The Wedding Guest.

As a wedding guest, you have two responsibilities: to bring a great gift and make the reception fun (unless of course you find yourself at a dry reception, in which case your responsibility shifts to having the obligatory glass of sweet tea and to making a quick exit). While engaging in the general merriment of my dear friends’ nuptial soiree, I developed a slight case of vino glasses (that’s the classier version of beer goggles, but beware as they’re just as likely to skew otherwise perfect vision and seem to cast everyone in a far rosier hue). I found a perfectly nice seeming young man who ensured that my wine glass was never empty and who was an awfully good kisser, I daresay.

Over the course of the evening, a wine-induced and highly-spastic conversation ensued in which I informed my new friend that I was driving to a nearby city to visit old friends the following morning. My new friend stated that he had caught a ride to the wedding, and, conveniently, that his home was in a city which was a mere detour from the interstate highway. He asked if I would mind giving him a ride in the morning, and at that particular moment, I was happy to oblige (the bad decisions begin here).

The following morning, I woke to a pounding headache and serious hangover. As I packed the contents of my suitcase and fought off the nausea, I remembered my promise from the previous night with serious dismay (as the drive to his home town takes approximately two hours). I briefly considered making a quick exit, however my guilty conscience wouldn’t allow it, and I sent the obligatory text.

“Hey, leaving in 15 minutes. Still need a ride?”

I was convinced that the odds were surely with me and that he was definitely far more hung over than I was. I’m not a gambler, but I was ready to bet that he would want to take it easy and just ride home with the guys. Clearly, I underestimated this little eager beaver. There he was: packed, dressed and ready to go. At that moment, a few things occurred to me.

First, and most importantly, NEVER trust your ability to assess a man’s appearance while seriously intoxicated. Now I make it a rule not to discriminate against red heads (or “gingers”, because I dearly love some gingers), however, in the light of day it was apparent that what I had taken for “strawberry blonde” the night before, was in fact a color that would put Ronald McDonald to shame. Not that I hold anything against redheads, but this RED required the use of very dark sunglasses and keeping two extremely blurry eyes on the road.

My second startling realization was that God does, indeed, have a sense of humor. The conversation went from bad to worse as we stumbled through awkward pleasantries (oh yes, we even talked about the weather), while both pretending that we had not had too much to drink the night before and forgotten 95% of every subject previously covered (a result of the alcohol amnesia effect, mind you).

The very best part of this never-ending, seventy-five hour drive was the tour of his neighborhood as we pulled into town. As we drove past ivy-covered houses complete with picket fences and golden retrievers, I mentally began to reassess the boy before me (who suddenly seemed very man-ish). Wow, any person who could own a house like this at twenty-five must be doing something right. I was so impressed by his accomplishments and the stylishness of his neighborhood that I couldn’t help but tell him.

”You know, your neighborhood is really beautiful. I love it.”

To which he replied, “Yes, my parents do really well. I live in the basement now, but we’re about to move and I’ll be taking the pool house.”

Do I even need to say it?

This was only made better when he tried to recreate the previous night’s romantic kissing scene after we pulled into the driveway and he waved at his mother.

Gotta love those family moments. Xoxoxo

Skipper

Anatomy Lesson.

I recently attended a bachelorette party for a dear friend and made the long drive with my old college roommates. While motoring along the highway, we passed a gynecologist’s office and the conversation naturally digressed to embarrassing gynecologist stories. At one point, some reference was made to the vulva. My dear friend (who is married, no less) emphatically stated that, clearly, the vulva is located in your throat.

(Ladies, I encourage you to refrain from telling your family practitioner that you’ve had a scratchy vulva and, consequently, require some cough syrup…)

My other roommate followed this tragic statement by commenting that she’d never HEARD of the word, but thought it sounded “throatish”.

My response?

After my initial shock that my dear friends were perfectly willing to embarrass both themselves and their family practitioners, was to encourage them to whip out their I-phones (ok technology is ok in certain situations) and do an immediate Google search of the word. After one emphatic refusal from roommate number two, my married roommate finally relented while stating that it was my fault if she ended up with weird pop ups on her Internet and email (although I guarantee you that her husband would not have minded, ha!). A quick search revealed that I was, of course, right.

