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.
Last Sunday, Mother’s Day, I was toiling away at Babs’ house, helping her with a garage sale. She’d decided to use the day as an opportunity to enslave all three of her children.
Note Babs’ halo. This will become relevant in a moment.
Aside from the joys of sweating and haggling spending time with my darling mother, I got to giggle at your incoming comment submissions for the “Don’t Lick the Minivan” book giveaway.
I asked you to share a favorite ‘Mom quote’ – either something you’ve said as a mother that you never thought you would, or something your own mother said that you never forgot. Most of you chose the latter. They were all spectacular. Thank you!
Before I announce the winner, though, I thought I’d tell you about my favorite Mom bomb…
Growing up, my parents enjoyed their evening cocktails…
…but Babs always likened drugs and smoking to the worst kind of criminal act. I’d have been better off robbing a bank than sneaking a cigarette.
“I never did drugs,” she told us, time and time again, as we watched our favorite childhood stars get busted for their evil indulgences. “And smoking is the most foul, disgusting habit in the world. Your breath smells and your teeth rot and if you ever take up smoking, well…” She couldn’t even finish that sentence.
Years passed and her three children grew up. What went on behind Pearl Jam poster-covered dorm room doors was a mystery, as far as Babs was concerned.
In my early 20s, thinking maybe the playing field had leveled, I decided to probe.
“So you’re telling me you grew up in the 60s, and you NEVER smoked pot?”
I was sure I knew what was coming. Sweet, innocent Babs paused and then said,
I was taking my friend’s 6-year old son out for a walk a few weeks ago to give her a break (leaving her with the other three…shall I explain why? I think not.)
This is our conversation within the first two minutes.
He pulls a tiny grey stick sword out of his pocket and “lights it” with a red piece of lego. “I don’t normally smoke in front of people…” he says, exhaling long and slow.
Because I’m way cooler than him, I replied. “Oh. I see. Wait a minute…I’m a person!”
He thinks. He inhales another drag on the tiny sword and says, “No you’re not, you’re a woman!”
And that. right. there. is why he quit smoking his toys…giving up the habit in record time.
Happy Mother’s Day (if you’re a real person, that is!)
Congratulations, Hiddeninsight! You slayed me with this one. I’ll be in touch via email!
One of my favorite moms, Leanne Shirtliffe of Ironic Mom.com, has a NEW BOOK out this month! An actual book! She’s living the bloggy dream! Even The Bloggess is touting it, unsurprisingly, as “awesome.”
But… but…
Like any wise parent, Leanne knows the best reason for having kids is the writing material. Don’t Lick the Minivan (and Other Things I Never Thought I’d Say to My Kids) features uproarious tales from Leanne’s wild and wacky twin-filled world. I’m particularly excited to read about the birthday party where neighborhood kids took home skin rashes from the second-hand face paint she applied.
She really used a bowl. I swear.
While Babs never gave me any skin rashes, she did subject all three of her children to the infamous bowl haircut. And in a stroke of cruel genius, this year, she decided to have a garage sale on Mother’s Day, thereby guaranteeing slave labor during one of the hottest, muggiest Mother’s Day weekends on record.
So while my brother, sister and I are haggling, sweating and hopefully drinking from cleverly disguised water bottle-flasks, I thought I’d reward you fine folks with a giveaway! At least one of us should have some fun today.
Simply leave a comment below describing a favorite ‘mom quote’ moment – either something your mother said (or loves to say…repeatedly…), or something you’ve said as a mom that you never thought you would. (For more great ‘mom quote’ moments, head over to Ironic Mom!)
I’ll ever-so-subjectively pick a winner based on humor and originality.
DEADLINE
Sunday, May 19, 2013, 12pm NOON EST. Winner announced Monday, May 20, 2013, 7am EST.
This week, Jenn forwarded an email from her mom, and trust me, there’s more where this came from.
