The Daily Dump

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Tuesday, November 8

My Birthday Trip To Cape Cod, In Five Parts

It becomes apparent that The Girlfriend is bad with directions

We have directions printed out from the Bed and Breakfast’s website as well as a Google map printed out. We even have a map of the New York City area detailing how to get in and out of the city even though we’ve done this about seven times now.

Not to say that I’m bad with directions, because I’m not. I’ve driven all over the eastern seaboard from Maine to Key West. I’ve driven on the wrong side of the road in Scotland. I know how to get around. It’s just that for the past 6 years, I’ve mainly relied on an un underground railway system to get myself around, meaning that every time I sit behind the wheel of a car again it takes a little bit of getting used to before I’m ready to squeeze past people in the shoulder lane and make left hand turns from the right lane. Basically I’m concentrating on the road, relying on The Girlfriend to concentrate on the map.

Over the course of the drive there, the following phrases came were spoken by The Girlfriend:

“It doesn’t say where we have to catch Rt. 125. Wait . . . OK, yeah it does. I had to turn the page.”

“Oh sorry, I was looking at my nails. What road are we looking for?”

“You have to make a left up here (as she points to the right).”

When she asked me later on how she was as a navigator, I told her that she was the prettiest navigator I’d ever driven with.

The room makes me say bad words

We finally made it to the Captain Farris House late Friday night. It’s a very weird feeling staying in a bed and breakfast, because basically you’re walking into someone else’s home. They left a key for us in the basket outside the front door and we tip-toed inside half-expecting to see couples snuggling in front of a fire or drinking tea together and half-expecting to see my mother at the kitchen table in her nightgown saying, “You know you could have called to let me know you were going to be late!”

Thankfully, our room was separated from the main area of the house by a private staircase, so we at least felt like college kids living in our parent’s attic instead of high school kids who needed to whisper after 11:00. And the room . . . I mean, I’ve stayed in a lot of hotel rooms. I even stayed in a two story house in New Orleans once that was so big that, when the renter let my friends and I in the front door, we had to physically restrain each other from jumping up and down and screaming HOLY CRAP WE’RE GOING TO RUIN THIS PLACE, which we subsequently did. But that’s another story. The point is, this was probably the nicest room I’ve ever stayed in. If it had been a reality series, this segment would have sounded something like:

Host: “And here’s your bedroom!”

Me: “Holy [bleep]. Are you [bleeeep] kidding me?”

Host: “And your bathroom!”

Me: “Get the [bleep] out of here. This is [bleeeep] awesome!”

The bathroom was so big it had furniture in it:




































The bedroom had a fireplace in it:


















And they even had an original Winslow Homer hanging on the mantle!


















OK, maybe it wasn’t an original. But it looked convincing.

The only problem was that the bed, one of those four poster jobs with curtains (?), was quite squeaky. Now, I’m not one to go into specifics or anything, but let me just say that when we had sex that bed made a lot of noise. If you know what I mean.

“Take my car. Please.”

On Saturday, The Girlfriend and I took a drive to Hyannis (pronounced by The Girlfriend as “high anus”), which was the next town over, made famous for the Kennedy’s having a house the size of a Ford factory there.

We drive to the middle of what we figured was “the town” and parked on the street. We planned on simply walking around, getting some ice cream or coffee and talking about buying something for our friends and family (which we obviously didn’t intend on doing). There was some confusion, though, upon exiting the car due to the fact that it was 65 degrees out, but a Fall 65 degrees which means you have to wear a jacket and you have to sweat in your jacket. No other choice. Still, The Girlfriend spent a solid ten minutes deliberating on whether or not to wear her jacket, just a sweater, the jacket and the sweater, just a scarf, MY jacket, a sweater and a scarf, or MY scarf and her jacket. When it was all said and done we started walking down the street, enjoying the pleasant little town.

Flash forward to about and hour and a half later. We have walked to the edge of town and now walk back to the middle where we parked. As we approach the car, The Girlfriend notices something strange:

TG: “Why is our car door open?”


















Immediate horror. I mean immediate. Like a little pee came out horror.

We approach the car and look inside. We stare at each other in stunned silence. EVERYTHING is still there. We’re talking two cell phones, two jackets, an iPod and a copy of “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.” I just couldn’t believe it. I mean, that book is a CLASSIC. How no one could steal that is beyond me . . .

Somehow, The Girlfriend got away with leaving her car door open for an hour and a half in the middle of town. Here, I have to pause and pay my respects to the citizens of High Anus. In New York, the items in the car would have been stolen, the car would have been stolen, the thief would have culled our addresses from whatever materials were in the car and our apartments would be empty too. And our families would be in danger. Here . . . I just don’t get it. I imagine many people walked past the car, noticed the door open and simply kept on walking. The iPod was on THE FRONT SEAT. Taking it would have been akin to taking a sample cocktail weener from one of those kiosks at Costco. All you have to do is get over the shame; after that you just pick it up.

