I heard you like to laugh. At my expense. Sounds like you're ready to take our friendship to the next level. You won't be disappointed. I swear on teeny, tiny baby chipmunks.
I mean, just something I want to warn you about, should we ever vacation together.
I like to do things.
Come back! I like to do things, too!
I’m not the Energizer bunny or anything, but to me, going on trips is more synonymous with adventure than relaxation. If you take me to the beach, I’m going to try to book one of those wave runner or zip lining excursions. If you take me to the city, I’m going to look up event calendars and comedy clubs.
And if you take me out to dinner after all of this doing of things, I’m going to drink. A lot.
I know everyone says they have great taste and a sense of humor, but seriously. My taste is phenomenal.
And after I drink a lot, I might look around and think, “That wall should be blue. I mean, like a really classy, Nautica-looking navy blue.”
And before you know it, I’ll be painting your vacation home.
This is precisely what happened when first Hub, Peppermeister, and I, stayed in my aunt and uncle’s summer house in Long Island last week.
“Are you sure you want to PAINT on your vacation?” Peppermeister asked.
“It’ll be done before you wake up.”
“I don’t know why I asked.”
BEFORE
AFTER
Booya.
I may have made a few other adjustments…
…Bought candles and a of couple K’s (my aunt and uncle’s names both start with K), painting one to match the new wall……turned some of their trivets into a cool coffee table centerpiece. Oh and let’s not forget the new pillows, table runner and flowers……and swapped the gray curtains with a spare bedroom’s bright, cheery, gold curtains. TA DA!
So what do my aunt and uncle think of my impromptu makeover?
Good question.
I haven’t heard from them in days.
What kind of vacationer are you? Less is more or go-go-go? (For more of my Long Island adventures, check out how I almost died!)
Disclaimer: Though my aunt and uncle own it now, this is an old family home, and I checked with my parents before painting. It’s not as funny with the disclaimer, is it? I should’ve just let you think I was a presumptuous asshat. Dammit.
“I can’t wait to rent a boat in Long Island!” my first husband, Peppermeister, said several times before we headed east last week.
Once again, my aunt and uncle were generously letting us stay in their vacation home for our anniversary. We had fond memories of relaxing bay side, playing mini golf and binge drinking waterfront dining.
“Let’s scope out this place, The Station,” Peppermeister said. “They serve food and rent boats.”
More importantly, they serve Tröegs on tap.
While recreating one of the menu photos…
…we noticed an entertaining boat name:
I swear on snot rockets and turd buckets, this detail becomes important later.
“Do you think that’s the boat they rent?” I asked.
“Nah, that one’s too nice,” Peppermeister replied. “They probably rent those.”
He pointed to the glorified row boats on either side of Butthead. I quickly let go of my mai tai drinking, bow bathing fantasies.
“We’ll come back on Monday – the weather’s supposed to be beautiful.”
And the weather finally WAS beautiful, on Wednesday. The young man preparing our boat barely put down his sandwich to attach the motor. Knowing nothing about boats, I brushed off my first thought: “Is that from a lawn mower?”
At 10:15am, we were finally ready to hit the open seas Shinnecock Bay.
In between bites, our boat hand, who shall henceforth be referred to as “Boris,” explained where to fish for fluke, and gave us a map with the emergency phone numbers on it.
What’s that? This paper looks like it got wet? Huh. Spoiler alert!
We didn’t even make it out of the marina before the motor stalled and we drifted into sand. We shoved ourselves off with our one sturdy oar, and Peppermeister got us going again.
The weather was so flawless, I paid little mind to the hiccup.
Wheeee! We must be going 2.3 knots by now! Surely we’ll never need those life jackets!
We cruised steadily west while Peppermeister grabbed a beer and we tried to pick out our own marina.
Hey, did you leave the porch light on?
About 45 minutes into our cruise, the motor cut out again.
When it happened for the third time, we Peppermeister spent 20 minutes trying to start it.
“I’m just going to call the guy to come get us. This is a waste of time.” He fished out his cell phone from the Ziploc bag in his backpack.
Here’s a summary of how that went down:
“Landmarks? …Yes, there are buildings nearby! THERE ARE HOUSES EVERYWHERE!”
…
“We’re IN THE DUNES. DRIVE by the DUNES.”