To: Jenn (a.k.a. “Butter”…because, well, Jenn won’t tell me why)
From: Jenn’s Mom (a.k.a. “Moth”)
Butter: I understand you sent a reply to my last email, but someone (I won’t say who) Managed to delete it—-I’m sorry, could you please forward it again–thanks!!!Not only does someone (I won’t say who) read my emails, but deletes them (unintentionally), I’ m sure!!!!”Retirement in winter “—–leaves a lot of time on someone’s hands, while your mother is at your grandmother’s cleaning her apartment…..Hope you’re having a good day Butter !!!!I pray to the dear Lord for winter strength-(-till someone has more to do )…….THANKS—–Hugs
And a few minutes later:
No need to send it again sweetheart, just found it in “trash” …..
Thanks, Moth
Got any emails from your old lady you’d like to share? Jenn and I think there could be a new blog feature here. Send them to: Julie.Davidoski@yahoo.com!
Yes.
***BONUS BACON-FILLED POST: Rachel’s Table is showcasing my spicy turkey meatloaf recipe today!I know. All this [facial hair] and I can cook. I figured I needed a fall-back plan in case my Glee audition doesn’t pan out. Oh, also? If you’re not subscribing to Rachel’s Table, you just made a baby chipmunk cry.***
You probably just stopped having nightmares over last week’s email from my mom, Babs. Remember that one? With the deer carcass? Babs had emailed graphic, carnage-ridden pictures to me, describing how her neighbor had strung up a dead deer only yards away from her back porch.
Then, a couple of days later, Babs emailed again, saying she’d bought us tickets to see Spank!, the 50 Shades of Grey parody/musical.
Surely, you’re thinking, in such a short amount of time, Jules’ mom couldn’t possibly electronic-mail any more atrocities?
Nay, chipmunks!
Behold!
Wait for it.
Subject: This Almost Killed Me…
I’m almost done with the eaves clean-out. It was a cross between a Chucky movie and a 30’s dust bowl.
Opening some of the last boxes was very scary. The mother [squirrel] nest wasn’t the straw [I’d seen] on the floor, but inside a box disguised as Christmas storage.
And the choices of nesting material? That was found in a stuffed animals/dolls box. Yup, the doll is missing her face! Plus lots of the pink insulation from the ceiling.
This was such a gross job.
xox Babs
Oh look! It’s my box of Christmas treasures! F&*#%^& squirrels!Well at least my children’s momentos are safe and sound… OH FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT’S HOLE-Y.
Obviously, Babs needs her own blog. Or a new storage space.
What’s your least favorite / grossest household job?
P.S. – You have until NOON EST TODAY (Wednesday, January 30, 2013) to enter my latest giveaway – you can win custom artwork from Julie Maida!
Last Thursday, I asked you to submit a comment describing a sibling rivalry or ridiculous parental rule, and of course, you didn’t disappoint.
It’d make sense for me to now tell you some memorable sibling rivalry stories, but who wants to hear about the time I crushed my brother’s finger in the sliding door of Babs’ van, or when he sent me to the ER by hurling a baseball cap at my face and scratching my retina? I’m sure you don’t want to see the scars my sister has from both of us. Nah!
It’s time to announce the winner! This lucky guy or gal ‘munk gets a free 11 x 16-inch canvas print from Printcopia.
A print like the one I just gave my sis for her birthday:
Wait, you’re probably thinking, what’s going on in that picture?
Oh, well, thank you for asking.
Babs asked Peppermeister and I to leave Uncle Jesse at home on Saturday for my sister’s birthday celebration, because my niece would be there and she’s allergic to dogs.
An abomination!
Obviously, we couldn’t have him missing out on the festivities.
Isn’t he so cute? That pic is life-size, too, because he’s a li’l nugget. Wait…what were we doing again?
Oh right – the winner of the canvas print!
In typical blonde fashion, I forgot to find out if I could award the prize to non-U.S. residents, so I’ve selected a winner and a runner-up. If the winner can’t cash in on the canvas print, I’ll personally send them Sun-Staches ‘stache glasses instead, and the runner-up will receive the canvas print. Otherwise, the runner-up will receive the ‘stache glasses.
The Winner
asoulwalker!
I like the way you operate, my friend. And might I suggest your long-awaited revenge include a bag ‘o back hair?
Congratulations you two! I’ll follow-up with both of you via email to get your prizes situated.
Thanks again for your terrific submissions, and don’t forget there’s another contest happening RIGHT NOW – My Halloween contest! The prize is epic. Enter by Oct 27th!
