a foreign prison, which in my imagination was the Thai prison in Brokedown Palace for some reason. With all of this happening, I began to feel a bit nauseous. Now, I haven't thrown up since I was five years old. Not from stomach bugs, not from food poisoning, not from car sickness, not from too much tequila. But, somehow I knew that this might be the day that my Seinfeldian vomit streak may end. After about 30 more minutes of waiting in line (we had been in customs for a total of 70 minutes at this time), I had finally made it to the front of the line. I had visions of the cool air of a Charles De Gaulle baggage claim carousel whisking by my face. I thought to myself, you just have to hang in there a little bit longer and this will all be over. My friend, Jeff, went through the customs line. My friend, Eric, went through the customs line. Just when it was about to be my turn, I knew that I couldn't wait any longer. I ran out of the customs line for the bathroom, too sick to even worry about the perceived guilt of racing to the restroom just when I'm about to be questioned by border patrol.
I will spare you the gory details. Let's skip ahead a few minutes, when I emerged from the bathroom feeling much better but really bummed that my vomit clock had been reset to zero. I started to go to the front of the line, hoping that someone nice would let me back into my spot, since I didn't know if I could stay in that room of hellfire for another 45 minutes, and I was concerned that Jeff and Eric, having gone through the doors without me and not having cell phones that worked internationally, would be worried that I had been arrested by the border police. As I approached the front of the line, a female real-life version of a cartoonish French maitre d, complete with a sneer...and probably a mustache, I don't really remember, stopped me with an "Excusez moi, Madame." and pointed to the end of the line. I pleaded with her. "Didn't you just see me run by here? I had to go to the restroom. I was sick." Her nose wriggled with disgust at my words and she said merely, "Please go to the line."
At this point, between ruining my vomit streak, worrying that my friends would leave the airport without me, and dealing with snooty French TSA equivalents, it all became too much for me and I burst into tears. Even the humorous thought that airport employees are as miserable in France as they are in the US and of the possibility of some kind of special international camp where all airport employees go to learn the basics of How to Be a Dick and How Not to Help People didn't cheer me up. Needless to say, everyone else in line (save the one guy who looked extremely uncomfortable and probably has a similar reaction when any woman cries) looked at me sympathetically. After 30 more minutes in line, I arrived at the front again and tearfully answered the border agent's questions without incident. As I passed through the electric doors, I heard a woman call out in a Southern accent, "We're praying for you, honey!" which made me feel really bad because these people probably thought that I was dealing with an actual crisis, not an imaginary one involving waiting in customs for an hour and a half with a brief intermission of throwup.
I found my friends waiting for me at the baggage claim and told them my tale of woe. They looked at me with compassion and an underlying not-so-subtle air of glee.
And so began my adventures in Paris. The trip got much MUCH better after this. And I will tell you all about it in my next post. Until then, au revoir!
Seriously, someone needs to have a talk with Mother Nature.
Mel: Mother Nature, I found snow in my backyard on April 15. Where did you get it?
Mother Nature: Mel, I...
Mel [interrupting] Answer me! Who taught you how to do this stuff?
Mother Nature: YOU, all right!!! I learned it by watching you!!!!
Ok, what is happening?
Anyway, perhaps one of the most exciting things that I did recently was take a trip to Paris. I briefly mentioned a fling with a Dutchman, but I didn't really get into any of my Parisian adventures. They started from the moment that I got off the plane...
If you've ever stood in line in customs waiting to enter a foreign country, you will be able to relate to this feeling. For some reason, even if you're not smuggling anything in, or doing anything remotely illegal, you always feel like you're doing something wrong when you stand in line at customs. For me, personally, I always draw a blank at the questions that the border officer asks me. All of the sudden, I can't remember where I flew from, where I'm going, how long am I staying... I once answered "three days" when I knew I was staying for seven and then corrected myself right away, and then went back to three days for some reason so that I wouldn't seem suspicious. So, already I was very uncomfortable. It didn't help matters that the customs area was being kept at a balmy 101 degrees, that's 38 degrees Celsius.
After standing about 20 minutes in line, one of the customs officials announced something in French, opened up one of the ropes and a bunch of people went to a lineless area on the other side of the room. I'm not sure if you've noticed that a major difference between men and women is that men have a tendency to act first and think later. So, as you might imagine, even though the men in the line that we were in didn't speak French and had no way of understanding the announcement, they all saw a shorter line and similar to what happens when they see power tools or sausages, all of the men (including my two male friends) made a mad dash for the open rope, with their respective women trailing behind in a chorus of "What did that announcement say though?" "Is this line just for the French citizens?" "Why didn't they announce that in English?" And sure enough after standing in that line for 20 minutes, and making it toward the front, we learned that that line was for European Union passports only. So, back to the original line (now about twice as long as it was before) we went.
By this point, we had been in customs for 40 minutes. I was sweating bullets from the heat and also because I had convinced myself that while we were standing in line, someone had planted 1200 grams of cocaine in my suitcase and I would be thrown into a foreign prison, which in my imagination was the Thai prison in Brokedown Palace for some reason. With all of this happening, I began to feel a bit nauseous. Now, I haven't thrown up since I was five years old. Not from stomach bugs, not from food poisoning, not from car sickness, not from too much tequila. But, somehow I knew that this might be the day that my Seinfeldian vomit streak may end. After about 30 more minutes of waiting in line (we had been in customs for a total of 70 minutes at this time), I had finally made it to the front of the line. I had visions of the cool air of a Charles De Gaulle baggage claim carousel whisking by my face. I thought to myself, you just have to hang in there a little bit longer and this will all be over. My friend, Jeff, went through the customs line. My friend, Eric, went through the customs line. Just when it was about to be my turn, I knew that I couldn't wait any longer. I ran out of the customs line for the bathroom, too sick to even worry about the perceived guilt of racing to the restroom just when I'm about to be questioned by border patrol.
I will spare you the gory details. Let's skip ahead a few minutes, when I emerged from the bathroom feeling much better but really bummed that my vomit clock had been reset to zero. I started to go to the front of the line, hoping that someone nice would let me back into my spot, since I didn't know if I could stay in that room of hellfire for another 45 minutes, and I was concerned that Jeff and Eric, having gone through the doors without me and not having cell phones that worked internationally, would be worried that I had been arrested by the border police. As I approached the front of the line, a female real-life version of a cartoonish French maitre d, complete with a sneer...and probably a mustache, I don't really remember, stopped me with an "Excusez moi, Madame." and pointed to the end of the line. I pleaded with her. "Didn't you just see me run by here? I had to go to the restroom. I was sick." Her nose wriggled with disgust at my words and she said merely, "Please go to the line."
At this point, between ruining my vomit streak, worrying that my friends would leave the airport without me, and dealing with snooty French TSA equivalents, it all became too much for me and I burst into tears. Even the humorous thought that airport employees are as miserable in France as they are in the US and of the possibility of some kind of special international camp where all airport employees go to learn the basics of How to Be a Dick and How Not to Help People didn't cheer me up. Needless to say, everyone else in line (save the one guy who looked extremely uncomfortable and probably has a similar reaction when any woman cries) looked at me sympathetically. After 30 more minutes in line, I arrived at the front again and tearfully answered the border agent's questions without incident. As I passed through the electric doors, I heard a woman call out in a Southern accent, "We're praying for you, honey!" which made me feel really bad because these people probably thought that I was dealing with an actual crisis, not an imaginary one involving waiting in customs for an hour and a half with a brief intermission of throwup.
I found my friends waiting for me at the baggage claim and told them my tale of woe. They looked at me with compassion and an underlying not-so-subtle air of glee.
And so began my adventures in Paris. The trip got much MUCH better after this. And I will tell you all about it in my next post. Until then, au revoir!
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Steve and the Cowboy
I recently visited my friend from college, Steve, in Los Angeles. We had a great time! We even talked him into Disneyland, which is like at the bottom of the list of places you want to go to when you live in L.A.
One of the funniest things about Steve is that he doesn't watch television and doesn't really pay much attention to who sings what or who's in what movie. So, while he lives in L.A., and knows famous people, he has absolutely no idea that they're famous. Here are a few examples:
Example #1 (relayed to me by Patrick):
Steve: My friend, Neil, is on some dance show that I think you like.
Patrick: WHAT DANCE SHOW??
Steve: I think it's called So You Can Dance or something?
Patrick: Are you KIDDING me?? You're friends with 2007 So You Think You Can Dance Third-Place finisher Neil Haskell??????
Steve: I guess so.
Example #2 (after I saw Steve tagged in a facebook photo with one of my favorite actresses, Lizzy Caplan):
Me: Are you seriously in a facebook photo with Lizzy Caplan?
Steve: She's a friend of a friend. How do you know Lizzy?
Me: Are you seriously asking me how I know Lizzy Caplan?
Steve rarely cares when I let him know who these people actually are. But, on this visit, I was finally able to excite him about someone he had encountered in his past, that he didn't know he had encountered. While Steve, my sister, Stacy, and I were lounging around in the Roosevelt hotel lobby, Steve told us a story about something that had happened with him there one night.
It had happened the weekend of the Country Music Awards. Hollywood had been overrun with men in cowboy hats and boots and puffed out chests hanging out with women who were way too pretty to be hanging out with them. It also happened to be Steve's birthday, so he and his friends had gone out for drinks at the Hollywood version of a local dive. Steve, being the generous guy that he is, decided to buy one of the cowboys (let's call him Yosemite Sam because that's who I'm picturing in this story) and his way too pretty girlfriend a drink, stating excitedly, "It's my birthday! I'm buying drinks! I'll buy YOU a drink and YOU a drink!!" Yosemite Sam and PG acted grateful and wished him happy birthday and accepted the drinks. But, then while Steve was in the bathroom, Yosemite Sam exclaimed to the guys next to him (who happened to be Steve's friends), "Can you BELIEVE that guy??"