…
“WE’RE DUE SOUTH OF TIANA BAY! DUE SOUTH! We’re IN the DUNES on the OTHER SIDE of the BAY. We’ve DRIFTED SINCE WE HAVE NO ANCHOR AND ONE OAR!”
…
“Like I said, we’re to the LEFT OF THE BRIDGE. DUE SOUTH OF TIANA BAY. We’re THE ONLY BOAT HERE.”
…
I tried to help, too.
One hour and five phone calls later, Boris arrived in none other than…
Butthead!
He, of course, managed to get our motor going, and told us to follow him back. The motor stalled a minute later, and it took him three minutes to notice we weren’t following. He circled back to tow us.
He tangled up his lines in his motor, and then attached one line to the front of our boat.
“He’s doing it wrong,” Peppermeister muttered. “You’re supposed to tow with two lines.”
We lurched forward, and Boris started swerving Butthead left to right, right to left, while we tipped from side to side in our boat.
I should probably say something.
I leaned forward and backward in the opposite direction of his swerving, trying to keep the boat level.
About halfway to the marina, the water grew increasingly choppy, as did Boris’s driving, and gallons of water sloshed into our boat. We tried bailing it out with our one bucket, a bleach bottle with the bottom cut out.
Peppermeister whistled loudly. Boris, who’d never once looked back to check on us, raised his eyebrows in mild surprise.
“Every time you turn, more water comes in! We’ve been trying to empty it this whole time!” Peppermeister shouted. “Will this boat sink?”
“No,” he replied, and kept driving, staring straight ahead.
The water rushed past our calves, almost as high as the seats.
Peppermeister whistled again and Boris stood there gawking.
Everything next happened in slow motion.
Peppermeister yelled, “You need to get off!”
With my brain still saying, “This boat’s not actually SINKING,” I grabbed our precious cargo -the backpack- and held it above my head. Suddenly, half the boat was under water. Good call on the Ziploc bags. As it capsized, my left leg got pinned beneath, allowing me to appreciate its sturdiness. Wow. No. I kicked off my flip-flops and paddled away, shouting,
“Here! The backpack! Get it on Butthead! Get it on Butthead!”
Because I’d be DAMNED if I was losing my cell phone and car keys over this little snafu.
Peppermeister threw the backpack at Boris, who let it hit his chest and slide to the floor. I swam for a second or two, watching the contents of the boat drift south (due south! Of Tiana Bay! Towards the dunes! In case you were wondering).
“Don’t worry about the boat! Don’t worry about it! Leave the stuff!” Boris called, finally looking rattled.
“Get a life jacket!” Peppermeister cried, and I grabbed the only one still within reach, passing it to him, confused.
Ooh, the water feels nice. It’s not as hard to swim in a denim jacket as I thought it would be. Bet I could swim back pretty fast. Great exercise.
“Do you need it? Put it on!” Peppermeister said frantically.
I took one look at his face and his next statement answered my unspoken question, “I’m freakin’ out a little.”
“It’s fine,” I replied. “It’s fine. We’re in a bay. You know how to swim.”
“I know, I know,” he said. “You get on first.”
Shouldn’t we get the stuff?
“Don’t worry about the stuff!” Boris called again.
“Go! Use our boat!” Peppermeister urged.
Our overturned boat was creating, I realized, a handy step up onto Butthead. Boris grabbed my arm firmly, “I got you, I got you.”
Man, I always thought that would be impossible, I thought as I tumbled onboard.
Once Peppermeister and I were safely seated, we began our 45-minute slog back to the marina. I didn’t realize why it took so long until much later.
Boris was towing our boat.
Upside down.
The Station owner was waiting for us on the dock when we returned.
“A ‘small’ problem?” he asked, glancing between Boris and his sodden passengers.
Boris stared at the ground while Peppermeister and I disembarked. Moments later, he handed us a full refund and two t-shirts.
“I’m so sorry about this,” he said.
He walked away, shoulders slumped, and I looked at Peppermeister.
What day is it again? Where am I? Who are you? (Just kidding – I’ll never let go, Chipmunks.)
I’ve been living it up vacation style, and just wanted to pop in to let you know that both my liver and I are still alive and kicking.
How do I know I’m doin’ this time off thing right?
For starters, leisurely breakfasts have consisted of no fewer than 3 of the following: Croissants, coffee, champagne, cheese, fresh fruit, and/or BACON.