The Girlfriend thinks she’s Tiger Woods

That afternoon we played a round of miniature golf. Let’s just say that it didn’t go well. Part of my problem might have been that during play I became gay.










































But I praise my fortitude. A weak man would have given up when it came to this on hole number 8.


















But no, I persevered and followed that up with not one, but TWO holes in one










leading to this exchange:

Me: “I’m going to catch you on the back nine.”

TG: “Don’t say things like that to me. It’s mini golf. Jesus.”

But then it all fell apart on the 17th hole. Regardless of the “six stroke maximum” rule (TG: “We don’t play by those pussy rules.”) I shot an 8. Just fell apart. A mini-Mickelson. It was ugly.

Final score:

TG – 60
Me – 55

(I was the real winner though, because she paid for lunch.)

The Girlfriend has the bladder of a two year old, so we go shopping

Planning on making it home in record time, we leave Cape Cod around 10:30. Part of me truly believes we can be home by 2:00. This part of me dies in Connecticut when, caving to insistent pleading by The Girlfriend, I get off at the next exit so she could find a bathroom. It just so happens that this exit was home to an outlet mall, The Girlfriend’s only true weakness besides enchiladas and lattes. (I almost believe that she planned this in advance, and that her perceived inability to read a map and understand geography was all a ruse, a red herring meant to throw me off her master plan which was to give me a vacation for my birthday so she can stop at J. Crew and get discounted cashmere.)

The only problem with this (and the pit stop at a suburban Food Emporium to get a “healthy” lunch, and a package 8 rolls of Bounty for $4.00 because really how can you pass that up) is that our time of arrival back in New York was pushed closer to 4:00. And as it so happens, that was precisely when The Upper East side (my home) was overrun, quite literally, with the New York Marathon. Roads were blocked off, traffic was everywhere. At one point, I almost lost it when a car in front of me with Jersey license plates takes about half an hour to make a simple right hand turn, meaning that I catch the red light AGAIN. THEN, when the light turns green again and I attempt to make the right hand turn, a police officer waves me forward saying that the road was closed, leading to this heated exchange:

Officer: (through rolled down passenger window) “Road’s closed. Have to go straight.”

Me: (across The Girlfriend) “BUT I HAVE TO GET TO MY HOME.”

Officer: “Can’t go this way.”

Me: “BUT THAT’S THE WAY TO MY HOME. HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO GET TO MY HOME?”

This was a complete lie. I live on 78th Street and was trying to turn onto 96th Street. I just really wanted to make that turn.

In the end, we got the rental car returned with 8 minutes to spare. As is common with New York City, it has a way of making you feel like you never even left as soon as you get back. I won’t offer an opinion on whether or not that’s a good thing. Some people like the comfort of home, some people prefer the oblivion of getting away. But I will say this: 26 was a great, great birthday. I’m a lucky guy.

And I can’t fucking believe no one stole our car.

27 Comments:

"Not to say that I’m bad with directions, because I’m not."

This coming from the guy who drove around Long Island during his teenage years with a Hagstrom in the back of the car cause he couldn't remember which roads went north/south and which went east/west. And then proceeded to get lost one night coming home because, and I quote, "I was in Nassau, and I didn't have a map for Nassau..."

By Blogger Belligerent Sister, at 3:21 PM  

Phone call, random Friday night, Dan's teenage years:

"Shit,mom, I got on to the Sunken Meadow instead of Southern State."

Again.

By Blogger belligerent mother, at 3:36 PM  

I can't let this pass without pointing out the picture of your ass with a caption that contains the words "TWO holes in one."

Sorry, my mind has now successfully been retrieved from the gutter.

By Blogger Hope, at 3:51 PM  

Great pics. I can't believe nothing happened to your car-- that's really lucky.

Oh, and "Taking it would have been akin to taking a sample cocktail weener from one of those kiosks at Costco. All you have to do is get over the shame; after that you just pick it up." = classic.

By Blogger mysterygirl!, at 4:00 PM  

The caption is for the picture below it, bot the one above it. Although I understand that, at this point, there is no use trying to point that out.

And I wasn't lost. I was actaully making out with my girlfriend in the back seat of the car. So HA! (Except that second time I was driving along the North Shore. I was sure I would be murdered that night.)

By Blogger the belligerent intellectual, at 4:00 PM  

1. I have a friend who every time she said right she meant left and every time she meant left she couldn't articulate the word in time to make the turn. She and your girlfriend should never be in the car together.

2. I like how the fine citizens of Hyannis Port didn't close your door for you, like they assumed you meant to leave it open. Obviously, they didn't see the need to close it because they couldn't fathom why someone would take something from a car that didn't belong to them. Obviously, Hyannis is a nice place to visit, but it's too boring to live there.

