You know who I feel sorry for? Is my friend Sandy's husband. Who just wanted a nice week on the Carolina coast, getting away from his demandy-pants job (he took like 87 conference calls while I was there. Do you know where I am rarely needed? Is on a conference call.
In fact recently at work I walked PAST a conference call on my way to make tea, and a Very Important Person said, "June? What are your thoughts?" and I stood there and peed right through my work pants and onto the floor. My THOUGHTS? My thoughts were I might make green tea or perhaps peppermint.
"Oh, we were talking to June on the phone, not you, June," said Very Important Person at work, as he observed me peeing like Edsel and growing an underbite and putting back my tall ears.)
Anyway, Sandy's husband, who Ima call Trojan Horse, is just the nicest person you could ever hope to meet, and let's discuss how Sandy ALWAYS has men who treat her like gold. I mean, this is the first person she actually married, but throughout college and afterwards and so forth, all of her boyfriends were cute, successful and totally, "What can I do for you NOW, Sandy?"
In college, Sandy and I lived in an apartment with her pre-med Rob Lowe-looking boyfriend, who used to get up before she did to make her coffee and scrape the ice off her windshield and warm up her car.
Thirteen years of marriage Marvin never even scraped the ice off my personality. How does she manage to score these men?
Anyway. My POINT is, Trojan Horse, Sandy's husband, was trying to relax and be on the beach and enjoy himself, and he had to be with old Lucy and Ethel, here, giggling and doing EVERYTHING POSSIBLE to stress him out.
When I first got there, I told him he was gonna need a blog name and he said, "Oh, no. Blog names should not be chosen. I should earn it while you're here." So finally at some point during my stay, he was actually getting a word in and telling some story, and he was struggling to find a phrase. "Oh, you know," he said. "It's that thing where something is inside something else."
"A parasite?" Sandy and I both said helpfully. At this point we were just saying the same thing at the same time, having reverted back to being the same person, as we had been in college, except for the part where she is impossibly hot. Yes, STILL.
"No, no," he said, dismissing us and continuing with the story. Then a few minutes later he interrupted himself.
"A TROJAN HORSE! That's the phrase I was looking for earlier."
Sandy and I stared at each other for about .008 seconds before we fell over in hysterics. "In a million years, I'd have never come up with Trojan Horse," I said. "Something that's inside something else. Yes, that says 'Trojan Horse to me," said Sandy, and poor Trojan Horse didn't even get to finish his story.
In other we-are-annoying news, we had been lying on the beach for 79 hours in a row, which was smart of me and my Irish.French.German self and who forgets that she is out there sunning with Armenian Sandy? Is it me? Have I forgotten this since we first laid out together in 1984? Is she always brown as a little toasty tidbit and am I always a bloated red Western European person at the end of every tanning session? Who learns, ever?
So I decided to go inside for a spell and my Pal from MA called me, because it's important that Pal from MA keep me abreast of her every move even when I'm on vacation. Sandy had come up, too, but was going back out, and said to me while I was on the phone, "Bloodey bloo bloo dee bloo key."
"Okay," I said, concentrating on Pal from MA.
When I was going to go back to the water, I thought, gee. I wonder what Sandy said about the key. I looked on the table by the door but only saw the rental car key. I called her on her cell, but she didn't answer. I locked the door and went to the beach.
"I locked the door," I announced proudly.
"And you brought the key, right?"
We stared at each other, horrified, each hoping the other was joking.
Who had to get a WAGON, with WHEELS on it, and scale the balcony of our condo like he was Spiderman? Was it beleaguered Trojan Horse? Who wanted to stick my face in the ocean till I stopped squirming, do you think?
And then do you know what happened? DO you? DO YOU? Poor Trojan went back to the water, probably to swim out his annoyance, and he got STUNG BY A JELLYFISH!
It was probably a jellyfish named June.
He came inside and showed his injury to us. "Can't you die from those?" I asked helpfully. "No, those are man-o-wars," said Sandy. "Or maybe it's Trojan Horses," I said, loving myself. Sandy and I giggled and carried on while Trojan went inside to Google "What to do with a jellyfish sting."
"I'll pee on you!" I called to him.
It was maybe 20 minutes later Sandy and I were talking, on a shocking note, and I said, "Poor Trojan Horse."
"Why?" she said, having already completely forgotten his injury.
Do you know what I should do? Set up a tip jar for Trojan Horse. Not that he needs it. Just because at this point I know you feel as bad for him as I do.
Plus, he had to look at my beach hair the whole time.
One thing we did NOT do to poor Trojan Horse was involve him in the wine shenanigan. Now, let me add the caveat that Sandy is the least alcoholic person on the planet, even though this story is gonna sound like we should get our Ouija Boards and call up Betty Ford.
It was 4:00 p.m. and Sandy said, "I think it's late enough for wine, don't you?"
"Oh, absolutely," I said, ever the enabler. "Let me get you some out the fridge, here."
So I got a bottle of white out, and we worried for a minute there wouldn't be a corckscrew at the condo. There was, but it was one of those very rudimentary ones that had no leverage to it, you just screw and pull. Screw and pull.
Story of my life.
I don't even know what Sandy was doing, although I suspect she was playing with my makeup, as Sandy and I have always been obsessed with each other's makeup and will some day give each other pinkeye and die. Or perhaps Trojan Horse. So there was me, screwing and pulling, screwing and pulling, screwing and pulling, and that DANG CORK would not come out.
"What is going ON over there?" she asked eventually.
Girl. I cannot begin to tell you how bad that cork did not want to come out that bottle. That cork and that bottle were in love. They had made a lifetime commitment. There weren't NUTHIN' gettin' that cork out that DING and also DANG bottle.
Here is an action shot of Sandy, hacking at it with a knife. This was seconds before she said, "You'd better not be photographing this for your blog."
Oh we did everything. We Googled it. We called my mother (not home) (I.am.sure). We called my old boyfriend who owns a brew pub. "The cork is dry," he said. "You know, many good wines these days come with a screw cap; it no longer means it's cheap."
Because that was helpful.
Girl, we were IN it then. We were getting that DANG cork out if it was the last thing we did. And I am happy to report we never once forced Trojan Horse to come in off the beach.
Finally? We managed to shove that in-love cork into the bottle and we strained the wine using the coffee filter. I told Sandy she had better enjoy every.drop. of that wine.
And she did.
Over the course of three nights, because who is a lightweight? "Oh! I've had communion! I have to lie down in the snow! I'm so dizzy!" Who must have been a delightfully cheap date in high school?
So it was a fun trip. It was good to get away from it all. With our cells, our iPhones, our iPads, the TV, my blog comments, and free wi-fi.
It's the simple things that make you happy.