Now, rightfully, Steve's friends were bothered by this. Here was Steve, nice enough to buy Yosemite Sam and his girl a drink, on his own birthday, which they accepted. But, then the moment, Steve walks away, Yosemite Sam starts badmouthing him? So, they began to call him out on his assholery. Steve, coming back from the bathroom, is wondering why his friends are being mean to his new buddies. And, Steve and his friends leave.
Out on Hollywood Boulevard, Steve and friends are being followed by Yosemite Sam and a disinterested gigantic black man, who is most likely Yosemite Sam's bodyguard and probably has been through this song and dance before, even earlier that night, and who is just kind of lacklusterly watching the scene unfold. Steve's friends had explained to Steve, in the meantime, what Yosemite Sam had said, and now Steve is thinking "what in tarnation is that lily-livered bowlegged varmint thinking?", or so I imagine. So, Steve also starts getting in Yosemite Sam's face. Yosemite Sam is inexplicably hopping mad and throwing gibes at Steve and friends, hoping to insult their patriotism, but not being very good at it. Gibes like, "How many things do you have memorized?" "I bet you can't even name all the states." "My boots cost more than your HOUSE, City F*cks". Steve and his friends just looked at him in blank disbelief. At this point, Yosemite Sam started naming off books of the Bible (to prove how Christian American he is??)...and I mean, not like the ones that we all know, like Genesis and Matthew. Books like "the book of Habbakkuk" and "Zephaniah".
Steve and friends, by this point, have made it to the Roosevelt Hotel and enter it by bypassing the locked side door and going through the back. As Steve's milling around through the hotel, he hears yelling. He goes to the locked side glass door, and there's Yosemite Sam outside on the other side. The door was still locked from the outside, but Steve could have opened it from within. Yosemite Sam starts banging on the glass, yelling "LET US IN!" And Steve, with his face inches away from the glass, yells, "No! You were MEAN to me!" And Yosemite Sam's biscuits were burning. He begins to threaten to kick Steve's ass.
At this point, it finally dawns on Yosemite Sam that Steve and friends must have been able to get inside somehow. At the same time, Steve and friends are amped up and ready to "take it outside". So, both parties hightail it to the back door at the same time, and almost pass each other as Steve and friends run out and Yosemite Sam runs (and bored bodyguard saunters) in. *cue Benny Hill Yakkety Sax music* It should have been "go-time", but Steve and friends started to see the humor in the situation with all the chest-puffing and bemusedly decide to go off laughing into the night, leaving Yosemite Sam with smoke coming out of his ears outside the Roosevelt Hotel.
At the end of this tale, I asked Steve the real identity of Yosemite Sam. He responded, "Some country singer guy named John something or other."
I replied, "John who?"
Steve texted his friend to find out the answer..."John Rich. I don't know who he is."
I said, "Steve! You know who he is! He's in that Big & Rich group."
Steve just shook his head.
I said, "You know that song? 'Save a horse, ride a cowboy'?"
Steve's eyes grew wide. He exclaimed, "That song??!!! I chest-puffed with the guy who sings THAT SONG??!!"
All in all, I find this story and Steve's realization of who his attacker was hilarious. Hopefully, Steve has learned that sometimes situations are better when you "know people"...and that the Roosevelt Hotel is a good place to "ride a cowboy"...wait, that didn't come out right.
One of the funniest things about Steve is that he doesn't watch television and doesn't really pay much attention to who sings what or who's in what movie. So, while he lives in L.A., and knows famous people, he has absolutely no idea that they're famous. Here are a few examples:
Example #1 (relayed to me by Patrick):
Steve: My friend, Neil, is on some dance show that I think you like.
Patrick: WHAT DANCE SHOW??
Steve: I think it's called So You Can Dance or something?
Patrick: Are you KIDDING me?? You're friends with 2007 So You Think You Can Dance Third-Place finisher Neil Haskell??????
Steve: I guess so.
Example #2 (after I saw Steve tagged in a facebook photo with one of my favorite actresses, Lizzy Caplan):
Me: Are you seriously in a facebook photo with Lizzy Caplan?
Steve: She's a friend of a friend. How do you know Lizzy?
Me: Are you seriously asking me how I know Lizzy Caplan?
Steve rarely cares when I let him know who these people actually are. But, on this visit, I was finally able to excite him about someone he had encountered in his past, that he didn't know he had encountered. While Steve, my sister, Stacy, and I were lounging around in the Roosevelt hotel lobby, Steve told us a story about something that had happened with him there one night.
It had happened the weekend of the Country Music Awards. Hollywood had been overrun with men in cowboy hats and boots and puffed out chests hanging out with women who were way too pretty to be hanging out with them. It also happened to be Steve's birthday, so he and his friends had gone out for drinks at the Hollywood version of a local dive. Steve, being the generous guy that he is, decided to buy one of the cowboys (let's call him Yosemite Sam because that's who I'm picturing in this story) and his way too pretty girlfriend a drink, stating excitedly, "It's my birthday! I'm buying drinks! I'll buy YOU a drink and YOU a drink!!" Yosemite Sam and PG acted grateful and wished him happy birthday and accepted the drinks. But, then while Steve was in the bathroom, Yosemite Sam exclaimed to the guys next to him (who happened to be Steve's friends), "Can you BELIEVE that guy??"
Now, rightfully, Steve's friends were bothered by this. Here was Steve, nice enough to buy Yosemite Sam and his girl a drink, on his own birthday, which they accepted. But, then the moment, Steve walks away, Yosemite Sam starts badmouthing him? So, they began to call him out on his assholery. Steve, coming back from the bathroom, is wondering why his friends are being mean to his new buddies. And, Steve and his friends leave.
Out on Hollywood Boulevard, Steve and friends are being followed by Yosemite Sam and a disinterested gigantic black man, who is most likely Yosemite Sam's bodyguard and probably has been through this song and dance before, even earlier that night, and who is just kind of lacklusterly watching the scene unfold. Steve's friends had explained to Steve, in the meantime, what Yosemite Sam had said, and now Steve is thinking "what in tarnation is that lily-livered bowlegged varmint thinking?", or so I imagine. So, Steve also starts getting in Yosemite Sam's face. Yosemite Sam is inexplicably hopping mad and throwing gibes at Steve and friends, hoping to insult their patriotism, but not being very good at it. Gibes like, "How many things do you have memorized?" "I bet you can't even name all the states." "My boots cost more than your HOUSE, City F*cks". Steve and his friends just looked at him in blank disbelief. At this point, Yosemite Sam started naming off books of the Bible (to prove how Christian American he is??)...and I mean, not like the ones that we all know, like Genesis and Matthew. Books like "the book of Habbakkuk" and "Zephaniah".
Steve and friends, by this point, have made it to the Roosevelt Hotel and enter it by bypassing the locked side door and going through the back. As Steve's milling around through the hotel, he hears yelling. He goes to the locked side glass door, and there's Yosemite Sam outside on the other side. The door was still locked from the outside, but Steve could have opened it from within. Yosemite Sam starts banging on the glass, yelling "LET US IN!" And Steve, with his face inches away from the glass, yells, "No! You were MEAN to me!" And Yosemite Sam's biscuits were burning. He begins to threaten to kick Steve's ass.
At this point, it finally dawns on Yosemite Sam that Steve and friends must have been able to get inside somehow. At the same time, Steve and friends are amped up and ready to "take it outside". So, both parties hightail it to the back door at the same time, and almost pass each other as Steve and friends run out and Yosemite Sam runs (and bored bodyguard saunters) in. *cue Benny Hill Yakkety Sax music* It should have been "go-time", but Steve and friends started to see the humor in the situation with all the chest-puffing and bemusedly decide to go off laughing into the night, leaving Yosemite Sam with smoke coming out of his ears outside the Roosevelt Hotel.
At the end of this tale, I asked Steve the real identity of Yosemite Sam. He responded, "Some country singer guy named John something or other."
I replied, "John who?"
Steve texted his friend to find out the answer..."John Rich. I don't know who he is."
I said, "Steve! You know who he is! He's in that Big & Rich group."
Steve just shook his head.
I said, "You know that song? 'Save a horse, ride a cowboy'?"
Steve's eyes grew wide. He exclaimed, "That song??!!! I chest-puffed with the guy who sings THAT SONG??!!"
All in all, I find this story and Steve's realization of who his attacker was hilarious. Hopefully, Steve has learned that sometimes situations are better when you "know people"...and that the Roosevelt Hotel is a good place to "ride a cowboy"...wait, that didn't come out right.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Don't Do Any of This Stuff
With the holidays coming up, I'm sure a lot of you will be traveling somewhere by plane. On a recent trip to California with my sister, Stacy, I made every airport-related mistake that exists in the known universe, short of forgetting to empty my pockets and then saying the word "bomb" in the security line. Just so you don't make the same mistakes that I made, I decided to give you some Travel Don'ts (Don't's?) for the holiday season.
1.) Don't forget that you have to actually travel to the airport.
None of us live at the airport. As someone who likes to plan ahead, I decided to look at the Logan Airport website to see what time they recommend that you arrive at the airport. They say during peak times, you should leave yourself at least two hours. Luckily, my flight was leaving at 10:30, which meant I would be arriving at the airport at an off-peak time. To give myself some extra time, I decided to be there by 8:30. And here's where I made the mistake. Just because you're arriving at the airport at an off-peak time, doesn't mean that you'll be driving there during an off-peak time. By forgetting this simple math, I ended up being one of those people who have to cut the line in security and then run through the airport with all of their bags a la Home Alone, barely making it to the gate on time. Speaking of security...