I’ve stopped to smell the roses (or whatever the hell these are) on my morning walks.
There’s been double rainbow ogling.
Stops at the bank when I’ve run out of singles for the strip club.
Or, you know, the local farm stand.
I’ve loaded up on all the fresh seafood I can get my claws on.
I’ve done my new Fitbit (pedometer) proud and hit the trails with Uncle Jesse. (Note: Your own vacation success should not ride on this particular activity.)
I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time in the kitchen, making things like homemade mid-east feasts.
I can still taste the garlic.
And of course, there’s been booze. Lots and lots of booze.
But the real reason I know I’m on vacation? I’ve only turned on my computer once.
The very best part? It’s not over yet! Today First Hub, Peppermeister, and I celebrate our 5th anniversary, and have another week of this to look forward to:
But just so ya know, it’s not all smooches and sunsets. We like to exchange meaningful gifts, too.
A cutting-edge wolf t-shirt to go with his BB guns. You’re welcome, Peppermeister.And his gift to me: Clever methods for stashing booze.
Stay tuned next week for the much-anticipated Peppermeister Roulette, where Rachel’s Table and Peppermeister go head to head to see who can handle his hottest homegrown peppers.
What does vacation success look like to you? It wouldn’t be a vacation without _____?
When I can’t come up with a damn thing to write about.
Time for a very short blogging hiatus. Now, now. Dry your wee little chipmunk tears. I’ll be back next week!
My money’s on Rache.
Psst: This Friday at the Go Jules Go compound, it’s Peppermeister (Hub #1) vs. Rachel’s Table. That’s right. Those two are finally going head to head in a Spicy Pepper-Off to see who can handle the hottest homegrowns! I’ll have plenty to report next week.
If you want a delicious sampling of what’s in store, check out Rache’s fantastic “Peppermeister Roulette” videos (video one and video two)!
You know how golfers love to compare their sport to life? Heavy-handed metaphors about taking aim, working with the winds of change, etc.?
You know what I’m talking about.
I’m starting to do the same. With hiking.
-Go Jules Go, 2013
I realized this weekend, while battling an unrelenting swarm of gnats for over 3 hours in the New Jersey highlands, that every hike this summer has provided a new challenge. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.
Heat.
Wet rocks.
Water shortage.
Bears.
As soon as I was sure, fitness wise, that I had a trail in the bag, something would come along to knock me off course. (See what I mean about the heavy-handed metaphors?) This past weekend, I thought the pests were going to do me in, despite toxic levels of bug spray coating my red, soaking wet, weary limbs. By mile 5 of one of njhiking.com’s most challenge trails, I couldn’t see for all the gnats.
I came to a crossroads.
If I went straight, I’d knock 2 miles from my remaining distance. By turning left, I’d have 3.6 miles -and another steep mountain climb- still to go to complete the originally planned trek. I stood there for 5 minutes, waving my arms in front of me fruitlessly, chugging warm water, studying the trail map.
I looked up at the brightly colored green and yellow trail markers painted on a sturdy oak.
“Fuck it,” I said aloud, wiping away the 8,000th gnat who’d suffocated in a pool of my sweat. “I’m no quitter.”
I turned left.
Solid choice, Jules.
Why did I do it? Week after week, no less. Clearly this was torturous. Was I insane? A glutton for punishment? Just plain stubborn? Even Hub #1 had taken to calling me Forrest Gump.
I watched a video this weekend on why people hike. The filmmaker interviewed a series of hikers on the Appalachian Trail. Their answers to that million dollar question sounded familiar.
I needed to shift my perspective; it helps me let go of the day-to-day worries and focus on the immediate. You don’t worry about work when you’re trying to find a dry place to sleep.
I wanted to clear my head.
I’m trying to figure out what to do with my life.
Pre-Gnatnado.
That’s the thing about hiking. Walking for walking’s sake may seem a little pointless, but that’s exactly what makes it so powerful. For that time in the woods, however brief, the only thing you’re responsible for is staying alive. To again paraphrase what fellow hikers have said:
Hiking allows me to push myself farther than I think I can go. I bring that back with me into the real world.
It’s not about how fast or far you go, but just that you keep going. In the end, I may wind up right back where I started (at my car, hopefully), but I know I’m one step closer to who I want to be.
