Three Books. One Shame.

As I mentioned on Monday, I managed to coast through three books in the past couple weeks.  Two of which I flew through, the other one that took me ages and ages, partly because I kept reading other things because I didn't want it to end.

(turns out kindles make for bad blog photos, that kindle screen says How We Do Harm: A Doctor Breaks Rank About Being Sick in America).

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay takes some patience at the beginning. You have to want it. Keep reading and you will be eternally grateful for the opportunity to go on this journey and you will be sad.

How We Do Harm confirms the fact that everything in America is the worst particularly in terms of Healthcare. Not only are we being scammed by health insurance companies and pharmaceutical companies, but also apparently doctors. So that's a new thing to be worried about.

A Long Way Gone has been on our bookshelf for years and I finally opened it and then read it in about three days. If you're looking a direct punch to the gut and some real rude perspective, give this guy a whirl. Yikes. You will be #firstworldprobz-all over the place.

So after three brutally emotional sadbadnot-glad books in a row I needed a palate cleanser and luckily there was one on the shelf.

Guys, first things first - this book is terrible.

You know how you have that friend who name drops like, as much as humanly possible (note: I might be that friend sometimes. I am working on it)? This book is just "how many Nantucket-y things can I mention on one page?" I love it but I hate that I love it.

Also, its got that Dan Brown device where you feel like a genius because you solve everything fifteen pages before the characters do. How does someone write people that stupid?

And it is Salacious. What you may not know about me is that I a giant blushing prude. All kissing makes me uncomfortable anything more scandalous and I am sure that everyone on the train knows that people are totally naked in this book. I just want to die.

It's gotten away from the "Reginald's quivering member" themes and now is just absurdest mystery. But, I can't stop. I will read this whole book and then if someone wants to get boozey with me and talk about the overarching themes and Elin Hilderbrand's place in the cannon of post-modern feminist literature, I am in.

Sometimes after a flavorful, huge, delicious meal you just want some month-old Easter candy.

TYOE: 24 Hours in Nantucket

The human body really needs five days on Nantucket a year to function at its highest level. This year I only got four, and two of them were rainy - so I'm pretty much going to be draggin' ass for the next 12 months. Sorry Universe.

Back when I was a barefooted, dirty kid running rampant on the streets of Siasconset in search of a snickers bar before 9 a.m. there were rules about who came to Nantucket. Namely - you came with your family. End of rules. But recently the rules have been changed. I think because I'm getting to the age where I should be bringing the next generation of the family line buuuuut, instead I'm bringing my 20-something friends.

It's cool, Granny would much rather have drunken young professionals than great-grandchildren sleeping in her house. Everyone knows that.

Not everyone recognizes the five day rule, so I've managed to come up with the perfect 24 hours in Nantucket. When I am talking perfect, I am talking both controlable and non-controlable elements. Sometimes it rains. You will not have the perfect day - but you also probably won't get sand in your bathing suit. There is always a silver lining.

Here's how you do it right.

Get off the boat. Make sure your dumb friends who are meeting you don't drink too much the night before and forget how time works because the best thing about arriving on Nantucket is being waved at when the ferry is docking.

Eat some breakfast. I recommend Black-Eyed Susan's. If your human form does not allow for 45 minute waits for breakfast, I recommend Queequegs. If you're one of those "I'll just have coffee," people, head to The Bean.

Look at things in town. Some things you can look at include: stores, people, restaurant menus, fancy boats, water, bicyclists failing at cobblestones, fancy houses, the Brant Point light house, rich kids trying to sell you lemonade, aaaand all the crap in the Hospital Thrift Shop.

Get your Provisions sandwich. I don't recommend getting anything that is going to be made gross by spending a few hours in your backpack. Don't get the lobster roll. You will be the saddest.