Chipmunks, this is undoubtedly the most polarizing post I’ve ever published.
If you make it through, I’ll know where we stand.
Once upon a time, this came into my life:
Wait for it…
Maybe I should back up. Speaking of backs, that’s a bag of back hair.
My father-in-law’s back hair.
Still with me? Okay, good. It really makes perfect sense. You see, a guy’s gotta shave his back, and my mother-in-law heard sprinkling hair around the perimeter of your property keeps deer away.
And if the deer are away, Peppermeister‘s (Husband #1) garden is safe.
And everybody’s happy.
Though this was a surprise to us, it was like it was meant to be. Like recycling between father and son. Mother Nature at work.
…No? Are you saying you’re against recycling and Mother Nature? You probably just want us to shoot those poor deer, don’t you? Wow.
The day we were given the back hair, my sister-in-law (SIL) caught sight of the exchange, and, well… She was less than pleased. Disgusted might be the word. Yeah. That’s the one.
So, naturally, there was only one thing to do.
Before we left the family gathering that night, Peppermeister hid the bag ‘o back hair in SIL’s cooler. Specifically, the cooler where she keeps her children’s food.
Because…obviously.
Over the next few months, we found various unsettling ways to keep the back hair traveling between each other’s houses. It landed anywhere but scattered around the perimeter of our house, clearly destined for greatness.
And then it went missing. For months.
Until last Saturday, when I did my yearly cleaning.
Well played.
Thank god. I should really clean more often.
Do you have any ongoing pranks / inside jokes that tickle your back hair fancy?
A little trip to Maryland for a family retirement party. Pretend it’s this past Saturday and your friend Jules is looking very cute overdressed in her lacy black dress…
Peppermeister (Husband Number Uno) and I headed down to Maryland in the morning and made great time – under 4 hours from western New Jersey.
We were staying overnight, but didn’t have time to check into the hotel first. No matter, because once at the party, I got to do one of my favorite things:
Drink Color.
I had to keep a safe distance from my other adorable nephew, who brought just one toy. Yes. A scorpion. The only thing I fear more than a world without cheese.
Everyone’s a comedian.
After the party, Peppermeister and I headed a little over 20 miles north to Baltimore to check into our hotel. We paid to park, and dragged our luggage (complete with cooler full of beer, natch) a long distance through the parking deck. We anticipated issues at the front desk, because Peppermeister and his dad have the same name.
Sure enough, they didn’t have us on record. Peppermeister called his parents, who had somehow gotten to the hotel before us, despite having left the party after us.
It all soon made sense, though.
Because we were at the wrong hotel.
We’d driven 20+ miles away from the party and the correct hotel because, like Peppermeister and his dad, both hotels had the same name.
We hauled everything all the way back to the parking deck, where this happened:
Thirty minutes later, when we walked into the RIGHT hotel lobby, Peppermeister’s family members greeted us with snickers.
“How was Baltimore?” they all chortled, one by one, as we passed. (“A gauntlet of chop-busting,” Peppermeister would later call it.) I shook my head warningly in Peppermeister’s general direction, and wondered how Second Husband would have handled this situation. Probably with a sense of humor. And a song and dance routine.
I made a mental note to recommit to finding Second Husband’s cell phone number.
We got to our room and changed into casual clothes. Where were we headed for dinner?
Baltimore! A few blocks from the “wrong” hotel!
Yes, I was still laughing. And no, Peppermeister was still not. Okay. Maybe a little.
In the end, we both had a lovely time, but I called it a night after dinner and drinks.
Peppermeister and I were sound asleep by 12:30.
Annnnd…
That’s when the fire alarm went off in our room and throughout the hotel.
We stumbled to get dressed and evacuate, but found out it was a false alarm (literally). Sound asleep once more, the alarm went off again, accompanied by a seizure-inducing strobe light.
By now it was clear the alarm system had gone Charlie Sheen. If we weren’t totally sure, we would be by 5:30am. Because the alarm would go on and off for the next five hours.
“This never would have happened if we’d stayed at the wrong hotel,” I said for the hundredth time, still finding it funny.
Go Jules Go 