Scrappy Little Nobody Page 20
Valentine’s Day
I think the “single gals,” “anti–Valentine’s Day” thing is a little played out. The romantic Valentine’s thing is a little played out, too. I also know that every dude thinks this holiday is a trap; your lady says she doesn’t want to exchange gifts or do anything special, but secretly she wants you to surprise her with something anyway. (I don’t think ladies actually trap men like this, but if you are a lady who does: cut it out, you’re proving those boring dudes right.)
Perhaps a Valentine’s Day party should be left to someone better versed in romance. I’m sort of “the cooler” when it comes to hooking up. I don’t want you to think I’m not fun, I’m just the kind of gal who will find a book of anonymous World War I letters at a house party and sneak away from my crush to read them. Half an hour later he will find me weeping. He’ll tell me to rejoin the party and I’ll reply: “But it’s all just so sad.”
I think about that book more often than I think about that boy.
Nevertheless, I have a potential V-Day party plan. My imaginary Valentine’s Day party is a mock restaurant at my house. I cook a little something, dim the lights, and arrange some candles. It’s not like you can get a reservation anywhere else, so just come over, have a seat at a hastily decorated folding table, and don’t complain about the food, because the chef will spit in your dessert. Couples, singles, gay, straight, cats, dogs, and well-trained lizards are welcome. No babies. If everyone feels like finishing the evening with an orgy, all the better.
St. Patrick’s Day
I grew up in a mostly Irish community and everyone took their heritage pretty seriously. I was plain shocked when I came to LA and found people treating St. Patrick’s Day like a Kermit-colored Mardi Gras.
My St. Patrick’s Day party would take authentic Celtic inspiration—none of this neon-green tomfoolery. Guests are required to wear an Aran Island cable knit, and they will be provided a flat cap and a wooden pipe at the door. A bartender will be present, but only to continually dry the inside of a glass with a rag and supportively nod his head. The beer will be self-serve (and brown, thank you very much—green beer looks like radioactive piss) and the food will be Italian, not Irish, because I don’t hate my friends.
If I invite family I’ll have to hide anything that looks valuable. They wouldn’t steal anything, but they would certainly get drunk and start throwing around terms like “hoity-toity” and asking if I thought I was better than them.
A confession booth will be available, but I’ll find some Unitarian minister and (s)he’ll hand out absolution like it’s flavored vodka at an Iggy Azalea album release party. It won’t get you into heaven, but it’ll be over quickly. Public urination will be acceptable, dirty limericks will receive much bigger laughs than they deserve, and no one can talk about their feelings until they’re blind drunk.
The party game will be a snake piñata to commemorate Saint Patrick driving the snakes out of Ireland. Yes, I know he didn’t actually do that and that the snakes are druids or pagans or whatever and it’s all some big allegory JUST HIT THE PIÑATA, ALL RIGHT?! YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTAH THAN ME?!
New Year’s Eve
New Year’s Eve is the holiday that needs an “anti” party. Girls started doing anti-Valentine’s in protest of the outlandish expectations of that day, but for my money, NYE is the worst of the high-pressure, forced-fun offenders. Plus, champagne is the devil’s work and even the expensive stuff makes me weepy and bloated.
This imaginary event is not catered, valeted, or overly planned. Come over in sweats and slippers. If you don’t have any, I can provide them, not because I bought them in preparation, but because I love sweats and slippers and I happen to own enough to outfit a small, very comfortable army. No makeup, no champagne, no “You’re leaving already?” good-bye guilt, and absolutely NO glitter. There will be Jenga, jigsaw puzzles, wine, whatever I have in my fridge (condiments and an empty Brita), maybe a stand-up special on Netflix, and hopefully some decent gossip about whoever didn’t make it. I don’t know what we’ll do at midnight, because there will be no countdown. And if you’re cool with me falling asleep mid-party, you can stay as long as you want.
Thanksgiving
I adore an “Orphans’ Thanksgiving.” I love my family, but Thanksgiving with friends feels awesome because I grew up watching TV shows about people who seemed to have no connections outside of their friend group, office, or community college.