Be up at the Visitor Center by 11:30 am so you can get that first shuttle to the brewery. If island boozing is not your thing than you can hike to Alter Rock with the rest of the 9 year olds. The Brewery is a great place to get boozy but its also just an awesme place to sit and eat a sandwich. I'm sure they have juice. Rainy day alternatives: read a book, the Whaling Museum, ice skating, taking an all-day nap.

Cisco Brewers has gotten a little high falutin' recently. But if you get there around noon, you should miss most of that. Enjoy as much brewery as you like and then take the most BOGUS EXPENSIVE CAB RIDE OF ALL TIME from the brewery to Cisco Beach. Cabs on Nantucket are proof that nothing can ever really be perfect.

$20 of bullshit later, sit on the beach, play in the ocean, take the always delightful beach nap.  Maybe you brought yourself a six pack, because you're a genius planner. Maybe you're trying to sober up a little bit because you're not 22 anymore. Whatever it is - have some perfect beach time.

Also, get in the Atlantic. It's cold, but so is your mom. Do it.

Then, get yourself back to 'Sconset. If you're super lucky, you have an amazing family who will drop everything to squire your friends around the island. If you don't have this, take anothe bogus cab ride. Sit in the back of that cab and think about capitalism.

If you're feeling like you need a Nantucket history lesson, take Polpis Road and peep Sankety light house. Make sure someone tells you about it.

Change yo' clothes (a day on Nantucket requires three outfits or you're not doing it right). Get boozy on the porch. Peep the ocean. Feel real rich. Ignore the mold. Tolerate Granecdotes* because they are the reason for the season.

Head back into town for dinner. The options change from year to year, but you cannot go wrong with Slip 14, 12 degrees East, Straight Wharf, or Cru. If you're a baller shotcaller - head to Boarding House, The Lobster Trap, or Company of the Caldron. And if you're on a budget - The Tavern, Sea Dog Brew Pub, or The Brotherhood of Thieves will feed you.

And now its time to wander around the town of Nantucket at night, stopping in bars (I'm not going to list them all, throw a stone and you'll eventually run into somewhere to serve you booze), stumbling over cobblestones, taking a trek down to Children's Beach to put your drunk toes in the water.

When you've had quite enough to drink, you finish the night with ice cream (from the Juice Bar - get a waffle cone, or you're a terrorist, btw) or pizza (from Steamboat Wharf Pizza) or both (if you're awesome). Get in one more dumb cab and stumble up the step stairs of your fishing shack. Pass out.

Wake up for a stroll to the 'Sconset Market for a pastry and a cup of coffee. Make sure you bring extra pastries for your hostess and whomever has been helping you out. No one doesn't like a 'Sconset Market blueberry muffin.

Eat breakfast on the porch. Enjoy all the people walking by who are jealous, both of your house and your pastry. Instruct them that the beach is to the right and the bluff walk is to the left.

Head back into town one last time. If you have some free minutes, you can spend them climbing the stairs of the First Congregational Church, picking up some Portugese bread from The Nantucket Bake Shop (I've already discussed my stance on this matter), get a Henry Jr's sandwich for the ride home (get it on the homemade roll, vacation is not the time or the place for whole wheat bread).

Get on the boat. Realize that you should have spent way more time on Nantucket because there was so much you didn't do! You didn't go see the airport from Wings, or rent bikes, or go to Madaket Millies for scallop quesadillas. LUCKILY, you're with a seasoned veteran, who will hand you a penny and instruct you to throw it into the harbor, just as the ferry rounds the Brant Point Lighthouse - and then you'll get to come back.

*Granecdotes are the new terminology for the amazingly hilarious, occasionally offensive, totally bizarre things that my Granny says and does. I love her so much, and without her house these 24 trips would not be possible, but she is legit old-lady-crazy.

For what it's worth.

We race through Logan Airport.

We trip old folks that walk too slow.

(we hastily apologize to said old folks)

We work two back-to-back 12 hour days without complaint.

We pack until 1:00 and then get up at 5:00 and race the sun to Midway.