2.) Don't wear shiny sweaters.
We all know that in this post-9/11 world, you will most likely have to stand in a full-body scanner which shows every little anomaly on your body on a big computer screen. Sometimes if you're holding your passport in your hands, the passport will show up. Sometimes it'll pick up your bra clasp, or your shoe buckle or something. The TSA person usually pats that area and sends you on your way. While dressing for my trip to CA, I decided that I should probably dress in layers. And, the layer that I picked was a metallic cardigan. I went through the scanner. My image showed up on the screen. The TSA guard breathed, "Holy sh..." My entire computer-imaged torso was covered with green, blue and yellow dots. There was a moment of silence as I looked at the TSA people. They looked at me. Just before they were about to body slam me to the ground, I yelled out, "It's the sweater! It's the sweater!" And after I removed the sweater, luckily, my scan showed clean. Which leads me to...
3.) Don't expect airport people to know what they're doing
I'm betting that I wasn't the first metallically robed person to go through the scanner. Yet what would have happened if I hadn't pointed out that my sweater was the likely culprit of perceived terrorism? Would I be writing you from the "big house"? Why didn't anyone think to mention, "hey, you should probably put your sweater on the belt?" Once I was scanned, why was the first conclusion, "she must be carrying millions of tiny, little bombs on her upper half", rather than "her sweater is shiny"? As for other things that don't know what they're doing...
4.) Don't rely on the rental car's GPS.
On our way home, we were flying out of San Francisco Airport. As we were staying in Oakland, we figured that it would only be about 20-30 mins drive. We plugged it in the GPS which gave us a travel time of one hour and 15 minutes. We were very confused. So, we plugged in the airport again. Same thing happened. Making excuses, like "Oh it's probably one of those magic GPS's that knows the traffic conditions" and "Well, I haven't really stepped on the gas yet, so maybe it thinks we're going to drive 3 mph the whole way", we decided to just drive where it told us and hope for the best. As we got on the freeway, heading south, Stacy and I were both thinking, "We're probably not going the right way" but we drove on. After about 45 minutes of driving, it dawned on me that even though I had typed in San Francisco Airport, and the GPS read San Francisco Airport, it was sending me to the San Jose Airport. We quickly did a U-turn (...meaning we got off the exit, took a left, crossed a bridge, and got back on the highway) and barely made it to the airport in time for our version of Home Alone 2. Of course, we didn't have time to buy snacks for the plane ride home, which brings me to Don't #5...
5.) Don't leave so little time before boarding that you can't buy snacks.
Back in the olden days, airlines served lunch and/or dinner. (And, yes, we also flew upwind both ways.) Nowadays, you can buy your lunch and/or dinner. Not that airline meals were anything to burst into song about before, but they were actually much more substantial back then when they were free. Now, the "meal" is equivalent to a Lunchable. And not the big box with the dessert kind. So, if you are on a long flight with only complimentary snacks and soft drinks and you haven't brought snacks, you will starve. That may sound dramatic, but it's true.
And so, readers, learn from my mistakes...and have a happy and well-traveled holiday season.
1.) Don't forget that you have to actually travel to the airport.
None of us live at the airport. As someone who likes to plan ahead, I decided to look at the Logan Airport website to see what time they recommend that you arrive at the airport. They say during peak times, you should leave yourself at least two hours. Luckily, my flight was leaving at 10:30, which meant I would be arriving at the airport at an off-peak time. To give myself some extra time, I decided to be there by 8:30. And here's where I made the mistake. Just because you're arriving at the airport at an off-peak time, doesn't mean that you'll be driving there during an off-peak time. By forgetting this simple math, I ended up being one of those people who have to cut the line in security and then run through the airport with all of their bags a la Home Alone, barely making it to the gate on time. Speaking of security...
2.) Don't wear shiny sweaters.
We all know that in this post-9/11 world, you will most likely have to stand in a full-body scanner which shows every little anomaly on your body on a big computer screen. Sometimes if you're holding your passport in your hands, the passport will show up. Sometimes it'll pick up your bra clasp, or your shoe buckle or something. The TSA person usually pats that area and sends you on your way. While dressing for my trip to CA, I decided that I should probably dress in layers. And, the layer that I picked was a metallic cardigan. I went through the scanner. My image showed up on the screen. The TSA guard breathed, "Holy sh..." My entire computer-imaged torso was covered with green, blue and yellow dots. There was a moment of silence as I looked at the TSA people. They looked at me. Just before they were about to body slam me to the ground, I yelled out, "It's the sweater! It's the sweater!" And after I removed the sweater, luckily, my scan showed clean. Which leads me to...
3.) Don't expect airport people to know what they're doing
I'm betting that I wasn't the first metallically robed person to go through the scanner. Yet what would have happened if I hadn't pointed out that my sweater was the likely culprit of perceived terrorism? Would I be writing you from the "big house"? Why didn't anyone think to mention, "hey, you should probably put your sweater on the belt?" Once I was scanned, why was the first conclusion, "she must be carrying millions of tiny, little bombs on her upper half", rather than "her sweater is shiny"? As for other things that don't know what they're doing...
4.) Don't rely on the rental car's GPS.
On our way home, we were flying out of San Francisco Airport. As we were staying in Oakland, we figured that it would only be about 20-30 mins drive. We plugged it in the GPS which gave us a travel time of one hour and 15 minutes. We were very confused. So, we plugged in the airport again. Same thing happened. Making excuses, like "Oh it's probably one of those magic GPS's that knows the traffic conditions" and "Well, I haven't really stepped on the gas yet, so maybe it thinks we're going to drive 3 mph the whole way", we decided to just drive where it told us and hope for the best. As we got on the freeway, heading south, Stacy and I were both thinking, "We're probably not going the right way" but we drove on. After about 45 minutes of driving, it dawned on me that even though I had typed in San Francisco Airport, and the GPS read San Francisco Airport, it was sending me to the San Jose Airport. We quickly did a U-turn (...meaning we got off the exit, took a left, crossed a bridge, and got back on the highway) and barely made it to the airport in time for our version of Home Alone 2. Of course, we didn't have time to buy snacks for the plane ride home, which brings me to Don't #5...
5.) Don't leave so little time before boarding that you can't buy snacks.
Back in the olden days, airlines served lunch and/or dinner. (And, yes, we also flew upwind both ways.) Nowadays, you can buy your lunch and/or dinner. Not that airline meals were anything to burst into song about before, but they were actually much more substantial back then when they were free. Now, the "meal" is equivalent to a Lunchable. And not the big box with the dessert kind. So, if you are on a long flight with only complimentary snacks and soft drinks and you haven't brought snacks, you will starve. That may sound dramatic, but it's true.
And so, readers, learn from my mistakes...and have a happy and well-traveled holiday season.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
It's all right, cuz I'm Saved By the Bell: Part 2
I left off with my parents wearing down Mr. Headset enough that he reluctantly agreed to get one of the more important Headsets. By this point, a crowd of people had formed around us, probably thinking that we were much more interesting than a taping of Saved By the Bell.
After waiting for a few minutes, the more important Headset approached us. Mr. Important Headset was much more sympathetic and apologetic than the first. Maybe he had been given a heads up by the first Headset that playing hardball with my parents was not a successful tactic and they decided that it was time to play a little "good headset wearer, bad headset wearer." He started by saying he understood our frustration, and that horrible guy back at the Chinese Theater did not work for the show directly, but worked for an independent company that they hired and that he made money based on how many people he got to the studio. He soothed the wild parental two-headed beast, and my parents began to speak at a normal decibel level again.
Important Sympathetic Headset offered to take me into the studio for a little while, and my parents and sisters could wait in a green room for me. Without even thinking that my family probably wanted to sit in a room with no windows almost as much as they wanted to sit on a smelly bus, I gave my parents the sad-eyed look that had been working for me all day long. With a little bit of hesitation, they agreed.
I was in! ISH brought me into the studio and I was standing in the same room as Zack Morris! ISH left me with Indifferent Clipboard Lady and went back to take care of my family. Indifferent Clipboard Lady told me that I could stand next to her at the camera. It was a little bit surreal seeing the television set in person. I was looking at a classroom, and to the left of where I was standing, I could see a little bit of another classroom. Beyond that wall, I'm assuming was Mr. Belding's office, and while I couldn't see around the classroom wall, I could see what happened there on a little screen next to me.
Tiffani Theissen and Screech were sitting in the classroom. Mario Lopez was standing off to the side. When he saw me, he came over and said, "hi there, I'm Mario." And I politely said, "Nice to meet you", while thinking, "Yeah, that's great, Mario. Where's Mark-Paul?" They were filming the episode where the students and teachers switch places. Zack became the principal and was sitting at Mr. Belding's desk. I could only see him on the little screen, but it was amazing...the only thing standing between Zack Morris and me was a fake cardboard wall! I had made it.
After a half-hour or so, ISH came back to get me to bring me to my parents. He handed me a packet of paper and said, "I was able to scrounge this up for you." It was Mark-Paul Gosselaar's copy of the script...complete with his coffee (I hope) stains on the cover. My sisters and I also got autographed pictures of the cast. And Stacy and Lori didn't mind that they didn't get to go into the studio because they had seen and talked to Jessica Spano in the bathroom.
ISH still felt bad about what had happened, so he told my family that he had arranged for us to go to a taping of Blossom that night. Blossom was a lot less strict about age-limits. After Blossom, as we headed back the hotel, my parents asked me what I thought of our day in LA, and whether I was sad that I didn't get to meet Zack Morris in person. To which I replied, "Zack Morris who? I'm in love with Joey Lawrence!!! whoa."