The magic comes from the “playing house” quality that makes you feel more grown-up and more childlike simultaneously.
In my dream version the menu is as follows:
Dinner
Individual Cranberry Baked Brie Puff Pastries
Brussels Sprouts with Caramelized Onions and Crispy Bacon
Fried Mac-and-Cheese Balls with Truffle Oil
Buttery Jalapeño Cornbread
Lobster Mashed Potatoes
Garlic-and-Herb-Stuffed Mushrooms
Roasted Butternut Squash with Maple-Glazed Pecans
Prosciutto-Wrapped Asparagus Spears
Cranberry Sauce Out of the Can
Turkey, I Guess
Desserts
Pumpkin Crème Brûlée
Pumpkin Cake with Honey Cream Cheese Frosting
Pumpkin Cheesecake Bars
Pumpkin Whoopie Pies
Pumpkin Swiss Roll
Pumpkin Pie
I will defend pumpkin until the day I die. It’s delicious. It’s healthy. I don’t understand the backlash. How did pumpkin become this embarrassing thing to love but bacon is still the cool flavor to add to everything? I don’t have anything against bacon; just don’t come after pumpkin like it’s a crime to love an American staple.
Activities will include pretending to help in the kitchen, watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and saying you’re so full you’re going to throw up, then waiting ten minutes and getting more pie.
Once the sun has been down for a couple hours the Christmas season is technically upon us and it’s time for the first Harry Potter marathon of the year, starting with film number three (because, obviously) and ending with film five, when the filthy casuals are allowed to go home. The hard-cores can sleep at my place and in the morning we will finish films six, seven, and seven-but-where-stuff-happens. Pumpkin pie for breakfast.
batten down the hatches
My friend Whitney is obsessed with the ocean. She decorates her Christmas tree with seashells and starfish and says things like, “Logically I know they’re not, but I just feel like mermaids are real.” Whitney invites me sailing shortly after I turn twenty-one. She and her family make an annual trip to Catalina, a truly tiny island off the coast of California, for an event called Buccaneer Days.
I’ve heard Whitney talk about this event before—it will be Alex’s second time going—but I still don’t understand what it is. Is it a costume contest? Is it a boat race? “It’s an excuse for people to dress up and drink all day,” she says.
Every year for a three-day weekend, Catalina plays host to about five hundred people (in about one hundred boats) who dress in elaborate pirate costumes, fly skull-and-crossbones flags, and refer to every beverage they consume as “grog.”
To participate in Buccaneer Days, you sail to a port on Catalina called Two Harbors. You can spend the days on land or sea, and you sleep on your boat, tied to a mooring about a hundred yards from shore. Unlike Avalon—the adorable tourist town on the far side of the island—Two Harbors is not a community. There are no structures to sleep in, only a flimsy outdoor bar (because you don’t need a roof, but you do need beer). The moorings in Two Harbors are limited and there’s a wait list to lease one. Apparently applicants can wait thirty years for a spot. It’s all very exclusive and old money. Whitney and her family strike me as far too normal to enjoy this kind of thing, but I’m grateful I’ve been invited along to witness the mayhem.
On the day we leave, Alex and I are still confused about the concept as a whole, but
very excited. We scour our closets for anything on theme, pick out every article of clothing with so much as a ruffle on it, and stuff it into a bag. We stop at CVS to pick up a bandanna and an eye patch each. Neither of us has problems with motion sickness, but we grab some Ginger Trips, a holistic alternative to Dramamine, just to be safe. Upon inspection, the eye patches are a light gray, which makes them look distinctly medical and sad, so we toss them out. But we throw on our bandannas and take our Ginger Trips and drive to Long Beach.
We arrive at the marina and spot our hosts, looking spectacularly nautical. (I would describe the size and style of our vessel, but I don’t know anything about sailing, so I’m trusting you to picture a boat.) The rest of the party is already onboard: Whitney and her new husband, Brian, and her childhood friends Katie and Cecily. Whitney’s father tells me his name but I forget it immediately and hope that referring to him as “Captain” for the rest of the trip will be endearing. Then Whitney introduces me to her brother. Oh, unrelated: You know that thing when you meet someone and you’re immediately like, Huh. We’re totally gonna have sex—anyway, his name is Luke.