We get on flying death tubes, and irrationally cold buses.

We eat questionable sandwiches and ration warm, stale water like we're stranded in the Sahara.

(the second bit wouldn't be as necessary if someone could manage to remember her water bottle. whoops).

We do whatever it takes, and it has never not been worth it.

I'm coming for you 02564. 

island life.

It smells like burnt toast.

And mildew.

It doesn't have enough "things to do."

(as if you would want more to do than sit around and read a book).

It's full of cars.

And jerks in silly clothes.

But its my favorite. Favorite. Favorite. 

Pictured:

1. The boat at Something Natural. Docked in the correct spot for a midday cookie.
2. The window of the chapel in 'Sconset with mandatory hydrangea.
3. Sailboats.
4. A Provisions sandwich and a Nantucket Vineyards cranberry sangria. Perfect after a 3 mile walk.
5. The harbor from the ferry. Its a crime to leave when the sky is this blue.

light my way

We finally finished doing battle with our insurance company after the break in so it was time to compile the list of all the things that got swipped (Like a Good Neighbor, State Farm will screw up your life, not return your phone calls and hire morons in their local offices).

This was hilarious for all the reasons that any interaction in my house is hilarious.  Boyfriend is super efficient and thorough - and I am a freaking space cadet.  I made my list from memory (duh, but Boyfriend also had receipts and whatnot to help prompt his memory) - which meant that there was no order or thought put into it.  For goodness sake - the list started as an MacBook sticky note, before Boyfriend made me transfer it to an excel spreadsheet.  To be fair - his list was all electronics, which can be easily found on the internet and cross referenced.  It is nearly impossible to describe most jewelry (apparently), making it even more impossible to find it using a basic google search.

So I did what I could and gave the list to him to work with.  Then this conversation happened:

"You put lightship basket earrings on your list twice."
"Yeah.  I had two pairs."
silence.
"Okay..."

I did.  I had two pairs of lightship basket earrings.  Because what my Grandmother lacks in creativity, she makes up for in her giving spirit.  Two pairs - one that just sits on your ears (from my google searching I believe these are called "post") and one that has a post backing but like hangs down (so I have dubbed, "dangling").  Two pairs of earrings that were, sorry Granny, almost identical and now I don't have either.

It's strange.  I didn't think I'd miss them.  They were cute, but completely absurd and made me feel a little pretentious, mostly because when people would ask, "are those earrings baskets?" I would have to explain that they were actually Lightship baskets which were a thing from Nantucket which is a place that is kind of a big deal where lightship baskets were kind of a big deal which I guess, begrudgingly makes Me a big deal..."

Why I have to explain this, I am not quite sure.

Anyway, on Monday night I wore my Lightship basket necklace for the first time in (possibly) ever.  It was silly, but reminded me of my Grandmother and her island and her stupid, stupid addiction to these ridiculous things.

In Review

I had this dream that I would write 100 blogs this year.  Once every 3 or 4 days seemed like an obtainable goal.  But no dice.  I did write more this year than any year before - which feels like progress.

I want to write more.  That's a good thing to think of for 2011.

I have been thinking a lot about 2010 this morning (in the 20 minutes since I woke up) and I have come to the realization that this may have been the hardest year yet.  While all years have had their obstacles, it seems like 2010 was the first that really put me through the ringer.  But here's the thing - I don't want to dwell on the hard and the crappy and the sad - I want to focus on the wonderful and amazing:

I got to go to Hawaii.

And Italy.

And Paris.

And Nantucket.

 

AND New York.

My baby siblings both got it done - graduation wise.  My lovely T-bone got engaged. My dad got married. I re-met wonderful, local family.  It goes on and on.

And now I will clean my house in preparation for a few lovely people to come celebrate.

In 2011 I would like to:
-revisit the whole gym 5 times a week thing (I am hoping I can join a gym closer to where I live to make this much easier)
-write more  - a blog post every 3 days should be easy...
-read more - a book every two weeks.  With reviews on this blog!  Huzzah!