After waiting for a few minutes, the more important Headset approached us. Mr. Important Headset was much more sympathetic and apologetic than the first. Maybe he had been given a heads up by the first Headset that playing hardball with my parents was not a successful tactic and they decided that it was time to play a little "good headset wearer, bad headset wearer." He started by saying he understood our frustration, and that horrible guy back at the Chinese Theater did not work for the show directly, but worked for an independent company that they hired and that he made money based on how many people he got to the studio. He soothed the wild parental two-headed beast, and my parents began to speak at a normal decibel level again.
Important Sympathetic Headset offered to take me into the studio for a little while, and my parents and sisters could wait in a green room for me. Without even thinking that my family probably wanted to sit in a room with no windows almost as much as they wanted to sit on a smelly bus, I gave my parents the sad-eyed look that had been working for me all day long. With a little bit of hesitation, they agreed.
I was in! ISH brought me into the studio and I was standing in the same room as Zack Morris! ISH left me with Indifferent Clipboard Lady and went back to take care of my family. Indifferent Clipboard Lady told me that I could stand next to her at the camera. It was a little bit surreal seeing the television set in person. I was looking at a classroom, and to the left of where I was standing, I could see a little bit of another classroom. Beyond that wall, I'm assuming was Mr. Belding's office, and while I couldn't see around the classroom wall, I could see what happened there on a little screen next to me.
Tiffani Theissen and Screech were sitting in the classroom. Mario Lopez was standing off to the side. When he saw me, he came over and said, "hi there, I'm Mario." And I politely said, "Nice to meet you", while thinking, "Yeah, that's great, Mario. Where's Mark-Paul?" They were filming the episode where the students and teachers switch places. Zack became the principal and was sitting at Mr. Belding's desk. I could only see him on the little screen, but it was amazing...the only thing standing between Zack Morris and me was a fake cardboard wall! I had made it.
After a half-hour or so, ISH came back to get me to bring me to my parents. He handed me a packet of paper and said, "I was able to scrounge this up for you." It was Mark-Paul Gosselaar's copy of the script...complete with his coffee (I hope) stains on the cover. My sisters and I also got autographed pictures of the cast. And Stacy and Lori didn't mind that they didn't get to go into the studio because they had seen and talked to Jessica Spano in the bathroom.
ISH still felt bad about what had happened, so he told my family that he had arranged for us to go to a taping of Blossom that night. Blossom was a lot less strict about age-limits. After Blossom, as we headed back the hotel, my parents asked me what I thought of our day in LA, and whether I was sad that I didn't get to meet Zack Morris in person. To which I replied, "Zack Morris who? I'm in love with Joey Lawrence!!! whoa."
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
It's all right, cuz I'm Saved By the Bell: Part 1
I was in the perfect demographic for the television show Saved By the Bell
When we took a family vacation to California in the summer of 1992, I was thirteen years old and in the peak of Saved By The Bell Hollywood
I can imagine that my face and pleading eyes were really hard to ignore. My parents were skeptical, as we had a lot planned for the day, but they had to give in when they saw me drop to my knees and grovel. (Note: I’m not sure if I actually did that, but that would have been my next step if they had said no.)
The five of us got on this bus that was meant to be sandy colored, but was more like the color of barf, with a big sphinx head on top. It was loud and smelly, and filled with loud and smelly people. My parents looked at each other with uncertainty, but decided to just go with it. After an hour and a half of driving around, as the driver was hopelessly lost and kept radioing for help yet misunderstanding the directions, we finally arrived at the studio for the taping. We and the loud, smelly people unloaded from the bus and stood in a line. A guy with a headset started moving down the line. He reached a few people ahead of us, said something to them, and they turned and went back on the bus. Then, he came to my family.
“Those girls are too young,” he said pointing at my sisters. “The bus will bring you back to the Chinese theater in a few minutes.” Now, for those of you who don’t know my parents, when they don’t like how something is being handled, they speak up. I can’t say that I blame them for getting upset about this one. We had cancelled our other plans and just spent an hour and a half of our day on a pukey Sphinx bus, only to be told to spend another hour and a half on the pukey Sphinx bus. I started to cry because I saw my chances of getting Mark-Paul Gosselaar to fall madly and hopelessly in love with me slowly fading away. I’m sure that my tears also fueled the Mom and Dad fire. They began to protest. My mother said, “Now, wait a minute. We specifically asked back in Hollywood
When my father gets really mad at people, the whites of his eyes blaze like Judge Doom’s after his fake eyeballs pop out in Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Dad’s very kind and pretty mild-mannered typically (My mother’s the pitbull of the duo.) But, my father was white-eyed Judge Doom mad at Headset Guy. I don’t remember the actual words that were said. I just know that my mother and father tag-teamed and lit into this guy for a solid five-ten minutes, until he agreed that he would get one of the producers to come out and talk to us.
Tune in next time to find out if we made it!
Monday, September 10, 2012
Wine Wedding Part 3: Congrats Sally and Tom and Greg and Emma!
So, bed bugs and bad bartenders notwithstanding, we arrived at the wedding on Sunday evening. It was held at the Ocean Edge Resort in Brewster. The wedding ceremony itself was right on the beach. Patrick had the honor of being an usher. He decided to channel his inner-Usher by inexplicably singing Ne-Yo songs to the wedding guests as he pointed the way.
I cried when Sally came down the steps to the beach. She's a natural beauty, doesn't wear make up really, never dresses up. So, when she walked down the aisle, to see her in her dress with these beautiful blonde curls around her shoulders, she was just so stunning. And the look on Tom's face said it all.
After a beautiful ceremony, we headed down to the reception, where I got to meet up with Andrea and her husband, Erik. I've come to expect oysters whenever Andrea's around, even if she's not the one planning the menu. The Ocean Edge people are just lucky that they delivered me some. After cocktail hour on the patio, we headed inside. Pat and I were lucky to be sitting at the hot guy table...with all of their wives and girlfriends. Sally had told Pat and me that there were 12 Tufts people, and only 10 per table, so she had sat us at what she thought would be the most fun and the most drunk at the wedding. If Pat and I had been sitting at a table for two, we probably would have been the most fun and the most drunk table. But, Sally was right. We did have a great time at our table!
I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned before that the reason that Sally and Pat and I became so close is that we all danced with Tufts Dance Collective when we were in college. As a result, Sally's wedding was fortunate enough to experience the easiest and fastest transition between Bride and Groom's first dance and getting people onto the dance floor ever. We were up before the band even got out their first "La".
I cried when Sally came down the steps to the beach. She's a natural beauty, doesn't wear make up really, never dresses up. So, when she walked down the aisle, to see her in her dress with these beautiful blonde curls around her shoulders, she was just so stunning. And the look on Tom's face said it all.
After a beautiful ceremony, we headed down to the reception, where I got to meet up with Andrea and her husband, Erik. I've come to expect oysters whenever Andrea's around, even if she's not the one planning the menu. The Ocean Edge people are just lucky that they delivered me some. After cocktail hour on the patio, we headed inside. Pat and I were lucky to be sitting at the hot guy table...with all of their wives and girlfriends. Sally had told Pat and me that there were 12 Tufts people, and only 10 per table, so she had sat us at what she thought would be the most fun and the most drunk at the wedding. If Pat and I had been sitting at a table for two, we probably would have been the most fun and the most drunk table. But, Sally was right. We did have a great time at our table!
I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned before that the reason that Sally and Pat and I became so close is that we all danced with Tufts Dance Collective when we were in college. As a result, Sally's wedding was fortunate enough to experience the easiest and fastest transition between Bride and Groom's first dance and getting people onto the dance floor ever. We were up before the band even got out their first "La".
During a dance break, bridesmaid Tara and I decided to take a walk around the grounds. After talking to some waiters, we heard that there was a gigantic wedding happening in the building next door. So, Tara and I did what anyone would do. We crashed it. Luckily, there was a photobooth set up there. We left "Greg and Emma" a keepsake in their wedding photo album that hopefully they will cherish forever. Their copy doesn't have any pizza sauce on it.
In all seriousness, I couldn't be happier for Sally and Tom. I must admit that it took me a while to get to know Tom, but I fell in love with him that weekend because it's so clear how right he is for Sally. As Pat accurately described, Sally and Tom were on the "verge of tears of joy" for most of the day, which led us to be on the verge of tears of joy for them. We were all really touched by the bride and groom. And then, we were literally touched by the bride and groom. We all received complimentary lap dances on the shuttle ride home.
The whole wedding weekend was so much fun...as evidenced by these before and after pictures...
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| Before |
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| After |
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Wine Wedding Part 2: Wreaking havoc on Orleans
I got quite a bit of flak yesterday for my picture book of a post, but I like that because it keeps me motivated to write more. You're all true friends. So, we left off three bottles of wine in and about to get ready for the rehearsal dinner.
The dinner was held at Tom (the groom)'s parents' house. They have a lovely house in Harwich with their own private beach. It was truly a special event that I'm lucky that I got to attend. But, what I really want to talk about is the dinner itself. The food--incredible. It was a backyard barbecue complete with chicken, pulled pork, and some of the best macaroni and cheese that I've ever had in my entire life. The actual people that catered it--new to catering.
I walked up to this conversation between the groom and the bartender:
Tom: Could I have a Long Trail please?
Bartender: Sorry?
Tom: A Long Trail
Bartender (pointing to rum): This?
Tom: No, the beer.
Bartender: (Looks blank)
Tom (pointing to the bottle of beer on the table): A Long Trail
Bartender (picking up the beer and looking at it with confusion): Oh. Sorry.
The groom's father had to provide a lesson to the bartender on how not to skimp on the alcohol. I think that this is all partly because the bartender was 18 years old and maybe not as schooled in wine and beer as the rest of us.
