We can gather in the antique-strewn living rooms on the first or second floors and there’s plenty of space for us all to hang out on one of the multiple verandas. And, instead of sleeping on a blow-up raft like I did in Clearwater, we each have our own bedroom. Trenna and I have our own bathrooms—hers with a claw-foot tub—and there’s a whole separate dressing room for those sharing the other baths. I can’t imagine any place more grown-up or civilized. The best part is that Julia’s a bargain shopper and the house costs less than if we’d booked our own rooms at a budget hotel.
Julia hands us each a glass of wine when we walk in and once we unpack and have a moment to decompress, we finally begin to relax and enjoy our grown-up girls’ weekend.
Everything is going to be great!
“Remember to set your alarm clocks, girls—we’re doing Zumba first thing in the morning,” Trenna says.
With a clear commitment to my own convictions and with zero regrets, I reply, “Sorry, that doesn’t work for me.”
3.
I AM THE ONE WHO KNOCKS
“How’s Adult Spring Break?”
“When are you going to stop asking me that?”
“When it stops being funny. Hey, you realize I can see you rolling your eyes, right?”
Damn you, FaceTime, foiled again!
Perhaps threats will cease Fletcher’s endless mockery. “Do you want me to spoil the next episode for you? Because I will.” Almost five years late to the party, Fletch and I have started watching Breaking Bad. Our goal is to catch up with everyone before the series finale, so we’re currently ODing on all things Walter White.
We’ve since discovered that binge-watching is the new binge-drinking, at least for us. I’m sure College Jen and Fletch would call us pathetic for subbing TV for cocktails, but College Jen and Fletch also sat on a couch they found by a Dumpster and ate Beefaroni straight out of the can. Besides, Breaking Bad is masterful and I just want to take Jesse home to hug him and make him a nice stew.
(Sidebar: Why do we hate Skyler so damn much?)
Also, between this show and having plowed through Weeds earlier this year, I’m now secretly convinced that everyone sells drugs. EVERY. ONE. Whenever I see a weird business like a still-operating video rental store, I swear up and down that it’s actually a grow house. I have no reason to ever enter one of these stores, save for making a citizen’s arrest, but I always shake my fist at them when we drive past, like, I’m onto you.
“No! I want to be surprised,” Fletch pleads. “New subject, are you having fun?”
“Yes, this was such a good idea,” I tell him. “Thank you for encouraging me to come.” Fletch was the one who helped motivate me to shift my plan-canceling, sticking-close-to-home, why-don’t-you-all-just-come-stay-here paradigm and I’m so glad that I did. The last couple of years have been nothing but stress and tours and due dates and I’m wound pretty tightly right now. He’s been very conscious of my needing some kind of outlet, lest I explode.
The fact that he now gets to spend a number of days sitting on the big couch alone, not watching endless episodes of Big Brother, likely motivated him as well. Still, I appreciate how he’s almost better that I am at gauging my moods, and inevitably, he helps push me to make the right decisions.
Since I’ve been in Savannah, I’ve started to ponder what else I might have been missing over the past few years of being a deadline-ridden semihermit. For all my “seize the day” resolve, I’ve too often allowed myself to be bogged down by boring household bullshit, like spending countless hours trying to figure out what kind of tile I wanted in the upstairs bath. In fact, the funds for this trip were originally earmarked for said new tile, but Fletch asked me what was going to be more important when I looked back on my life—creating new memories with people I love or upgrading to travertine. Put like that, the choice was clear.
There’s an expression about how there’s what you know, what you don’t know, and what you don’t know you don’t know. I have a feeling my second act should be all about exploring what I don’t know I don’t know.
Again, I need to forge a new path.
The time has come to make a bold move and I may have just figured out the way to make one.
“Hey, I had an idea, but it might be dumb. What do you think about bucket lists?”
Hambone, Maisy’s sequel, suddenly appears on-screen. This extraordinarily silly red pit bull has planted herself next to Fletch and keeps trying to lick his brain by way of his ear.
(Sidebar: No matter how much you might love Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo, it’s never quite as good as the original, is it?)
“Augh, this dog. She’s been glued to my side ever since you left.”
Her enormous monochromatic melon takes up the whole screen and the picture quality is so clear I can see the tiny dimple in the middle of her nose. As always, she makes me melt.