Happy New Year.

Thoughts on Nantucket. Part 3 - Clothing

I'm not quite sure why its acceptable to dress like a pansy-ass douche waffle on Nantucket...but it is.

My normal apparel is only a microscopic step above hobo's pajamas. I wear the same jeans for weeks on end, and have piles of "casual tee-shirts" and "fancy tee-shirts" in my dresser. I only wear dresses when I feel morally obligated (read: someone is about to spend a lot of money to feed/entertain me).

But for some reason when I get to Nantucket I feel the need to look Good. Not necessarily fancy - but like I put some legitimate thought into my wardrobe. Naturally, because I am an idiot - to me, "thought" means "things with labels that make them sound expensive." So I mostly wear the eight or so pieces of "designer" clothes I own and then wear them again...because its a small island, but not that small, no one will notice.

Here's the thing, even if some one does notice I am wearing the same Ralph Lauren (outlet) dress I wore on Wednesday, I can tell them they look like a clown, because chances are? they totally do.

Seriously - if you told a normal, self-respecting grown up that they could spend $150 on a pair of pants. But not just ANY pants. Seersucker pants. But not just ANY seersucker pants. Seersucker pants with Lobsters on them. My hope is that grown-up would punch you in the jaw and spend their money on something more respectable like some cupcakes or a laser disc player.

But when you google "seersucker lobster pants" the FIRST link that pops up is for Murray's Toggery. THE clothing store of Nantucket. Hand to God. (pic from The Complex) Murray's also happens to be the original home of the Nantucket Reds (go home J. Crew, you bunch of posers).

Nantucket Reds is super exclusive - by which I mean, ever man (and most ladies) on the island owns a pair. And I'm just curious...has no one gone up to even one of them and said, "Did you know you are wearing pink pants?"

Seriously, I am not saying that there is anything wrong with pink pants, but I feel like many of these SUV-driving homophobes might have some issues if someone called their pants pink.

But? They are. (Thanks, Boston Not Common for the pic).

And even though it sounds like I am making fun of these clothes (which I kind of am) - I too find them all totally acceptable on Nantucket and I don't know why. I see men in Reds in New York (or worse, Chicago) and I laugh silently and shun them. There is a place for these things (see also - madras anything, and those quilted slipper things that old ladies wear out in public - even though they are obviously slippers) and that place is on Nantucket.

Do I occasionally lust for a Nantucket Red tastefully short skirt? Do I spend more time than is really necessary in the Lilly Pulitzer store? Am I damn proud of my Vineyard Vines bag? Of Course.

Would I ever buy any of these things full price? Never... I'm not quite that Nantucket. Also, its a slippery slope before you start looking like a clown.

Thoughts on Nantucket - Part 2 - Bread

These thoughts are taking much longer than I wanted. Work is taking up far too much of my blogging time.

Food on Nantucket is obviously delicious, because, for some reason, all food tastes better on vacation. And on Nantucket my family is blessed to have unlimited opportunities to eat on the front porch of Granny's house. The front porch overlooks the Atlantic ocean and is right on a public walkway - its basically an opportunity to make complete strangers incredibly jealous (my favorite kind of opportunity).

Anyway - the BEST part of Nantucket is eating your breakfast on the porch. Preferably after 10 AM to get the full hedonistic feeling.

When you are a kid - Nantucket is the only place your mom lets you eat sugary cereal. So you spend HOURS in the cereal aisle at the Safeway trying to find the best/worst most sugary disgusting you can find. This is not an easy task, until you're 12 and too cool to look and just get Reese's Puffs and Cinnamon Toast Crunch (which were always the best anyway). And that's what you eat.

Once you get to be a grown up - the only really acceptable breakfast is portuguese bread toasted with your choice of toppings. You can add fruit if you like, or juice or a cup of coffee - but the toast is the most important part. There are people in the world who think that portuguese bread tastes just like regular bread. They are obviously idiots who do not understand the finer things in life.