What…what are you waiting for? Go set your DVR! (I say “set your DVR” because I assume that, like me, you a) go to bed at 8:30pm, and b) with great pain, deleted a high-def version of Sharknad0, and now have room on your DVR.)
You’re welcome.
What TV characters from your youth would you poop a brick to see brought back to life on a late night talk show?
What the sugar-free fudge is a Fitbit? Thanks for asking. It’s basically a pedometer on crack.
The only thing I HAVEN’T tried to lose weight.
Two weeks ago, a colleague showed me a nifty little device, about the size of a money clip, attached to her belt. “It tells you how many calories you can still eat for the day! It even monitors your sleep!” she said. Much like how Anna made pickle juice sound delicious in my last blog contest, the seed was planted. I wanted one. Bad.
“It costs about 100 bucks,” she continued.
Yeesh, never mind, I thought. Surely with my 40 mile/week fitness regimen, I can lose weight for free.
Except I couldn’t. I’d been stuck in a plateau, halfway to my weight loss goal, for almost two years.
I was sick and tired of taking blog photos from only certain angles.
Do you think Adam finds this acceptable?
Of not wanting my profile captured.
Ah, those carefree, single-chinned days!
Don’t even get me started on full body shots and bathing suits!
Back in 2005, I thought I could even get away with a fanny back.
On Thursday morning, I hopped on my whore of a scale and the writing was on the wall. An hour later, one thing was already lighter. My wallet.
And now this little piece of black plastic between my breasts tracks my every move, dictating my remaining caloric allowance based on activity, height, weight, age and gender. (Provided I honestly report my food intake using my Fitbit online account.)
Thankfully, for the project manager in me, it displays all of these goodies in some pretty neat dashboards and charts, which I can view on my computer or smart phone.
It wasn’t long before I realized I was a walking stereotype (pun intended). Despite my self-proclaimed diet savvy, I was severely underestimating my calorie consumption.
Yikes. Guess I should cut back on the zucchini.
I even signed up for a trial premium subscription to check out how I compared to other Fitbit users in my country.
Competitive? Moi?
So now that I know every calorie going in and out, how am I doing?
Super!
I’m not even sober, hungry and cranky!
Have you ever used any fitness gadgets? What are your dieting pitfalls and how do you cope?
Ahhh. I love settling into writing a post with a crisp, cool, Super Gulp-sized glass of vodka.
Dependency? Moi?
And hey, as long as we’re on the topic… Let’s talk about my latest blog giveaway contest! To celebrate Independence Day, I asked you to describe the person or thing you were unreasonably attached to – your codependent. One lucky entrant would receive this:
Boy. Your entries were stellar; I could scarcely pick a favorite angry cat meme. Nevertheless, the time has come to announce the sole winner. And that is…
Now is as good of time as any to unload something. I like to drink pickle juice. No, not a quick sip, but LONG pulls once the pickles are gone. No one needs to witness this. The spicier the better. Sooo, I’m hooked on McClure’s Spicy Bloody Mary mix because it’s sort of like drinking spicy pickle juice … with vodka. I am not always good at life. This stuff is insanity and makes me, but for a brief moment, forget my deplorable Cherry Chapstick addiction.
Obviously, we’re a codependent match made in heaven.
Bet you feel pretty pickled after a couple of these! Oh!
We should all pause to reflect on how far my PowerPoint skills have come since this.
I thought it was hilarious. To call a blogging acquaintance -whose real name I’d only learned a month earlier- my Best Friend Forever?
Ha!
Be careful what you wish for, Chipmunks. Since then, The Byronic Man has become not only one of my closest friends, but the people’s choice for Third Husband.
Happy birthday, . And, ah, sorry about all of this:
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
So what are you waiting for? Quick! Leave links to your favorite meme images and/or birthday well wishes in the comments section below, before we find The Byronic Man opening for Carrot Top!
If you have any trouble posting links in the comments section, feel free to email me your images and I’ll do it for you! Julie.Davidoski@yahoo.com.
To see the first installment of Drunk Girl and Byronic Man, click here.
As soon as I was sure, fitness wise, that I had a trail in the bag, something would come along to knock me off course. (See what I mean about the heavy-handed metaphors?) This past weekend, I thought the pests were going to do me in, despite toxic levels of bug spray coating my red, soaking wet, weary limbs. By mile 5 of one of 
Go Jules Go 