3. I have those shoes (Banana Republic 2002), so you indeed did become gay on the golf course.

By Blogger RetroDragon, at 4:11 PM  

How could've T.G. beat you at golf with a higher score?

Did "turning gay" also make you forget that in golf you win by have the LOWEST score?

By Blogger tall 1, at 4:25 PM  

alright...I love this post and this blog. "The girlfriend" leaving the door open had me in tears. Classic.

Cheers!

By Anonymous Christie, at 5:00 PM  

Dude, Cape Cod is amazing like that. I've gone up for at least a week every summer of my life, although I can't say I've ever left my car door open for an hour and a half on Main Street in Hyannis. That's awesome.

I've played my share of mini golf up in the Cape, but I can't tell what course you're at. God help you if you played Lightning Falls, the only mini golf course I've ever seen that has multiple par 4s.

By Anonymous Larry, at 5:18 PM  

MY score was 55, HIS was 60. And don't think I don't have at least 5 close-up photos of the score card to prove it.

AND DAN WILL YOU PLEASE EASE UP ON THE STORIES THAT MAKE ME SOUND LIKE AN IDIOT? I'm smart, people, really smart. I was Valedictorian of my high school class and I beat Dan at scrabble regularly. I also belong to Mensa and attend long and highly complicated educational lectures for pleasure. Well, not the last two.

By Blogger T.G., at 5:27 PM  

Sounds like a great time. You're lucky the car wasn't taken with the cell phones, ipod and book left as a cruel joke.

Happy Birthday.

By Blogger Momentary Academic, at 6:51 PM  

hahaha! The picture with TG and the open cardoor is high-larious.

By Blogger Lizzie, at 9:24 PM  

i am flabbergasted that the car stood... untouched.. if those bastards were REALLY nice they would have closed your car door

By Blogger Fidget, at 9:44 PM  

Pure genius...Reminds me of the time The Artful Dodger left his car keys in the door of his Cadillac in Nashville on our move across the country. Not as bad? worse...ALL OUR BELONGINGS WERE IN THE CAR! Luckily Im pretty sure it's a historic fact that many of the original inhabitants of Hyannis Port moved south back in the early 1900s to raise families in Nashville.

By Blogger My Novelty Organ, at 9:47 PM  

My gay friends love the photos you've posted here.

By Blogger citizen, at 12:19 AM  

I've met T.G. and she ain't that smart. But, in her defense, she does smell like tuna.

By Blogger [Disgrundled], at 7:51 AM  

That was fucking hysterical.

People tend to be nice in the cape. We leave our doors unlocked on both the car and the house.

Oh and I really can't make fun of TG, because I'm the idiot who sits in the car with her pointer and thumb out trying to figure out which hand makes the 'L' for left.

By Blogger Heather B., at 9:34 AM  

My mother is one of those nuts that can give directions from anywhere, even if she's never been there. I once got lost in Wilmington, DE and the advice I got was, "Turn left at Rosewood. Follow that 3.2 miles until you see a green house with red shutters. Turn right. Go 3/4 of a mile. You'll see an alley on your left that looks like a deadend. It's not. Take that. You'll find the secret entrance to I-95 on the other side." And I'll be damned... She was right.

By Blogger green_canary, at 2:11 PM  

TG your high school had six kids in it and three of the six most likely crawled out of the woods of Maine looking for a hot meal.
And let us recall that while driving across country I parked in Nashville in an open lot with no other cars around and left the keys in the door. A PACKED caddilac coup de ville with everything Matt and I held dear. KEYS IN THE DOOR FOR THREE HOURS

By Blogger de Kooning's Spleen, at 3:15 PM  

Why are you bragging?

By Blogger the belligerent intellectual, at 3:22 PM  

Not bragging, just relaying a great blunder. We could take it deeper, and discuss the true beauty of human nature?

By Blogger de Kooning's Spleen, at 3:41 PM  

Dear Dan,

I hate your friends.

Love,
TG

By Blogger T.G., at 3:53 PM  

green_canary - is your mother autistic?

Love TG - High Anus is exactly how I read it.

By Blogger Kate, at 8:16 PM  

Once i left the front door to my flat in Brooklyn open all day...

All day... street level.


OK, this was Brooklyn, Wellington, New Zealand. ;)

But man - that was silly of me.
The car had been broken into parked on the drive outside it within the same 3 months.

By Blogger Kate, at 8:08 PM  

teehee. High Anus. sorry, that makes me laugh. is High Anus like some sort of bizzaro-perfect town? that's so incredible that nothing from the car got stolen!

By Blogger Sub Girl, at 10:32 AM  

y'know, not all funny guys are attractive (read: conan, jerry, jon stewart). congrats on defying the stereotype ;)

don't worry, TG.

By Blogger VespaRosso, at 11:41 AM  

I laughed SO hard reading this!! (bleeeeep) excellent man. No one stole your car or your stuff... you sure you weren't in Canada?

By Blogger clothosfate, at 12:17 PM  

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