All kidding aside, I’ve learned to embrace my beloved’s hobby of growing insanely spicy peppers. This past weekend, I even agreed to go to Bower’s Chile Pepper Festival in eastern Pennsylvania.
We took his car, since mine decided it’s done with life.
The evolution of [two flushes of] my transmission fluid, as depicted by Darrin, Auto Shop Guru, Sep 7, 2013. “Yours was like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”For $5, we found a sweet parking spot a couple of blocks away. In an Amish man’s yard. I appreciated both his entrepreneurial nature and his lawn accessories.
We had no idea what to expect, but the festival was jalapeño–poppin’. There were plenty of vendors touting everything from mild pepper mustards and jams and homegrown delights…
…to “butt-puckering” demon-peppers:
Mostly, I tried not to lose Peppermeister amid his people.
Seriously. They all looked like this.
I even partook in the madness.
This is actually one of my favorites (I know. I have a favorite): Hinkelhatz.
But my two favorite moments had nothing to do with peppers. Not really, anyway.
FAVORITE MOMENT #1
“She just wanted the attention,” Peppermeister, the Psych major, said on the ride home. “Did you notice she wouldn’t eat it until everyone was watching?”
“I gave her a lot of attention. I told her she was insane. I thought she’d like it.”
“She didn’t want the attention of WOMEN.”
“Ahhhhhhh.”
FAVORITE MOMENT #2
We took a wagon ride over to the nearby pepper farm, and they left it up to the passengers to decide how many could fit on the wagon.
“I think we should sit on opposite sides so both legs are touching strangers,” Peppermeister joked while we waited on line.
He never could have imagined a woman would squeeze herself onboard…and on his lap. Without a single word.
What are your favorite “people watching” places and/or moments?
“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 _____?
Two months ago, my best friend, Jenn, said, “Everyone is going to [our friend] Cami’s wedding in Houston in April, but I don’t know if I can do it. I hate flying, and I don’t want to leave the dog, and [my husband] Pete won’t dance with me.”
Jenn and Jules (pic from our Secret Wedding)
I took a quick inventory of my life: I hadn’t flown anywhere in four years. My future career was uncertain. I was restless as hell. I liked to dance.
“I’ll go with you,” I blurted. After all, I knew the bride and everyone going.
Jenn’s face lit up, and within the hour, she’d booked our flight. This past Friday morning, I rose at 4:45 and picked up Jenn.
“You don’t trust me to get to your parents’ house on time [since your mom is bringing us to the airport]?” she asked.
“Absolutely not. Don’t argue with me,” I replied, recalling the previous weekend, when Jenn was supposed to come over for lunch, and slept until 1pm.
To Jenn’s credit, she was all ready to go when I arrived, and in a stroke of genius, had booked us aisle seats across from each other. We strained our necks, but got the ab workout of a lifetime, each trying to out-joke the other during the 3 1/2-hour flight.
“You were those people?” our friend Mary later asked.
Yes. Yes, we were.
“We’re just a couple of classy broads,” Jenn said, stowing her ancient cell phone before take-off.
“You put the ass in class,” I replied affectionately.
“I just don’t understand people who have no sense of humor,” I said some time later. “My only problem is I think everything is funny.”
“Your only problem?” Jenn fired back.
Jenn wound up rebooking our hotel so we could stay where Cami (the bride) had scheduled a shuttle to the wedding venue, never mind that Jenn still had to pay for the first hotel because it was nonrefundable.
“We don’t know anything about a shuttle to the wedding,” the front desk told us when we arrived.
Jenn called Cami and found out that the shuttle “never materialized.”
Whoops.
We decided to worry about our ride later. We still had 3 hours to spare, and we were on a mission: hair dye (for Jenn) and vodka (for me both of us).
Gettin’ ‘er done at Walgreens.
“There’s a Walgreens and a liquor store within walking distance – 2 blocks,” the front desk assured us.
We found the Walgreens, but walked at least a mile, stopping people to ask where the liquor store was. Our boots were not made for “walking distance” in Texas, but the weather was beautiful.
“I just saw a cop in a cowboy hat, but I’m still starting to think we belong in Houston,” I told Jenn. “We’ve already gotten hit on by three different men.”
“And you don’t think it has anything to do with the fact that we’re asking for liquor at 2 o’clock in the afternoon on a work day?” she replied.
“Now hold it right there, young whippersnapper, you’re in vi-o-lation of Code 147: The Texas Ten Gallon. Where on god’s green earth is your hat?”
By the time we got back to the hotel, we had little time to pre-game. Our friends, who were staying in a different hotel and had rented a car, generously offered to pick us up. Now we had even less time to get ready.
Hang on! Almost ready!
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. It was Cami and her soon-to-be-husband. She was holding an iPod.