But, perhaps my favorite part of the night was what was on Pescatarian Julia's plate. See, for an appetizer, we had this delicious smoked fish. Sally had mentioned to Julia that she ordered scallops for Julia's meal (even though Julia was perfectly happy with the mac and cheese). When we get to the grill...there are no scallops. The barbecuer, who was dressed in a sailor's outfit with a captain's hat, looked at us like his crew had just sent him out to sea on a raft. He said that he didn't have scallops, but he did have some fish, if we would just give him a few minutes to get it ready. A few minutes later, Julia returns to the table with a piece of the smoked fish appetizer warmed up on the barbecue grill. Got to hand it to the captain though. He's an improviser!
After the dinner was over, we headed back to Orleans to the Lost Dog Pub. Coincidentally, Sally had planned a night at the Lost Dog on the wedding itinerary without knowing that Julia's friend's brother's band was playing there that night. The result...we brought about a crowd of 25-30 people, in addition to the ones that were already there. It may be true that Orleans had never seen this many people in one place. I passed a lot of time amusedly watching people walk through the entrance, see the crowd, roll their eyes, and walk back out again. The rest of the time, I passed watching Patrick. A lot of Sally's wedding guests decided that this would be a good weekend to try a dirty martini. Most of them didn't like it. Most of it ended up in Patrick's glass. The upside is that he had 8 or 9 dirty martinis and didn't spend a dime. The downside is that he had 8 or 9 dirty martinis. By the end of the night, he was "I love you. You're my best friend." drunk.
On his way home, he and Becky, decided to lie in a field on the side of the road and exclaim (quite loudly) how beautiful the stars were. How do I know that they exclaimed loudly when I wasn't there, you ask? Because according to Pat, after about ten minutes of star-gazing exclamations, a nearby neighbor yelled out of his window, "END THIS NOW!!!" So, they did. On their way home, for some reason that I've yet to understand, Becky went one way and Patrick went the other. While Becky was walking, a police officer pulled over to her and asked, "Have you seen two drunks wandering around?" Of course, to which Becky convincingly replied, "Noooo". Let this be a lesson to you. Always split up after someone yells to you from a neighboring window when you're lying in a field looking at stars. The cops can't be far behind.
Meanwhile, I was having my own adventure. After saying goodbye to Patrick (Me: I'll see you back at the house. P: Ok, I love you. You are one of my best friends. I love you so much. Me: I love you too. I'll see you in a bit. P: I'm totally serious. I love you. I think I'm going to cry I love you so much. Me: Don't cry.), I went back to the Cove House and got ready for bed.
As I mentioned before, I have issues. All I could smell was camp. All I could think of was that the bed was too soft. All I could hear was a drip drip drip coming from somewhere and it sounded like it was getting closer. But, I said to myself, "Mel, you can do this. Just close your eyes. Go to sleep. You'll be fine in the morning." I don't like to indulge myself in my crazies. Just as I was about to close my eyes, a beetle flew around my head and landed right next to my face on the pillow. I freaked out like someone had told me to put the lotion in the basket. I murdered the beetle. Then, after a half hour of lying there and not being able to sleep. I packed up, texted Pat what had happened, and drove 50 minutes to my mom's house to sleep there.
Just to tell you how perfect my friends are: the next day when I returned, Sally and the bridesmaids had left to get ready for the big day. Pat was still at the Cove House. Pat told me, "Sally heard what happened and left you a present on your bed." I said, "Oh! That is really sweet!" You know that saying, "A good friend helps you up when you fall. A best friend laughs at you and says, 'Walk much, dumbass'"? Here's my present from Sally:
Next up, the WEDDING DAY!
The dinner was held at Tom (the groom)'s parents' house. They have a lovely house in Harwich with their own private beach. It was truly a special event that I'm lucky that I got to attend. But, what I really want to talk about is the dinner itself. The food--incredible. It was a backyard barbecue complete with chicken, pulled pork, and some of the best macaroni and cheese that I've ever had in my entire life. The actual people that catered it--new to catering.
I walked up to this conversation between the groom and the bartender:
Tom: Could I have a Long Trail please?
Bartender: Sorry?
Tom: A Long Trail
Bartender (pointing to rum): This?
Tom: No, the beer.
Bartender: (Looks blank)
Tom (pointing to the bottle of beer on the table): A Long Trail
Bartender (picking up the beer and looking at it with confusion): Oh. Sorry.
The groom's father had to provide a lesson to the bartender on how not to skimp on the alcohol. I think that this is all partly because the bartender was 18 years old and maybe not as schooled in wine and beer as the rest of us.
But, perhaps my favorite part of the night was what was on Pescatarian Julia's plate. See, for an appetizer, we had this delicious smoked fish. Sally had mentioned to Julia that she ordered scallops for Julia's meal (even though Julia was perfectly happy with the mac and cheese). When we get to the grill...there are no scallops. The barbecuer, who was dressed in a sailor's outfit with a captain's hat, looked at us like his crew had just sent him out to sea on a raft. He said that he didn't have scallops, but he did have some fish, if we would just give him a few minutes to get it ready. A few minutes later, Julia returns to the table with a piece of the smoked fish appetizer warmed up on the barbecue grill. Got to hand it to the captain though. He's an improviser!
After the dinner was over, we headed back to Orleans to the Lost Dog Pub. Coincidentally, Sally had planned a night at the Lost Dog on the wedding itinerary without knowing that Julia's friend's brother's band was playing there that night. The result...we brought about a crowd of 25-30 people, in addition to the ones that were already there. It may be true that Orleans had never seen this many people in one place. I passed a lot of time amusedly watching people walk through the entrance, see the crowd, roll their eyes, and walk back out again. The rest of the time, I passed watching Patrick. A lot of Sally's wedding guests decided that this would be a good weekend to try a dirty martini. Most of them didn't like it. Most of it ended up in Patrick's glass. The upside is that he had 8 or 9 dirty martinis and didn't spend a dime. The downside is that he had 8 or 9 dirty martinis. By the end of the night, he was "I love you. You're my best friend." drunk.
On his way home, he and Becky, decided to lie in a field on the side of the road and exclaim (quite loudly) how beautiful the stars were. How do I know that they exclaimed loudly when I wasn't there, you ask? Because according to Pat, after about ten minutes of star-gazing exclamations, a nearby neighbor yelled out of his window, "END THIS NOW!!!" So, they did. On their way home, for some reason that I've yet to understand, Becky went one way and Patrick went the other. While Becky was walking, a police officer pulled over to her and asked, "Have you seen two drunks wandering around?" Of course, to which Becky convincingly replied, "Noooo". Let this be a lesson to you. Always split up after someone yells to you from a neighboring window when you're lying in a field looking at stars. The cops can't be far behind.
Meanwhile, I was having my own adventure. After saying goodbye to Patrick (Me: I'll see you back at the house. P: Ok, I love you. You are one of my best friends. I love you so much. Me: I love you too. I'll see you in a bit. P: I'm totally serious. I love you. I think I'm going to cry I love you so much. Me: Don't cry.), I went back to the Cove House and got ready for bed.
As I mentioned before, I have issues. All I could smell was camp. All I could think of was that the bed was too soft. All I could hear was a drip drip drip coming from somewhere and it sounded like it was getting closer. But, I said to myself, "Mel, you can do this. Just close your eyes. Go to sleep. You'll be fine in the morning." I don't like to indulge myself in my crazies. Just as I was about to close my eyes, a beetle flew around my head and landed right next to my face on the pillow. I freaked out like someone had told me to put the lotion in the basket. I murdered the beetle. Then, after a half hour of lying there and not being able to sleep. I packed up, texted Pat what had happened, and drove 50 minutes to my mom's house to sleep there.
Just to tell you how perfect my friends are: the next day when I returned, Sally and the bridesmaids had left to get ready for the big day. Pat was still at the Cove House. Pat told me, "Sally heard what happened and left you a present on your bed." I said, "Oh! That is really sweet!" You know that saying, "A good friend helps you up when you fall. A best friend laughs at you and says, 'Walk much, dumbass'"? Here's my present from Sally:
Next up, the WEDDING DAY!
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Wine Wedding Part 1: The Prologue
Some of you may remember that earlier this summer, I attended the bachelorette party of a good friend of mine from college, Sally. This past Labor Day weekend, we attended the wedding in Brewster, MA. Now, being a "local" for pretty much my entire life, I was wary of going down to Cape Cod for Labor Day weekend, which is a trafficky, touristy nightmare for someone who grew up in the area. I had visions of a one-eyed, long-haired, bearded, old man warning me "Stay away from the Cape, my girl. Stay away from the CAPE." But, Sally is one of my oldest and dearest friends, and there was no way I was missing her wedding.
As an "honorary member of the wedding party", I got to stay at the Captain Heman Smith House in Orleans, which is affectionately termed "the compound". I'm not being a Kennedy Wannabe. That's really what it's called. My friends, Patrick, Julia, Becky, and new friend, Tara (who became my fellow wedding crasher in a story that's yet to be told) were staying in the Cove House. This was the amazing view from our living room:
This was where I was sleeping:
That's a twin bed, and as one of the groomsmen exclaimed when he was being given a tour of the house, it smelled like "camp" in there. [Note: It's time to get real...I have major issues. One of them: I have trouble sleeping when I'm not in my own bed. As a result, I did not spend my first night in the Cove House. But, more about that later.]
Pat, Julia and I all drove down together. We arrived at the Cape at 10:30, where Becky was there to greet us. The four of us went to an unexciting breakfast and headed back to the house. If you'll remember from the bachelorette party, we went to this amazing winery called Croteaux. Sally had a bottle of Croteaux wine waiting for each of us in the fridge of the house! This is what they looked like by two p.m.