Again with the either or - there is Something Natural's portuguese bread and then there is Bake Shop portuguese bread. And you have a favorite. If you know what you're doing you have a favorite. Sure, you'll suffer through the other bakery if you absolutely must, but if someone really loved you - they'd have your preferred bread at the house.

And this is the kind of thing that can divide families. Example - Granny is a Something Natural kind of lady. Mom is a Bake Shop gal as am I. This makes things complicated - when I go with Mom, I am assured to have Bake Shop bread because apparently once you get to a certain age (mid-30's?) you can demand bakery products. At my young age - I am at the mercy of the matriarch of the house. But I suffer quietly.

Naturally toast is totally different from other bread needs - I would eat either as the outer perimeters of a sandwich. And they both have their bonus points. Bake Shop - Short bread cookies. They come in these huge squares and you break them off. Oh man... perfect boat food. Something Natural - oatmeal biscuits. Don't question it. Just accept it.

The fact that there is an epic battle over who makes the best bread is (of course) ridiculous. But, I think thats part of the fun. As if all you have to worry about when you're there is if you have the right brand of bread.

Also if you're out of Reese's Puff cereal. That is the kind of catastrophe from which the only escape is a trip to the dreaded Stop and Shop.

Thoughts on Nantucket. Part 1 - Transportation

So I am on Nantucket for a woefully brief time this Summer, and I've been looking at it with a more critical eye. Not for any particular reason, but just to help me understand the Why of "Why I love it so much."

First off, for my first thought - let me start with I had very romantic ideas about posting one of these a day for the 5 days that I was here, but then I remembered I am on vacation, and that just seemed a lot like work to me. So I have just been brain writing this week and I'm hoping to get them all out and in the world by sometime next week.

What I've discovered about Nantucket is it is an island of paradoxes, of "this or that's" of "what kind of people are you?" It permeates every part of your stay. For most people who only go once or twice - it probably doesn't register, but once you can no longer count the visits on both hands you realize just how picky/a jerk you are.

Getting to Nantucket is no easy feat. That's the problem with an island 30 miles out in the Atlantic.

When I was a kid, and when my Mom was a kid (which is as far back as this train goes) we were slow boat ferry people. It is about an eight hour drive from the D.C. area to Hyannis and depending on a variety of factors (age of children, boat reservation, traffic, sanity etc) this drive can take one to two days. If you're on the two-day side of things, then you stay in a hotel in Hyannis. Its almost always a Days Inn, and on very rare occasions it has a pool. Sometimes your bike gets stolen. Every now and then you get a cheeseburger or a doughnut.

We are Steamship Authority people. This used to be the only game in town, but then the Hyline showed up with its fancy seats from this decade and its speediness, but my family are staunch supporters of the Steamship Authority. When we were kids, and my Great-Grandmother was alive, we used to take our car over, because otherwise we would be stranded, but even once we stopped driving and walked on the boat - the first choice was the slow boat from the Steamship Authority.

The slow boat takes at least two hours (if not 2 and a half?) depending on the weather its a bumpy and monotonous ride, but it is the beginning of vacation. In fact, I've already waxed poetic about it.

Occasionally the fast boat becomes a necessity and it is fancy pants...but not the same.

Since moving out to Chicago, my only realistic option has been to fly over (normally on JetBlue - which I have a very tumultuous relationship with - because its almost affordable). This has been, for the most part, incredibly stressful what with tornadoes in Brooklyn, lost pilots and (of course) fog. Fog makes flying into Nantucket the most inexact annoying science every and leaves me longing for the days when I could get there by boat - as it should be.

heckled

On Wednesday I was at Clark and Lake waiting for the Red Line.

I was in a GREAT mood. I had had a great morning of writing, I was wearing new pants and I was about to experience the German/Gym Wheel for the first time.