“I just need you to dock this before the wedding, and play the ‘Processional’ playlist,” she told Jenn.
“O-okay…” Jenn replied, wet hair dripping on ivory shoulders.
“Then you play the ‘Ceremony’ playlist, then the ‘Recessional’ playlist.”
Jenn’s eyes widened, but she just nodded, paying close attention.
“And then the ‘Reception’ playlist,” Cami said, clicking through each one on the little silver rectangle in her hand. “I tried to make it as idiot-proof as possible.”
As soon as they left, we raced to finish getting ready. When our friends picked us up, they were nervous about being late, but in good spirits.
“[Our other friend] Dave just found out he’s the Maid of Honor!” they giggled.
“I just found out I’m the f*cking DJ!” Jenn retorted.
We arrived at the wedding venue early, as luck would have it. It was a Greek restaurant, obviously.
Because when I think Houston, I think…baklava.
The wedding coordinator frantically informed us that she was technologically challenged, and pointed to a CD player with no CDs.
“That’s not going to work with this,” Jenn replied, holding the iPod.
“Well we just got a new TV, maybe we can put music on that?” the wedding coordinator said breathlessly, her voice a fascinating mix of Southern and Greek accents.
When I attempted to turn on the TV, it was immediately apparent that the cable wasn’t hooked up. “Maybe if you point the remote here,” the wedding coordinator said, gesturing towards the closet where the CD player sat. I knew I’d never, ever come up with an appropriate response, so I said nothing and glanced back to see if the bar was open yet.
Here’s what happened when we asked the wedding coordinator to take our picture at the end of the night:
We found out one of Cami’s friends was coming by with the iPod speaker and tried to relax, even though the wedding was in mere minutes.
Or it should have been.
But.
The wedding party was two hours late. No reason. Texas time, I guess. My inner Project Manager hyperventilated into a brown paper bag, while my alter ego, Drunk Girl, just… well, you know.
In case you were wondering – the iPod speaker still hadn’t arrived.
“Can you tell everyone to hum the wedding march?” the blushing bride asked Jenn, just before the ceremony started.
“Yee-haw! I am worth the wait, cowboy!”
I should probably stop there.
After all that, did we have fun? You be the judge:
“My mom just had to pay a $1,300 overage on the bar bill,” said Cami at the end of the night.
While I hadn’t given it much thought until last week, it seems obvious now: If you fine Chipmunks got to pick between Adam Levine and your beloved blog hero, The Byronic Man, obviously The B Man would win [the title of Third Husband]. By a landslide.
In a way, it makes perfect sense.
The Byronic Man and I are so associated in the collective bloggy unconscious that on numerous occasions, I’ve had people email me messages intended for The Byronic Man. People have left me comments on his blog.
To be fair, we started it, touting our likeness and joining forces on numerous bloggy collaborations. We even send joint greeting cards to bloggy friends, trade sheet-folding tips, correct each other’s typos… It’s a bloggy match made in heaven, with or without the votes to back it up.
So let’s do this.
Bloggers: Do you have a bloggy BFF / spouse? Or better yet, a bloggy crush (SPILL IT!)? Bloggers / All: What other adventures should Drunk Girl and Byronic Man embark on?
P.S. – Don’t worry. Starting next week, I plan to blog about something other than polyandry!
Remember our Christmas ‘sheet set’ giveaway? There are a lot of jokes here about beds and keeping warm, but I am far too classy to make them.
I certainly can’t blame you. In fact, I’m pretty sure nine out of ten bloggers already think I’m married to The Byronic Man.
It occurs to me that finding my third spouse is like completing the final layer of my Dream Cupcake. Have you heard of these cupcakes? I hadn’t either, until I was roped into volunteered to help my parents cook for Easter Sunday.
1st layer: Chocolate chip cookie dough.
2nd layer: Reese’s peanut butter cup.
3rd layer: Brownie batter.
Cook 30 minutes at 350 F. Then eat. Then just crawl into a hole and die. Because life can only go down from there.
Um, anyway, okay, so, with the final 5 candidates selected…
It’s time to vote for my third spouse! (If you missed it, Click here to review their entries!)
Polls close NOON EST, Wednesday, April 3, 2013. My third spouse and I will regale you with some of our misadventures on Friday, April 5, 2013!
Well I’ve gotta tell you Chipmunks, it makes a gal feel good to know some of you are so willing to snuggle up as my 3rd spouse, joining the ranks of First Husband, Peppermeister, and Second Husband, Darren Criss (of Glee fame).
When I put the question out there on Monday, I was delighted by your responses.
I don’t know why I think it’s so flattering, though. Taking a brief glimpse back in time, why wouldn’t anyone volunteer for Go Jules Go back rub duty?