(We weren't inconsiderate enough to actually drink Tara's wine before she got there, but we wanted her to be part of the group.) Yes, we were off to a good start! Tune in next time to hear about the rehearsal dinner, our night in Orleans, the story of how Melly J. did not sleep at the Cove House and Becky and Pat's "run in with the cops".
As an "honorary member of the wedding party", I got to stay at the Captain Heman Smith House in Orleans, which is affectionately termed "the compound". I'm not being a Kennedy Wannabe. That's really what it's called. My friends, Patrick, Julia, Becky, and new friend, Tara (who became my fellow wedding crasher in a story that's yet to be told) were staying in the Cove House. This was the amazing view from our living room:
This was where I was sleeping:
That's a twin bed, and as one of the groomsmen exclaimed when he was being given a tour of the house, it smelled like "camp" in there. [Note: It's time to get real...I have major issues. One of them: I have trouble sleeping when I'm not in my own bed. As a result, I did not spend my first night in the Cove House. But, more about that later.]
Pat, Julia and I all drove down together. We arrived at the Cape at 10:30, where Becky was there to greet us. The four of us went to an unexciting breakfast and headed back to the house. If you'll remember from the bachelorette party, we went to this amazing winery called Croteaux. Sally had a bottle of Croteaux wine waiting for each of us in the fridge of the house! This is what they looked like by two p.m.
(We weren't inconsiderate enough to actually drink Tara's wine before she got there, but we wanted her to be part of the group.) Yes, we were off to a good start! Tune in next time to hear about the rehearsal dinner, our night in Orleans, the story of how Melly J. did not sleep at the Cove House and Becky and Pat's "run in with the cops".
Friday, August 10, 2012
Written in the %@$%-ing Stars
I'm about to tell you a tale that you will be convinced has the happiest of endings. After all, it would seem that this romance was written in the stars.
The summer before my sophomore year of high school, I went camping with my family in the White Mountains. I'll just let that sink in for a second. Me...camping. I've already mentioned that I hate bugs. Some other things that I hate...wilderness, sleeping outside, community bathrooms. All of these things can be found camping. Although I love smores and the smell of a burning campfire, I love them in the comfort of a living room. Think less sitting on a fallen log and more sitting in a comfy armchair. So, add this to the fact that I was 15 years old and in my "Parents-are-so-embarrassing-little-sisters-are-so-annoying-I'm-angsty-where's-my-journal" phase, you have one sullen teenager on your hands.
The first day we got there, I went to mope by the lake, thinking of the awesome time that my friends at home were probably having without me and all the parties and trips to the mall that I was missing. My mother sat down beside me and said, "I have good news! Six sixteen-year-old boys just moved into the campsite next door." Before she even finished her sentence, I jumped up and Usain Bolted back to our campsite to examine the goods. Not only were they sixteen-year-old boys, they were hot, jocky, football-tossing sixteen-year-old boys. This nightmare was quickly becoming the best dream ever.
I spent the rest of the week trying to look cute and be wherever they were, hoping they would call me over to throw the old pigskin around. One particularly caught my eye. He was always wearing a UNLV sweatshirt. Of course, I didn't have the nerve to go talk to him. So, I settled for creepily gazing at him from afar, and laughing really loudly at all of my parents' stupid jokes, so that he could see how much fun I was to hang out with.
They were with one parental chaperone, a woman about my mother's age. One morning, I waited until I saw her leave for the shower. I grabbed my caddy, hoping to time it so that I would be standing behind her in line. Once there, I casually tapped her on the shoulder and said, "Oh hi! I think you're in the site next to mine." Soon we were engaged in conversation. I learned that they were from Haverhill, MA. They were all going to be juniors in high school. They were all on the football team. I was hoping that she would invite me to stop by, but she didn't take my many hints. A few days later, they left. As they drove away, I saw UNLV in the back of the minivan and he smiled. And I cried. That boy could have been the love of my life and there was nothing I could do to see him again! This was before Missed Connections of course.
Two years later, my parents and sisters returned to the campground. As I would soon be a high school senior, I was allowed to make the decision to stay home this time. Up at the campground, as my family was setting up their campsite, my mother began to talk to the guys in the next site over. She asked them where they were from: Haverhill. She asked them how old they were: 18. She asked them if they'd ever been to the White Mountains before: a couple of summers ago. She said, "That's really funny. We were here a couple of summers ago and we were next to a bunch of kids from Haverhill." And he responded, "That was us. I thought you guys looked familiar." And of course, my mother being the wing woman that she is said, "You need to come to the payphone [Note: haha, payphone] and we have to call my daughter."
They called me. I answered. I spoke to the guy that she had brought over to the payphone [Note: still can't write that with a straight face]. I asked him, "You probably won't know who I'm talking about, but one of you guys wore a black UNLV sweatshirt." And he responded, "Oh man, that's Mike. He still wears that f-in sweatshirt like every day."
I couldn't believe my luck! I thought that Mike and I must have been meant to be! So, why am I not married to him, you ask? Tune in next post!
The summer before my sophomore year of high school, I went camping with my family in the White Mountains. I'll just let that sink in for a second. Me...camping. I've already mentioned that I hate bugs. Some other things that I hate...wilderness, sleeping outside, community bathrooms. All of these things can be found camping. Although I love smores and the smell of a burning campfire, I love them in the comfort of a living room. Think less sitting on a fallen log and more sitting in a comfy armchair. So, add this to the fact that I was 15 years old and in my "Parents-are-so-embarrassing-little-sisters-are-so-annoying-I'm-angsty-where's-my-journal" phase, you have one sullen teenager on your hands.
The first day we got there, I went to mope by the lake, thinking of the awesome time that my friends at home were probably having without me and all the parties and trips to the mall that I was missing. My mother sat down beside me and said, "I have good news! Six sixteen-year-old boys just moved into the campsite next door." Before she even finished her sentence, I jumped up and Usain Bolted back to our campsite to examine the goods. Not only were they sixteen-year-old boys, they were hot, jocky, football-tossing sixteen-year-old boys. This nightmare was quickly becoming the best dream ever.
I spent the rest of the week trying to look cute and be wherever they were, hoping they would call me over to throw the old pigskin around. One particularly caught my eye. He was always wearing a UNLV sweatshirt. Of course, I didn't have the nerve to go talk to him. So, I settled for creepily gazing at him from afar, and laughing really loudly at all of my parents' stupid jokes, so that he could see how much fun I was to hang out with.
They were with one parental chaperone, a woman about my mother's age. One morning, I waited until I saw her leave for the shower. I grabbed my caddy, hoping to time it so that I would be standing behind her in line. Once there, I casually tapped her on the shoulder and said, "Oh hi! I think you're in the site next to mine." Soon we were engaged in conversation. I learned that they were from Haverhill, MA. They were all going to be juniors in high school. They were all on the football team. I was hoping that she would invite me to stop by, but she didn't take my many hints. A few days later, they left. As they drove away, I saw UNLV in the back of the minivan and he smiled. And I cried. That boy could have been the love of my life and there was nothing I could do to see him again! This was before Missed Connections of course.
Two years later, my parents and sisters returned to the campground. As I would soon be a high school senior, I was allowed to make the decision to stay home this time. Up at the campground, as my family was setting up their campsite, my mother began to talk to the guys in the next site over. She asked them where they were from: Haverhill. She asked them how old they were: 18. She asked them if they'd ever been to the White Mountains before: a couple of summers ago. She said, "That's really funny. We were here a couple of summers ago and we were next to a bunch of kids from Haverhill." And he responded, "That was us. I thought you guys looked familiar." And of course, my mother being the wing woman that she is said, "You need to come to the payphone [Note: haha, payphone] and we have to call my daughter."
They called me. I answered. I spoke to the guy that she had brought over to the payphone [Note: still can't write that with a straight face]. I asked him, "You probably won't know who I'm talking about, but one of you guys wore a black UNLV sweatshirt." And he responded, "Oh man, that's Mike. He still wears that f-in sweatshirt like every day."
I couldn't believe my luck! I thought that Mike and I must have been meant to be! So, why am I not married to him, you ask? Tune in next post!
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
I Eventually Made it to Aruba
Yes, I arrived in Aruba a day late. And yes, there was family gossip about why I was a day late (i.e., getting action; kidnapped by Aruban pirates; just plain, old-fashioned irresponsibility). And yes, my parents were a tad bit "perturbed". But, I made it just in time for my cousin's pre-wedding boat cruise--sigh, another boat. After all of these boat rides that I've taken lately, I've come to the conclusion that I'm no longer afraid of boats...I just don't like them very much.
Boat notwithstanding, we had a great time on the cruise. Twice, the master of ceremonies asked us to give three cheers to the bride and groom: "Hip Hip HOORAY!", causing my cousin, Mike, to whisper to me, "Who's going to tell this guy that no one says 'hip hip hooray' anymore?", which of course led me to break into a rousing rendition of "For he's a jolly good fellow." After the boat ride, Mike, my sister, Stacy, and I went to this restaurant that my friends had recommended: Texas de Brazil. Who knew that they had these in the States??? I sure didn't. The closest one to Boston is in Chicago and I'm thinking of flying there just so I can eat there again. It's that delicious. It's a traditional Brazilian steakhouse...all-you-can-eat-meat, a carnivore's wet dream.
So far, I was loving Aruba. And I hadn't even been to the beach yet. I've never been a beach person. I don't like being in the sun all day. I'm not a big fan of sand. It's never really been my thing. I realized, on this vacation, that it's because I've been DOING IT WRONG MY WHOLE LIFE! You are supposed to be at the beach on a comfortable beach lounge chair, under a gigantic umbrella, with a mojito in hand. By the time I left Aruba, I loved the beach!