As I walked down the platform, I noticed a performer with a guitar, a harmonica and a Nantucket Sweatshirt.

Nothing puts a big, dumb smile on my face than a Nantucket sweatshirt. So I decided to get my camera phone out and attempt to subtly take a picture of this guy to add to my gallery of ridiculous camera phone photography.

I put my bookbag down on a bench and open the front pocket to find my phone, while my hand was in the bag I discovered that my ipod headphones cord was all tangled so I pulled it out to untangle the cord before it became a bigger disaster.

"Excuse me Miss. Do you have every song ever made on that CD?"

I hear the voice and make out what its saying but ignore it, because there is no way that that person is talking to me, and if they are, I have no interest in answering (particularly these days, because now that I'm not man hunting 24/7 I'm not even checking to see if random-talking-stranger is cute).

"Excuse me. Miss. Excuse me. Miss. Miss."

When the repetition starts everyone knows its time to answer, because otherwise there is a very good chance you might end up on the business end of the C-word and/or a punch to the face.

I look up and the street performer guy makes direct eye contact with me.

"Hey. You have every song ever written on that CD player?"

I am not quite sure what he's talking about as the only CD player I currently own is attached to the computer hidden in my backpack and if he has x-ray vision and that's what he's asking then the world is probably minutes from ending anyway, so no reason to lie.

"Um no?"

"How do you know you don't like my music if you've never heard it. Unless you're listening to every song ever made."

And now I get it.

He is insinuating that I was getting my ipod out so I could listen to my music instead of what he was going to play. And that that was incredibly rude and presumptuous of me to assume that my music was better unless I was listening to ever song ever written/played/made. Also, that I was carrying a CD player because it is obviously 1998.

At this point people have noticed. It was noon, but I was downtown, so there were enough people on the platform and we were standing far enough apart that people could hear him and realize that he was talking to me.

And so now I am embarrassed because at the beginning of this wait-for-the-train I totally liked this guy and how we shared a penchant for souvenir sweatshirts from WASP-y resort-esque islands and now I'm being lectured like a five year old who won't stop touching his junk.

At this point I zip up my bag and go back to ignoring the guy as he continues to mumble. My face is flaming red. I have untangled my ipod headphones cord at this point and put the buds in my ear listening to whatever song comes on first.


The rest of the day continues in the same ilk, with a rip in the new pants, forgetting my leftovers dinner at home and dealing with more idiots...

I'm sorry, what sort of street performer has the balls/insecurity to yell at people for not listening to him even BEFORE they have their headphones actually in?

And the moral of the story is...

*I posted this over on livejournal, but then realized its much more fun and less dreary than my last post, so it's going here too.

A moment can't be an actual moment unless some sort of learning happens. So as I sit surrounded by mounds and mounds of crap I apparently own, fending off the worst hangover ever (damn you tgi fridays), and refusing to be actually productive I give you some of the potential morals that came out of this summer:


Remember how fucking fabulous you are or no one else will.

Drinking tequila out of a water glass will probably cause you to make bad choices that'll make you feel really, really good.

Never believe the hype, particularly in regards to attractive guys, after parties, or $60 shirts.

A guy who thinks he dresses better, is probably a total fucking douche bag.

Wearing heels on cobblestones everyday does not make you a better person, infact, it makes you kind of stupid (Hello! They're cobblestones, why put your ankles through that?).

There is nothing wrong with hating someone for not being able to tell a story well.

There isn't anything wrong with getting up and walking out of the room in the middle of the never ending sucky story either.

Good friends take your keys, your cellphone and you out to lunch the day after they've put your drunk ass to bed.

Great friends don't make fun of you the next morning...after anything, except for maybe when you started throwing french fries.

The best friends don't judge even when you total deserve judgement.

Nice guys are probably actually only nice guys, like, 56% of the time. The rest of the time they're just as sucky as all the other ones who wear their suckiness on their sleeves.