We throw our bags belowdecks and get settled into a cozy little section of the cockpit to enjoy the fresh air. Being from Maine and not knowing how to sail is one of those things that earns me lots of incredulous looks. Yet being from Maine is not the same as being someone who summers in Maine—so I don’t want to ask too many questions right away. Whitney’s father does appear to be the captain of the ship, and I surmise that Luke is a kind of default first mate. Oh, crafts this size don’t have a first mate? Cool, I’m gonna call him that anyway so us poor kids can keep following along.
The Captain is having a conversation with someone on the dock about high winds. It sounds ominous, but we are so excited to take our trip that we choose to interpret the phrase “not quite gale force” as a green light. The family—except for Whitney’s husband, Brian, who is on the bow reenacting scenes from What About Bob?—finishes readying the boat, while the passengers with no sailing experience chat and pass around a bag of chips. Luke is fiddling with something just behind me and leans down to whisper in my ear.
“Listen, I’m sure those chips are delicious, but this weekend you’re the only girl I’m gonna see in a bikini that I haven’t known since I was five. I’m counting on you.”
This is presumptuous and rude, but I am twenty-one, so instead of jamming my keys through his calf, I find him incredibly charming. I make a big show of eating another handful of chips, then put the bag away and resolve to restrict myself to alcohol-based calories for the remainder of the trip.
We get out on the water and it is beautiful, but we are met with high winds as previously threatened. We try to take photos but most of them are blurred as the boat is tossed from side to side. The water is so choppy that a cooler of beer falls overboard and Luke leaps to action. He jumps into the dinghy and goes after the cooler. Everyone onboard watches with bated breath as he rescues the cooler and a couple runaway beers. He lifts the final can of PBR over his head and we cheer from the deck for our returning hero. I have a couple blurry photos of this, and that’s where my pictures from this day stop.
Once Luke and the cooler are safely back onboard, the wind gets progressively worse. The boat is being thrown more than tossed now. We get past the breakwater, and I don’t know it yet, but that means shit is about to go down. We take our electronics belowdecks and wrap ourselves in sweatshirts and jackets. Luke trims the sails—which is a thing you do on a boat—but it doesn’t feel like it’s made a difference. The conditions are a little distressing now and we look at each other with goofy, surprised expressions, the way you do when an elevator jolts. It’s scary but it’s fun and we can already imagine ourselves telling the story later. We make roller-coaster noises to confirm that yes, this is fun, we’re having fun.
The water gets rougher and starts crashing over the sides of the boat. I’m worried about my hair getting wet and having that “attacked by a raccoon” look in front of this new boy, but I don’t want to seem high maintenance at a time like this. The swells only get higher, and soon what’s coming over us isn’t foamy spray but thick sheets of blue water. I want to ask if this is normal, but I don’t dare. I’m afraid of drowning but more afraid of looking ignorant and hysterical. Now that we are wet, I am unbearably cold. I go belowdecks to change, and maybe to do the cowardly thing and stay down there for a while. Turns out the feeling of motion sickness is fifty times worse belowdecks, and I run back up, still in my soaked hoodie. That’s fine, I think, better to be up here anyway. Solidarity and all that.
The wind gets worse. No one is joking or making roller-coaster noises anymore. In fact we can’t remember how we could ever have been so cavalier about the sea. The Captain is at the helm with a tight smile, reassuring us that he’s not worried; he’s seen worse. Luke is crouched down, bracing himself. He looks serious and ready for a fight. The rest of us are stone-faced, white-knuckling anything that’s nailed down, as wave after wave comes over the boat. Then, before I even realize it’s happening, I am throwing up.
I manage to thrust my body toward the side of the boat but I’m still clinging to the center of the cockpit with one hand, so my breakfast, the handful of chips, and the hippie Dramamine go all over the deck. I stay in my awkward position, not wanting to face the group of seasoned sailors. I know that under the circumstances no one will be angry, but I’m still humiliated. With waves coming over us at ten-second intervals, the evidence is washed away almost immediately, but I still don’t turn around. I am a pathetic, weak-stomached crybaby and I’ve never been so embarrassed.