We did a little sightseeing: saw some ruins, went into a cave, saw a bat and ran like hell out of the cave, went to the Natural Bridge. For most of this, I stayed in the car because I was cranky and wanted to go back to the beach, but my parents and Stacy enjoyed it. Fortunately for my family, I was the sole participant in the "running out of the cave" part which gave them all a good laugh.
My cousin's wedding was on the beach at sunset and was gorgeous. Katie's stunning in sweatpants, so in her wedding dress, she looked amazing! I'm very happy for her and the new member of our family, Kevin.
It was a terrific week. We had a bit of a scare on the way home. The plane took a nasty drop. There are a bunch of things that I'm scared of...boats (maybe), spiders, vomit, failure. I've never been scared of flying. But, this drop was scary. I gasped. Others screamed. It felt like the engine stopped. And for a split second, I thought that this would be end of me and my blog. (Yes, I was worried about not being able to continue my blog.)Luckily, it was just a very very big air pocket. And although there was a bit of turbulence on the way home, there were no more drops like that. I'm sure you, as readers, are all very grateful!
Boat notwithstanding, we had a great time on the cruise. Twice, the master of ceremonies asked us to give three cheers to the bride and groom: "Hip Hip HOORAY!", causing my cousin, Mike, to whisper to me, "Who's going to tell this guy that no one says 'hip hip hooray' anymore?", which of course led me to break into a rousing rendition of "For he's a jolly good fellow." After the boat ride, Mike, my sister, Stacy, and I went to this restaurant that my friends had recommended: Texas de Brazil. Who knew that they had these in the States??? I sure didn't. The closest one to Boston is in Chicago and I'm thinking of flying there just so I can eat there again. It's that delicious. It's a traditional Brazilian steakhouse...all-you-can-eat-meat, a carnivore's wet dream.
So far, I was loving Aruba. And I hadn't even been to the beach yet. I've never been a beach person. I don't like being in the sun all day. I'm not a big fan of sand. It's never really been my thing. I realized, on this vacation, that it's because I've been DOING IT WRONG MY WHOLE LIFE! You are supposed to be at the beach on a comfortable beach lounge chair, under a gigantic umbrella, with a mojito in hand. By the time I left Aruba, I loved the beach!
We did a little sightseeing: saw some ruins, went into a cave, saw a bat and ran like hell out of the cave, went to the Natural Bridge. For most of this, I stayed in the car because I was cranky and wanted to go back to the beach, but my parents and Stacy enjoyed it. Fortunately for my family, I was the sole participant in the "running out of the cave" part which gave them all a good laugh.
My cousin's wedding was on the beach at sunset and was gorgeous. Katie's stunning in sweatpants, so in her wedding dress, she looked amazing! I'm very happy for her and the new member of our family, Kevin.
It was a terrific week. We had a bit of a scare on the way home. The plane took a nasty drop. There are a bunch of things that I'm scared of...boats (maybe), spiders, vomit, failure. I've never been scared of flying. But, this drop was scary. I gasped. Others screamed. It felt like the engine stopped. And for a split second, I thought that this would be end of me and my blog. (Yes, I was worried about not being able to continue my blog.)Luckily, it was just a very very big air pocket. And although there was a bit of turbulence on the way home, there were no more drops like that. I'm sure you, as readers, are all very grateful!
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Wine Weekend Part 3: Jumbo Coffees and Pint-sized Middle-Schoolers
I haven't gotten to the wining and biking portion of our weekend yet-- the reason that we traveled to the North Fork in the first place. When we were organizing the trip, we started an e-mail train with some ideas. Someone suggested visiting the wine trail up in North Fork. We all responded that that was a great idea! The next email someone mentioned that they took the ferry and rented bikes and biked from winery to winery. Next, someone wrote about how that would be great because our bachelorette loves to bike. The next girl responded with "great idea" and an offer to find a place to rent the bikes. I was sitting at my computer screen watching these emails go back and forth with a look of terror. I couldn't stop the runaway e-mail train and before I knew it, I had plans to bike.
The winery idea I was completely on board with. Wine, check. Being outside, check. Day drinking, check. Hanging with the girls, six checks. So far this plan was all very "me". But on a bike? I hadn't been on a bike since the 10th grade, and that is completely by choice. I'm not exactly what you would call an athlete. I recycle and donate trees and whatever, but if I have a choice between riding a bicycle and driving my convertible, I'll choose the convertible 100 times out of 100, environment be damned. My thoughts were that we were going to rent a party bus or a van or limo or something and drive from place to place. So, I wasn't quite sure about the biking idea.
As it turned out, it was the best decision of the weekend. I sang the praises of Dan the Bike guy in yesterday's post. Not only that, I had no idea that North Fork Wine Trail was part of Bachelorette Party, U.S.A. I mean it goes 1.) Thunder Down Under, 2.) Drag show, 3.) Piano bar, 4.) North Fork. So there were tons and tons of bachelorettes in the area. And my two favorite vineyards that we visited were The Old Field Vineyards and Croteaux. Both places had beautiful and tranquil gardens overlooking the vineyard where you could sit and sip wine. And both places had gigantic signs out front that said "No Buses or Limos". So, biking was for the best as we wouldn't have been able to visit these gorgeous vineyards if we had gone with my plan. Plus, I looked pretty boss on a bike
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After what was an amazing afternoon, we got dolled up and went out to a phenomenal dinner at Noah's restaurant in Greenport. Here's a list of what we ate so that you can be jealous: 1.) Blue Point Oysters, 2.)Pipes Cove Oysters, 3.) Beer and Bacon Glazed Spiced Almonds, 4.) Gorgonzola Rosemary Fries, 5.) Warm Lobster Rolls, 6.) Striped bass, 7.) Jalapeno Ginger Glazed Chicken Wings, and 8.) Squash Blossoms. I ate everything on that list and I'm not ashamed. I would shout it out from the fattiest fatty's rooftop with reckless abandon.
We then went out for a night on the town. [Edited to remove details: What happens in Greenport stays there.]
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The winery idea I was completely on board with. Wine, check. Being outside, check. Day drinking, check. Hanging with the girls, six checks. So far this plan was all very "me". But on a bike? I hadn't been on a bike since the 10th grade, and that is completely by choice. I'm not exactly what you would call an athlete. I recycle and donate trees and whatever, but if I have a choice between riding a bicycle and driving my convertible, I'll choose the convertible 100 times out of 100, environment be damned. My thoughts were that we were going to rent a party bus or a van or limo or something and drive from place to place. So, I wasn't quite sure about the biking idea.
As it turned out, it was the best decision of the weekend. I sang the praises of Dan the Bike guy in yesterday's post. Not only that, I had no idea that North Fork Wine Trail was part of Bachelorette Party, U.S.A. I mean it goes 1.) Thunder Down Under, 2.) Drag show, 3.) Piano bar, 4.) North Fork. So there were tons and tons of bachelorettes in the area. And my two favorite vineyards that we visited were The Old Field Vineyards and Croteaux. Both places had beautiful and tranquil gardens overlooking the vineyard where you could sit and sip wine. And both places had gigantic signs out front that said "No Buses or Limos". So, biking was for the best as we wouldn't have been able to visit these gorgeous vineyards if we had gone with my plan. Plus, I looked pretty boss on a bike
We then went out for a night on the town. [Edited to remove details: What happens in Greenport stays there.]
I definitely didn't want to say goodbye to everyone the next day. It's nice that I'll see them for the wedding weekend in September, but the boys will be there this time and it just won't be the same. Andrea and I went on another coffee run on Sunday morning. For the non-Dunkin addicts, we stopped at the cafe next door. Back to the clueless locals...this coffee shop had two sizes of iced coffee. Small Weenie Dixie Cup and Super Gigantic Incredibly Hulky In-Your-Face size. It seemed that they didn't think that people might actually want a normal-sized iced coffee. Faced with a tough decision, we got everyone the Mega-buckets...I think they were grateful(?). For scale purposes, we put them next to my Dunkins medium:
After coffee, we packed up and went back to the ferry. Andrea and I didn't get on the same boat as the others...again. But, we were old pros at this by now and that was par for the course. We were however on the same boat as about 150-200 boy scouts. They were everywhere you looked and scurrying around like mice. It definitely could have been worse...if you're going to be stuck with 200 male tweens, it's nice to be stuck with ones who act like...well, boy scouts. But, the line for the snack bar was a monstrosity.
So, that does it for our wine weekend. I definitely recommend a trip up there if you're ok with ferries and you like mega-buckets of coffee and wine. Check out the links because the places that I mentioned are really fantastic. And feel free to let me know what you think of them.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Wine Weekend Part 2: I'm on a bike!
One thing about Greenport, NY. The locals are very hospitable and friendly, but I found that in general, when it came to common sense, they were a few puddins short of a Snack Pack. My theory is that they drink way too much wine, which is something that I can relate to. But, here's what happened when I decided to start Day 2 with a coffee run:
Me to coffee guy: Hi there, I'm ordering 7 coffees.
Coffee guy: Ok, I can handle that.
Me: [handing him two refillable cups] First, I need one iced coffee with milk.
Coffee guy: [handing the cups to the girl next to him] One with coffee and one with milk.
Now, I was thinking that maybe he was just speaking coffee shop lingo. Like when you order two scrambled eggs on toast and the waitress yells "An Adam and Eve on a raft and wreck 'em" to the cook in the back. But, then the girl handed me a cup filled with milk and a cup filled with coffee. The next 20 minutes went something like this: "I need two more iced coffees." "you just ordered two." "Right, I need four altogether" "Ok, get me four more iced coffees!" "Wait! What?". That exchange was how most of the weekend was when we asked for things. It was a weekend-long "Who's on First" sketch.
