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Looking for a foolproof evening of intimacy with your new beau? May I suggest handcuffs and wine? This was the very theme of a party I attended on Saturday. The object of the night is to partner up with a fellow wino and finishing a bottle of your favorite varietal. The cuffs don’t come off until you’ve sipped the last drop. Kind of like Prison Break meets Blind Date.
This weekend I grabbed my Powerbook, some shorts and flip flops and my non-spf tanning lotion (sorry, Lauren) and headed to Tampa, Florida for some overdue R&R. Luckily, exactly one day after the British-American bomb scare, so I regretfully remove any anti-bacterial gel, lipstick, or H2O from my purse so the TSA posse doesn’t give me a vapor test, liquid pat down, or whatever else they do take preventative measures to keep us safe each day.
This past weekend I made my great escape from the New York madness. The destination was Nantucket via Cape Cod. When I arrived in “The Cape” I was greeted by white picket fences and quaint antique houses. The first thing I noted was how layed back everything was. I never heard a car horn, the speed limit is 25mph everywhere, and everyone says hello whether they knew you or not. I immediately was forced to switch into vacation mode but not before stopping at the liquor store. Day one was filled with “good ol’ fashioned fun”-sailing in the lake, badminton in the yard, and of course swimming at the beach even though the water was about 40 degrees. It only took three days for me to feel like I was betraying my New York roots and needed a night of naughty. When night fell we packed up the booze and headed for the beach. Not remembering the walk home or anything after, I felt like I had redeemed myself.
It’s official—I have been to the Hamptons. Sound the trumpets, start the parade. After living in New York for almost three years, I’ve somehow managed to sidestep that end of Long Island, a feat made even more unbelievable considering my job has me fairly familiar with what’s going on out there. (Come to think of it, being fairly familiar with what’s going on out there might actually be the reason I’ve never been.) But you have to crack at some point, so when a friend decided to have her bachelorette party in Bridgehampton, I figured a midsummer visit was finally in order.
Lucky for the mer-people, and unlucky for city-slickers in flip-flops, the parade initiating all-things summer was rung in by rainshowers on Sunday, 6/22.
After an hour on the D-train early in the am, I had not only gotten sober, but gotten to Coney Island. With four other C.I. virgins, we got a taste of what to expect as the “Fishtails from the Crypt” squad stepped off the subway with us and ran to get their place in the parade.
I’ll do anything - from hitchhiking, straphanging and jitneyjumping - to get outta town. Instigated by ’summer fridays’ and NYers’ competitive edge to one-up everyone else, we flock like the am rush on the staten island ferry - east by northeast to our 75degree-and-sunny mecca, to Long Island.
Before you roll your eyes at yet another raving review of some socialite’s bullshit Hampton’s party - keep it in your pants. I headed on a quaint trip to two unique locales on the search for a casual, intimate and glamouritesque hot spot. First stop, Shelter Island.
