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.
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.