(Sidebar: Wait, what about Godfather II? Perhaps there’s hope for her yet.)
“Aw, Hammy misses her mumma! You miss your mumma, sweetie? See? This is why I stay home; it’s too hard to be away from her precious widdle face. Hello, Hammy! Hello, Hammy baby! Give your mumma some sugar!!”
“You have the world of technology at your fingertips and you use it to talk to the dogs.” He sighs and positions the Ham away from him on the couch. She sits up next to him on her haunches, with her back pressed into the couch, aw . . . just like people!
“What about lists now?”
“Bucket lists—the things you want to do before you die.”
“Are you dying?”
“Eventually, but hopefully not on this trip. Bucket list items are stuff you want to achieve, like write a book or be on television.”
“You’ve already done both.”
“So those won’t go on my list, but there’s plenty other stuff I’ve always wanted to do but put off until later. Maybe now is my later.” I shift on the bed so now I’m facing the fireplace. My room has a fireplace! Sure, it’s twelve-hundred degrees outside right now, but nothing beats the option of having a fire.
Technically, I suspect this whole place may be flammable. As luxurious as our rental looked online, clearly we received the deal we did because the homeowners are borderline hoarders. We’re finding really weird stuff crammed into every nook and cranny. For example, we noticed that one of the big Chinese vases on the landing between the second and third floor is packed with dirty men’s shirts. There are fifteen different types of cutting boards in the kitchen, so many that there’s not actually any counter space left to use a cutting board. And the dresser in the front hallway has what looks like a Steve Buscemi doll nestled in a tiny coffin among tons of junk.
I opened one of the bedside tables and it is stacked full of hundreds of old copies of Entertainment Weekly. Mind you, I love EW, but the point of the magazine is timeliness. Is it really necessary to save the fall preview guide from 2008? (Although, is that when Breaking Bad debuted? Maybe I actually should read that issue for other viewing suggestions. Otherwise, though, no.) We’ve been having little treasure hunts for the weirdest stuff we can find squirreled away. Thus far Dead Steve Buscemi wins, but the trip is still in its early stages.
From his spot on the big couch at home, Fletch teases me. “‘Now is my later’? Is that like ‘How babby is formed’? You sound like an Internet meme.”
“All I’m saying is I’d have put ‘rent a house with friends’ on my list if I’d had a bucket list previously.”
“Well, you do love a list.”
He’s right. Nothing makes me happier than putting pen to paper when it comes to what I want to accomplish. One of the things I learned from my year of attempting to live by Martha Stewart’s dictates is that not only am I perfectly capable of cleaning my own house, but I like doing it. So, every week I make a big list of all the housekeeping tasks and I take great delight in systematic
ally scratching them off when complete. And when I end up scouring something that wasn’t on my list, like bleaching the grout in the bathroom or lemon-oiling the wood paneling in the living room, I write the item down just so I can immediately cross it off.
I did the job, it counts, and I want credit, even though the fact that it’s done should be credit enough.
For years, I’ve been marveling at the brilliance of writer/director Mike Judge. From Office Space and Idiocracy to Beavis and Butt-Head, no one has a keener eye on society. I’ve been doing the retroactive list cross-out for years, but it wasn’t until I saw King of the Hill’s Peggy do the same in regard to teaching a bird to talk that I truly recognized his genius. My only regret now is that Peggy Hill (my other spirit animal) is gone from the airwaves because I’d have liked to see how she coped with middle age, largely so I could copy her.
I keep coming back to Gina’s notion that we’re starting our second act in life. I’ve dreaded acknowledging the whole aging thing, inoculating myself with as much botulism and filler as my face can hold in an attempt to hold back time. But I wonder if instead of avoiding the inevitable, maybe I should be embracing this time in my life?
I tell Fletch, “I’m going to do it! As soon as I get home—after I clean out our closets, that is, because damn. Hoarding really is a thing.” I hear footsteps and I begin to panic. “Shit, they’re coming for me. I’ve got to sign off and hide in the bathroom.”
“What, why?”
“Because Trenna wants to teach us to do The Wobble and I’m not sure how many more times I can tell her, ‘Sorry, that doesn’t work for me.’”