For example, I was in dire need of a Dunkin Donuts. (I suspect that they may lace their coffee with crack cocaine.) So, I asked the girl at the front desk of the resort if there was one in the area. She gave me some directions, ending with "You'll see it on your right." I drove where she told me to and after about 2 miles of not seeing the Dunkins, I decided to stop and ask someone else. I pulled into a gas station to ask a guy pumping gas, and he pointed in the direction that I had come from and said, "You'll see it on your left." So, I drove back in that direction. After another 2 miles, still no Dunkins. So, I stopped at a 7-11. The cashier pointed in the direction that I had come from and said, "You'll see it on the right." Again, I was completely lost. In driving through the town the fourth time, I saw a shopping center, so I thought to myself...could that be where the Dunkin Donuts is? I pulled into the parking lot, and lo and behold, there is the Dunkin Donuts. I thought that it was funny that out of the three people that I asked, none of them thought to mention that the DD's was in a shopping center. Isn't that like a KEY step in the directions?
Anyway, once you get used to the locals being clueless, the whole North Fork area of LI is a pretty nice place. I'd like to stop and give a shout out to Dan the Bike Guy. How great is this: Basically, you can rent bikes from him for $25-$30 per person. He'll drop them off anywhere and he'll pick them up anywhere. And I have to admit we were a little high maintenance...we didn't tell him that we wanted helmets, he came back to the condo and dropped off the helmets. We forgot to turn in the helmets with the bikes, he came back and picked up the helmets. All with a smile on his face. I definitely recommend renting a bike through him if you're planning on biking through the North Fork. Which I wasn't, but I'll get to that in Part 3.
Me to coffee guy: Hi there, I'm ordering 7 coffees.
Coffee guy: Ok, I can handle that.
Me: [handing him two refillable cups] First, I need one iced coffee with milk.
Coffee guy: [handing the cups to the girl next to him] One with coffee and one with milk.
Now, I was thinking that maybe he was just speaking coffee shop lingo. Like when you order two scrambled eggs on toast and the waitress yells "An Adam and Eve on a raft and wreck 'em" to the cook in the back. But, then the girl handed me a cup filled with milk and a cup filled with coffee. The next 20 minutes went something like this: "I need two more iced coffees." "you just ordered two." "Right, I need four altogether" "Ok, get me four more iced coffees!" "Wait! What?". That exchange was how most of the weekend was when we asked for things. It was a weekend-long "Who's on First" sketch.
For example, I was in dire need of a Dunkin Donuts. (I suspect that they may lace their coffee with crack cocaine.) So, I asked the girl at the front desk of the resort if there was one in the area. She gave me some directions, ending with "You'll see it on your right." I drove where she told me to and after about 2 miles of not seeing the Dunkins, I decided to stop and ask someone else. I pulled into a gas station to ask a guy pumping gas, and he pointed in the direction that I had come from and said, "You'll see it on your left." So, I drove back in that direction. After another 2 miles, still no Dunkins. So, I stopped at a 7-11. The cashier pointed in the direction that I had come from and said, "You'll see it on the right." Again, I was completely lost. In driving through the town the fourth time, I saw a shopping center, so I thought to myself...could that be where the Dunkin Donuts is? I pulled into the parking lot, and lo and behold, there is the Dunkin Donuts. I thought that it was funny that out of the three people that I asked, none of them thought to mention that the DD's was in a shopping center. Isn't that like a KEY step in the directions?
Anyway, once you get used to the locals being clueless, the whole North Fork area of LI is a pretty nice place. I'd like to stop and give a shout out to Dan the Bike Guy. How great is this: Basically, you can rent bikes from him for $25-$30 per person. He'll drop them off anywhere and he'll pick them up anywhere. And I have to admit we were a little high maintenance...we didn't tell him that we wanted helmets, he came back to the condo and dropped off the helmets. We forgot to turn in the helmets with the bikes, he came back and picked up the helmets. All with a smile on his face. I definitely recommend renting a bike through him if you're planning on biking through the North Fork. Which I wasn't, but I'll get to that in Part 3.
Monday, July 9, 2012
Wine Weekend Part 1: I'm on a boat...but my friends aren't.
This past weekend, I traveled to Wine Country, Long Island(?) to attend the bachelorette party of an old college friend. I knew that the weekend was going to be a blast--7 girls (most of whom I went to college with) in a condo for the weekend drinking wine, eating food, having some girl time. All good things. But, the getting there was worrying me. I'm not a big boat fan. I don't like the idea of not being able to leave a place if I don't want to stay there anymore. I went on a whale watch in the 10th grade during a stormy, rainy day that was less of a whale watch and more of a puke watch. Like a whole boat of Norovirus. I've been boat-wary ever since.
But, the neurotic in me couldn't stand the thought of not taking the most direct route to my destination. How could I drive 7.5 hours around the Long Island Sound instead of just taking the 1.5 hour ferry? So, that's how my friend Andrea and I found ourselves driving to the New London ferry.
We were meeting three other girls at the ferry itself. I had heard in the past that if you're taking more than one car on a ferry and traveling stand-by, it's nearly impossible to get your whole party on the same boat. However, we arrived at the same time and I couldn't believe our luck when a cute boat guy told us to go into the same lane that my friends were in. (Side note: If you ever want to go guy-watching and you don't feel weird ogling 20-year olds, hit a ferry dock!) I drove over to lane 3 where another cute boat guy was directing me straight ahead in the lane. Suddenly, the another-cute-boat-guy looked over his shoulder and moved me over to lane 2. As I got closer, he waved me over again, and moved me to Lane 1. Then, he directed me to the left, at which point I yelled to him, "Where am I going?" And he yelled back, "you're going on the boat." I just kept following his directions until he told me to park. But, as I believed that we were still in the parking lot, I didn't think much of it. I was a little bit confused when Andrea asked him, "Is this the 3:30?" And another-cute-boat-guy leaned over, looked at the clock on my dashboard and said, "yep". Slowly and finally, it dawned on me that I was actually on the boat, with the rest of my friends still in the parking lot. Somehow, even though there were six or seven cars in front of us, another-cute-boat-guy had helped us cut to the front of the line just as the boat began to leave. Andrea and I looked at each other...and burst out laughing. I think this picture accurately depicts how confused I was...
See the blue car that looks like it's about to fall off the back. Yeah, that's mine. The good news is that it happened so fast, I didn't have time to think about how much I didn't want to get on the boat. And guess what...I survived!
We ended up getting to the Cliffside Resort in Greenport, NY without any further confusion. I tossed a "Hey! You should come to the Cliffside. We can buy you beer!" to another-cute-boat-guy as we drove away. The others arrived safely and Night One was a great night of grilling burgers (well, I didn't grill burgers) and laughing and drinking and catching up. We ate a lot of cheese. We reminisced about college until we discovered that three out of the five of us who went to undergrad together had hooked up with the same guy, making it weird. (Just kidding about the weirdness: it was actually a running joke for the rest of the weekend) We sat on our condo patio and watched a beautiful sunset. I mused about how interesting it is to be able to watch the sun set over the water on the East Coast. To which my friend responded, "Uh, that's setting over Connecticut, but yes, very pretty." And we went to sleep looking forward to our wine weekend.
But, the neurotic in me couldn't stand the thought of not taking the most direct route to my destination. How could I drive 7.5 hours around the Long Island Sound instead of just taking the 1.5 hour ferry? So, that's how my friend Andrea and I found ourselves driving to the New London ferry.
We were meeting three other girls at the ferry itself. I had heard in the past that if you're taking more than one car on a ferry and traveling stand-by, it's nearly impossible to get your whole party on the same boat. However, we arrived at the same time and I couldn't believe our luck when a cute boat guy told us to go into the same lane that my friends were in. (Side note: If you ever want to go guy-watching and you don't feel weird ogling 20-year olds, hit a ferry dock!) I drove over to lane 3 where another cute boat guy was directing me straight ahead in the lane. Suddenly, the another-cute-boat-guy looked over his shoulder and moved me over to lane 2. As I got closer, he waved me over again, and moved me to Lane 1. Then, he directed me to the left, at which point I yelled to him, "Where am I going?" And he yelled back, "you're going on the boat." I just kept following his directions until he told me to park. But, as I believed that we were still in the parking lot, I didn't think much of it. I was a little bit confused when Andrea asked him, "Is this the 3:30?" And another-cute-boat-guy leaned over, looked at the clock on my dashboard and said, "yep". Slowly and finally, it dawned on me that I was actually on the boat, with the rest of my friends still in the parking lot. Somehow, even though there were six or seven cars in front of us, another-cute-boat-guy had helped us cut to the front of the line just as the boat began to leave. Andrea and I looked at each other...and burst out laughing. I think this picture accurately depicts how confused I was...
See the blue car that looks like it's about to fall off the back. Yeah, that's mine. The good news is that it happened so fast, I didn't have time to think about how much I didn't want to get on the boat. And guess what...I survived!
We ended up getting to the Cliffside Resort in Greenport, NY without any further confusion. I tossed a "Hey! You should come to the Cliffside. We can buy you beer!" to another-cute-boat-guy as we drove away. The others arrived safely and Night One was a great night of grilling burgers (well, I didn't grill burgers) and laughing and drinking and catching up. We ate a lot of cheese. We reminisced about college until we discovered that three out of the five of us who went to undergrad together had hooked up with the same guy, making it weird. (Just kidding about the weirdness: it was actually a running joke for the rest of the weekend) We sat on our condo patio and watched a beautiful sunset. I mused about how interesting it is to be able to watch the sun set over the water on the East Coast. To which my friend responded, "Uh, that's setting over Connecticut, but yes, very pretty." And we went to sleep looking forward to our wine weekend.
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