A good night's sleep is probably better than whatever you're doing that keeps you up until 5:30 in the morning...probably...

Drunk text messaging is always a bad idea, even when it seems like a great idea.

Pinching people's butts to get their attention in the middle of a crowd works all the time.

Girls are funny, probably funnier than boys, its just that no one gives them a flippin' chance.

Wearing a captain's hat at a bar full of drunk, horny people will probably get you laid.

Being a girl in a bar full of drunk, horny people will probably get you laid.

Family can bond over anything, but hot doctors on TV are always the best bet.

A shot of Dr. McGillacudys (I'm not gonna pretend to know how to spell that) will never taste as good as you think it will. It will always taste like a shot of Aquafresh toothpaste....but you will do it anyway.

Wearing raggedy underwear when you go out increases the chances that someone will see them by about 40%.

Life is normally better after two or three Life is Goods.

Faraway friends are always the best for a little perspective.

There is nothing wrong with a redheaded slut. Or six for that matter.

An 'I hate penises' night every few months will do a girl some serious good.

If you throw a girl in a puddle, you will have to make out with her.

A little longer...

So I've had this old camp song running through my head the past few days. We always sang it at the last camp fire of the week and it always made me cry. I don't remember much of it but I remember the chorus:

Mmm-hmm I want to linger
Mmm-hmm A little longer
Mmm-hmm A little longer here with you

Mmm-hmm-hmm-hmmm

It's such a perfect night
Mmm-hmm It doesn't seem quite right
Mmm-hmm That it should be my last with you

Mmm-hmm-hmm-hmm



Its better when its actually sung, and even then there isn't much too it, but its kind of how I'm feeling. How I felt last night and this morning and now, as I sit in Logan Airport utilizing their very expensive wireless trying to figure out where my summer went.

It wasn't the most amazing summer, it wasn't everything I let myself dream it would be, but it was my summer. It helped me discover who I am and what I want and it got me ready for that big, scary world I'm heading out into.

The last month has been so strange. Ever since I came back from my brief sojurn to Maryland, everything has been slightly skewed and twisted and left me missing all the beautiful people I had been so anxious to leave to get back to my island paradise.

I've spent the last 30 days counting down to this moment and now that its here I realize that I didn't make the most of it when I had it. I should have said things, done things, spent less time in bed, spent less time in bars, made more bad choices, made more good choices, and really just experienced and embraced the time I was given instead of fighting it.

The fourteen days have lingered, perfumed with confusion and yelling and tears and (what else?) bad choices. They've just sat there, in bars, with half empty coronas and flip flops with long sleeved shirts.

Then last night it was the last night. The last night of laughing about jokes that aren't really funny, the last night of being mean, of stupid pictures and cheese-y waffle fries and I realized that that's all Nantucket it is. It's lingering. Nothing really happens. It's an island...what can happen??

My favorite nights on the island were spent doing nothing, being nowhere, and I didn't appreciate them until now...when they're gone.

I spend my whole life waiting for the next big thing to happen, even if it's as small as seeing naked McSteamy on my TV (OMG, can we discuss???) and antisipating whats gonna happen next week, and now I get that on Nantucket it's not about that. Its about lazy mornings, and "nantucket time" and appreciating what you're doing while its happening.

I'm gonna miss that little island out to sea. It made me smarter, sexier, sassier, funnier and more aware of how totally freaking awesome I am.

yo quiro

After a 3 night drinking binge and no chance for hangover recovery. My newest favorite person in the world up-ed her total fucking awesomeness by bringing me taco bell from the mainland.

Ooooh. Delicious taco bell crap. All that dog meat and my hangover is totally cured.

Jamie is my most favorite.

the puddle part deux

This is it, ladies and gents. This is my puddle. Be in awe of its hugeness. It may have given me a flesh eating bacteria-- not many puddles can say that. Thankfully if there's no rain for more than 5 days it dries up and just becomes part of the road instead of something that belongs on a map.

