It feels like I was downing watermelon tequila cocktails and hating myself for eating too much farro salad just yesterday, but iCal tells me that Labor Day weekend was approximately seventeen days ago, so September is flying by and life is apparently going to end before you know it.
Whenever I usually head to the land of people who can wear white dresses without spilling on them, I rotate between pretending to spend time outdoors and sitting indoors, boozing to the point that my rings no longer fit and the odds of me actually putting on a bathing suit diminish to "only at night time, only in a hot tub." But, not this time! For my boyfriend's birfday, we made a serious go of it.
Well, a sorta serious go of it.
These are the shoes they have for sale at the beach store? The rational part of my brain is completely eclipsed by the fact that those tiny floral Tabitha Simmons sandals were half off and sorta-kinda-barely-if-i-never-shop-again affordable, but still.
Hey look, I'm Pacey! You know, if Pacey sat on a gorgeous sailboat as part of a parental birthday surprise drinking white wine and sneaking peanuts while people who understand their way around ropes and have upper body strength saved us from capsizing for two full hours. I'm no expert on the matter, clearly, but I'm quite sure that anyone who mans a sailboat and has a British accent is probably the person you want to call on if stranded Cast Away-style forever and a day. I'd talk about the dinner we had while in the vicinity of an instillation of pictures of Damien Hirst's best work, but I think Sir Benjamin summed the evening up perfectly with this little caption, and not just because we're the two palest people roaming this planet besides Anne Hathaway and that zombie-skinned vampire from Twilight.
All I knew about Montauk is that there are nail polish colors named after it, so you can imagine how super stoked I was to visit Ruschmeyers, AKA the woodsy-by-way-of-Manhattan, overnight-camp-inspired site of Pamela Love's wedding (!!). The place has outdoor games and swings (as is burned into your brain from before, I hope) and some insane cocktails, but also a side of, yup: doucheapalooza. I was forewarned by our pals about how the shitshow factor increases when the clock strikes 7pm like Cinderella returning to pumpkin cars and the ranks of the 47%, but yeeeeesh. We got such soul-crushing dirty looks in the beachy section for unknown reasons earlier in the night that even the four of our noggins (and multiple outsourced others) put together could not determine what went wrong. It wasn't a private party, none of us are painfully ugly and we weren't making an obnoxious raucous, so the jury and straw polls are still out. The way I see it, if I'm wearing Spanx, a dress I couldn't have afforded at full price and actually put four kinds of goop into my hair but still got glared at, I can't really do much better. Enjoy sucking out my soul Deatheater-style, guys, because I really got nothin' else up my sleeve.
Besides the weekend evening crowd, the place is what cocktail menu wishes and cabin dreams are made of, and not just because a surprise Rachel Zoe + Rog citing caused my friend Kelly to burst into the bathroom shouting "CARLYE, RACHEL ZOE IS HERE", forever solidifying herself into the shortlist of people who truly understand me in life. We bolted to eat a pile of fried calamari salad (or as I call it, irony on a plate) and other obscenely portioned plates at family-style food heaven Harvest 'til we inadvertently shut down the place, and fell belly-first into a cab to high-tail it home. Montauk, conquered.
Dragged my boyfriend to a spinning class on his birthday and proceeded to eat his ice cream cake immediately after, because that's what good girlfriends do, right? I feel like the longer I have Lululemon pants on, the worse of a suburban-mom-to-be I become. Quick, someone come shake me for ten minutes to burn all the fat off without me having to go anywhere or put on black spandex.
Can't leave without filling my body with as much produce and seafood as possible like it's a duffel full of cuban cigars being snuck back into the country, so obviously, one last trip had to be taken to the nearby farmer's market (whose corner of GMO-pumped apples were incredibly suspect) as well as The (brilliant and wonderful) Seafood Shop. Because where else can you get order a box full o' fish that's actually called this?
Yep. A Bubby Platter. Future Jewish Grammies of America, consider this my application.
'Til nExT sUmMeR, ya hooligans!