I mean……obviously……I am too sexy for my shirt.
I face a tough road ahead. Figuring out how to keep those pics from popping up on your blogs who’ll be the 5th candidate (along with my BFF, Jenn, Adam Levine, Justin Timberlake and Bacon) for 3rd spouse.
Like choosing between champagne and more champagne.
Super rich; most likely to already have a Red Room of Pain
Clearly I need your help. Who’s your pick For the final 3rd spouse candidate? (Vote for up to 3!)
Cast your vote(s) by NOON EST on Saturday, March 30th. On Monday, April 1st, we’ll put the final 5 candidates head-to-head (because why do something in one post when you can draw it out in 3?)!
As many of you Chipmunks know, I have a long-standing polyandrous situation in my house. Sure, First Husband, Peppermeister, is great, but…Scrabble…is more fun with extra players. Cue Second Husband, Darren Criss (of Glee fame).
Things have been grand over the past year, but our bed is really, really big. So.
Enough chatter. I’m cold.
Let’s review the candidates…
#1 – My BFF, Jenn
My dearest wife Jules,
After all these years, I know it’s obvious to you I was born to be your third and only (hmmm, we’ll have to work on that – we have time). But perhaps your readers, like the majority of state legislatures in our fair nation, need a pinch of persuasion. After all, they haven’t:
fled to the arms of another man from dated YOUR brother
taken a kick ass road trip with me
nearly died with me
Okay, those last two are really the same thing, but I’ll make it count for two.
Jules, I was born to be your Third Husband, because let’s face it. I got this vow shizz locked up like a three-peat offender. In good times and in bad? How much better can it get than our impending wedding date in the banquet hall of a Greek restaurant in Texas that rents its second floor as apartments? (B-T-Dubs, my first guest post as Hub3 – just sayin’.)
JULES + JENN 4-EVER.
And bad times? Let’s be honest, we’ve already hit rock bottom together. Amazingly, I’m not even talking about vodka here. On our road trip [from New Jersey to Georgia in 2002], you lost your wallet, like, 27 minutes in. We were checked into the Blue Ridge Motor Lodge (I could stop here) by a heavily bleeding sexagenarian who begged us to take a plunge in his toad-infested pool (he really did have a surprisingly strong grasp on metaphor). Then our friend couldn’t meet up with us in Atlanta as planned because he was… oh, that’s right… IN JAIL. And to top it all off, we nearly died. On a cliff. We nearly went over a cliff together. Can’t you just see the Thelma and Louise motif on our engraved invitations?
When we I backed up on the freshly wet gravel, smack into the electrified fence that was then the only thing between my back tires and the plummet, and the passenger door was pinned shut by the… voltage, didn’t I demand that you climb over me to safety? Wriggle between my body and the steering wheel, out the driver’s door, before I even THOUGHT about escaping myself?
Jules and Jenn in Savannah, circa 2002. Five days from near death.
And when the farmer in denim overalls, sans shirt or underwear, came strolling out to look at my handiwork with his fence… and you asked him where exactly we were…. when he removed the hay from both his teeth to reply: “Girly, you’re in the middle of nowhere…” Well, girly, he couldn’t have been more wrong. We could never be lost as long as we’re together.
So, in conclusion:
I, BFF, take you, GJG, to be my unlawfully wedded wife, to have (mercy) and hold (your hair back), from this day forward. For better (see above) and worse (ditto), for richer (I’m not worried) and poorer (we got this), in sickness (check) and health (too late), until Blue Ridge Mountain death do us part.
Love,
Jenn
#2 – Adam Levine
No, I don’t, Adam. Show, I mean tell, me.
Hey Jules,
You know what they say about guys with tattoos…
xox,
Adam
P.S. – I do yoga.
#3 – Justin Timberlake
Jules,
You knew I’d come back for you, Jules.
I’ve wracked my brain abs for a way to properly thank you for convincing me to finally bring sexy back. Are you enjoying my new album, The 20/20 Experience, which dropped March 19th? Oh wait, this isn’t about me. It’s about you. And how I plan to repay you…
Hugs and Harmonies (and more?),
JT
#4 – Bacon
My Jules,
Duh.
-Bacon
#5 – ?
That’s right, Chipmunks. Here’s your chance to nominate someone else, or throw your teeny, tiny, adorable hat in the ring. And take it from Jenn: I’m very open-minded…
Submit your 5th candidate ideas [in the comments section below] by NOON EST Wednesday, March 27th. Polls will open Thursday, March 28th at 6am EST!
I found the most perfect Valentine’s Day card for you. In fact, words cannot express how perfect it is (other than the words in this card), so, I made you this video. (Sorry about the swearing; I’m just so damn passionate about our relationship.)
Go Jules Go 