Later, we learned that the uvula (my married roommate had confused the word) is located in the throat (not your vulva). Life lessons…live and learn.

Here’s to good times and funny conversations. xoxoxo

Skipper

The Art of Vacation.

Being in law school after a few short years out of college has had some serious perks. First, I’d like to say that the wardrobe is a serious improvement. I can think of few instances in an average girl’s adult life when it is acceptable, and I dare say appropriate, to appear in public in t-shirts and baseball caps on a regular basis. Of course there is still “that guy” who insists on wearing a blazer to class every day, but I’d wager that is the grown-up equivalent of wearing a reindeer sweater to school in the sixth grade: social suicide (and seriously buddy, just quit trying because you’re never going to be cool and everyone knows you’re the dreaded “gunner” anyway).

A second delightful single-girl bonus has been the discovery that being a cougar (ok, some ladies prefer the term jaguar…) is much easier than expected. It’s remarkable to once again exist in a college town where high heels and a wink afford you all the free drinks or food you can consume (likely because somebody’s fifty-five year old daddy is still footing the bill, but hey, I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth). While I’m not one for commitment, I can’t help but appreciate (and sort of pity) these little puppies that fall at your feet and profess undying love (plus, you never know when you may need some man skills or use of a pick-up truck, and having such friends is awfully handy).

But the best perk of them all has been 3.5 weeks of absolute and utter laziness (Christmas vacation is a beautiful thing…). I had long since forgotten what it felt like to sleep in until 10:30 a.m. for nine consecutive days in a row. I must say that I’m looking my best, and beginning to consider an early retirement program that allows me book a small condo in a swanky retirement village in West Palm Beach exactly one month after law school graduation (hello, have you seen these places lately??). I’m pretty good at bingo and feel confident that I could be adept at bunko and morning water aerobics in a shockingly short amount of time. Plus, I have no problem admitting that both Buicks and Lincolns yield a remarkably comfortable ride for their passengers and I am looking forward to my first purchase of either of said vehicles.

My newfound free time has left me with the opportunity to reflect, center and get a jump start on next semester. Instead, I have chosen to reconnect with old college and post-college friends. I’m not ashamed to say that I’m pleasantly surprised to find that maturity is as slow a process amongst my friends as it is me, and the good times certainly continue. Stay tuned. xoxoxo

Skipper

Welcome to my new blog.

I’ve always been a hold out. I was the LAST to join the AOL instant messenger addiction, the LAST to sign onto facebook and the LAST to fully embrace text messaging (No, I don’t have a crackberry and HELL no my phone does not access the internet). I’m a purist. An intellectual. I refuse to stoop to each silly little fad.

Ok, so I’m really a remarkably lazy person who doesn’t know the first thing about technology and really hates trying to figure it out. I’m fairly sure my seventy-four year old grandmother has better computer skills than I do (and yes, I’m under the age of 30). Technologically challenged? Hands up.

Further, I’m old enough to remember when home computers were a novelty and our family decided to enhance my sister’s and my burgeoning educations by procuring this completely unnecessary and rather large device (and let me tell you, I am quite sure that any success I’ve accomplished in this life is a direct result of hundreds of hours navigating the Oregon trail on a black screen with green block letters). I wasn’t any better at operating that piece of junk than anything now, but neither could anyone else so I didn’t feel too badly about it at the time(that and I was five). Unfortunately, my skills have experienced a lack of progression in the past two decades (and you’re welcome for the exciting graphics that accompany my fine prose).

Thus, I’m going out on a limb (and risking my very sanity) for my dear friends who have begged, pleaded and promised their first born children and/or old boyfriends in return for a blog(no thanks to the first, I’ll have to get back to you on the latter). I’m convinced they could no longer live without my entertaining stories and commanding wit on a regular basis (or rather needed someone else to follow their already remarkably popular blogs). Either way, I’ve finally relented and am happy to oblige. Welcome to the fun.

Skipper