Then, before I even realize it’s happening, Luke is throwing up beside me. For one moment I am relieved but it is short-lived. The first mate is violently throwing up next to me. This is a terrifying development. I’m a girl about to die on a boat, who just moments ago was a girl embarrassed about throwing up on a boat. I long for that simpler time.
I turn back to the Captain. He is no longer smiling.
Whitney throws up. Brian throws up. Cecily goes belowdecks to throw up. She returns cradling her cell phone to her ear, risking its destruction to call her fiancé and say “I love you.” I think about the last time I had to swim hard, but I’ve lived in LA for years, where no one actually goes to the beach unless they’re staging a romantic paparazzi shot to dispel gay rumors. It’s been a very long time. I throw up again.
Who had we been an hour before? Who were those goons laughing and joking about the high waves? How could we have ever been so arrogant in the face of this inexhaustible power? We must be nearly there, we must be.
I still feel sick so I try to focus my gaze on a fixed landmark. I look back toward the California mainland but it’s nowhere to be seen. I notice the Captain’s galoshes are full to the brim with seawater, dark liquid splashing over the tops as we lurch. I stare at his overflowing boots while we hear mayday calls come over the radio. I don’t care about my hair anymore.
The journey goes on and on, and just as Whitney starts apologizing to us, the waves start to get smaller. The Captain puts his tight smile back on to tell us it’s getting better and he was never worried; he’d been through worse before anyway.
When we see land we behave like children who just found out the neighbor’s scary dog is chained to a pole. Take THAT, ocean! You can’t get us now! With no immediate threat to my life, I remember that I am in the presence of a hot guy and deflate a little knowing that I look like a drowned rat and probably blew it when I threw up the second time anyway.
The weather lets up completely by the time we get tied to our mooring. We take the dinghy to shore and dramatically kiss the ground because we think we’re funny. There are little campground-style showers, where we get cleaned up and I do my best to fix my hair. Without a blow dryer, braided pigtails are my only style option. If pigtails could become a really fashionable look for adult women, that would make my life so much easier. That or “attacked by a raccoon.”<
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As soon as we are in dry clothes we head to the one structure in the harbor: the bar. The handful of other sailors who also crossed through the rough water are easy to spot because of their thousand-yard stares and the fact that we are the ONLY patrons not yet drunk off our faces. Everyone else is in full buccaneer garb, using over-the-top “Argh, matey” accents and drunkenly groping what I hope are their wives. Debauchery is clearly best executed in a costume, and everyone seems to have forgotten this is real life. Alcohol might not be the best remedy for seasickness, but the inebriates are in markedly cheerier mental states, so we hurry to catch up.
We spend the night on the boat, and by eight the next morning, even through the thick hull, we hear the mating calls of functioning alcoholism. The sun is still low but the good people of Buccaneer Days are already up and harassing each other. Groups of aspiring marauders are piled in dinghies and weaving between the sailboats, throwing plastic coins and bellowing, “Prepare to be boarded!”
This is a lot. I’m not much of a morning drinker, but Luke has weed, so I gratefully smoke as much as he offers. It’s like I’m at Mardi Gras but it’s balding and in the middle of the ocean. I am getting a window into what it means to be an adult. Sometimes, being an adult means getting some friends together and whizzing around in a tiny boat shouting jocular threats at the passengers of slightly larger boats. It’s quite a thing to watch grown men and women brandish fake swords and climb aboard the vessel you are standing on to demand beer. The environment (and probably the weed) bring me to a few surprising revelations:
1. People need escape and fantasy at every age.
2. Maybe we are all most free when we are playing make-believe.
3. At least five people here have buried a stripper in their lifetime.
My most pirate-y shirt happens to make my boobs look awesome, and twelve hours have passed since I last threw up, so I’m on the prowl. We get dressed and go ashore, and in the daylight I notice we are truly the only people here who are unmarried and under the age of fifty-five. Well, this changes everything. Put me on an island with a cute guy and give him no other sexual options? This must be how socially adept women feel all the time! I won’t even have to get that drunk! But I do anyway.