A Ship's horn just blew. I love living on Nantucket.

No booze 'til we cruise...

A lot of my friends have been being all weird about coming to visit me on Nantucket. Wanting to do it but not sure if its worth the time/money/gas to see me on my new island home. Think no more! I have discovered the why (to come visit)--well, one of the many whys (like: Duh, its me, of course you want to visit) but I think this is the one that'll tip the scales in my favor.

Drinking on the ferry.

I cannot speak for the fast boat (as I've never taken it, it could end up in Narnia for all I know) but on the slow boat you can buy booze and drink it on your two and a half hour journey to paradise. This was a novelty I had never experienced until this year, but now that I'm 21 I've embraced it, like my drunk ass family before me. Here's the thing 1 beer+ fatigue from traveling + boat swaying = decent buzz. Particularly if you don't eat anything. Imagine the possibilities with two beers! Hello boat dance party! The selection is sparce (mostly frat beer and cheap wine) but they have Sam Adams Summer Ale since Ch-ello! We're in Massachusettes! The birthplace of democracy and delicious beer! And its not anymore expensive than an NYC bar but its better! Because you're on the Ocean! Well, technically the Sound but its water and all water eventually leads to the ocean.

So Okay! Seriously!! Come visit! Not only can we drink together, you can arrive drunk! Awesome.

PS- Yes, I wrote this drunk while on the ferry and yes, I took that picture of my half-empty beer and yes, I'm sure the people around me started to judge the second the flash went off. The sooner everyone recognizes I'm a mild alcoholic the better for humanity

PPS- A big shout out to the Boston Culinary Group for hanging out, particularly the foreign gentleman working behind the counter of The Nantucket, who was maybe trying to give me my beer and bagel for free but I was too stupid/tired to pick up on it.

Crossing the pond with The Beatles

I don't quite know why, but it seems that nothing really blog-worthy has happened since I've been on Nantucket. Yes I have a new job, new house, new roommate, new almost-friends (we don't know each other well enough for me to call them friends but they will be), I've seen celebrities, I've gotten drunk, I've flirted, danced, lied, made bad choices, made good choices, spent money, spent more money, talked to Tierra like a bajillion times on the phone, been home sick, considered spending the rest of my life here, and just kind of hung out. I've yet to go to the beach (maybe today), but I'm still dealing with the last dredges of poison ivy so I'm not too distraught about that.

Seriously?! Its weird, everything is fine and okay but...I keep expecting something to happen. I keep comparing this summer to Theatre on the Hill 2004 and my trip to Cape Town, which is kind of stupid because while those events had a lot in common (many people in a small confined space who had to forge relationships with the help of much alcohol and who had very little actual work to do), this summer I'm working full time (today is my first day off in 7 days...gross) only living with one person I'm not related to and since she doesn't have the same running-rampant alcoholic gene I do we've only gone out once. And we had a great time. So I shouldn't complain. And I've only been here a week and I have like 10 weeks left. So I really should just give fate a litte time to work itself out.

Anyway, the one thing that I kept thinking about that was almost blog-worthy in its total randomness is the title of the blog. On my walk to work there is a "puddle", in quotes because the thing is pond-sized. It should be on a map, there should be fishes living in it. It comes when there has been a day or more of rain because the people creating the drainage system for the island took a big old bong hit before they did this little patch of road. If its sunny for a few days it dries up, but this is Nantucket, so the weather is as reliable as a crack whore so, it's pretty much always there. And completely unavoidable on my journey to work.

So, normally I try to look just pathetic and dim enough to get someone to drive me over the puddle, but occasionally my timing is totally off, forcing me to find my own way over. So I take off my shoes and pull up the legs of my jeans and grumble my way over. But EVERY time this has happened, a Beatles song (twice Let it Be, once Dig a Pony) has been playing on my ipod.