• • •
We’re having the most marvelous time together, even though the house has inadvertently divided itself into two factions that I’ve dubbed Team Butter and Team Lettuce. Team Lettuce (Julia and Trenna) do indeed rise at dawn to Zumba (I assume this is a verb but refuse to ask for fear that it might come across as enthusiasm), which they follow up with kickboxing, and then some light yoga. In the meantime, Team Butter prefers to start the day eating chocolate croissants and drinking cappuccino on the veranda.
Fortunately, we can all agree that it’s wine o’clock right now, so we gather under the Haint Blue ceiling of the veranda. On the Mercer House tour, we learned that the Lowcountry Gullah believed ghosts couldn’t travel over water, so they’d paint this color of blue on ceilings and under furniture to prevent the spirits’ passage. As we look down East Jones Street, we note that every other porch’s ceiling is the exact same shade of pale, cloudy blue. I so love this all-encompassing nod to tradition and wish we had more of this in the North. (Also, more cheese grits.)
“What’s the plan for tonight?” Kathleen asks.
“Ghost tour!” Julia our cruise director exclaims.
“Savannah’s supposed to be one of the most haunted cities,” Trenna adds.
“Then it’s a good thing we have our Haint Paint to keep us safe,” Joanna says.
“Are we taking one of those hearses we’ve seen around town?” I ask. “How fun does that look?”
“No,” says Julia. “This one’s a walking tour.”
“As in outside?” I ask. “We’re walking outside? In this weather? Are you kidding? I’m on my third shirt of the day because I keep sweating out all my spray tan. It’s going to be a thousand degrees.”
Team Butter perspires more than Team Lettuce.
There.
I’ve said it.
Perhaps taking better care of myself will be a part of my eventual bucket list.
Until then, I plan on swimming in a pool full of shrimp and grits.
“No worries, it’ll get dark fast and cool off,” Julia assures me. “Plus, we have tons of cold wine!”
Outside of Vegas, I’ve never been in a city with such lax open container laws. You’re literally allowed to drink in the streets here. This kind of access would likely have ended me in college.
(Sidebar: Julia says that Savannah is what would happen if New Orleans and Charleston had a baby.)
For our evening’s festivities, Julia’s toting a huge thermal bag full of vino for the tour. As a surprise, she bought each of us a large plastic wineglass-shaped sippy cup, monogrammed with our initials.
I chose not to mention this fact to Fletch. I finally convinced him this isn’t Spring Break, so rolling five-deep with travelers wouldn’t exactly strengthen my case.
“Cab’s here!” Kathleen calls. “Let’s go!”
Team Butter begins to file outside, but Julia says she and Trenna plan to hoof it.
“You’re going to walk to the walking tour? It’s like three miles away and ninety-percent humidity! What, did we lose a war or something?” I ask.
“We’ll meet you there!” Julia chirps. “Does everyone have their cups?” We all hold them up for inspection and Julia tops them off before we get in the cab.
“I never drank wine through a straw before,” Kathleen says.
“Eh, when in Rome,” Joanna replies, gamely taking a sip. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
• • •
“Quick! To the firehouse!”
“Firefighters are heroes—they have to help us!”
Joanna and I stumble through the sultry night air to our salvation.
Something went horribly awry on the ghost tour.
By horribly awry, I mean we were bored. The tour had far too much walk-y and talk-y and far too few ghosts. We just kept moving from spot to spot in this park, looking at various trees because they somehow related to something. I mean, where my haints at? Can we unpaint a ceiling so that something supernatural can finally happen? Could someone at least hire college students to cut a couple of eyeholes in some sheets and jump out at us?
Team Lettuce seemed fairly engaged on the tour, but Team Butter just wasn’t into it, largely because we were hot on top of bored.
And thirsty.
Which was a problem.
Because it led to our getting shit-housed.
While on the seemingly endless tour, Julia kept telling us we needed to “respect the straw,” but what does that even mean? I don’t live in a universe where fermented beverages are consumed through narrow plastic tubes, so how was I to know how to offer a modicum of respect toward it?
I’m the more sober of the two of us—although that’s a relative term—so it’s on me to approach the firemen.
I clear my throat, determined to make our case as eloquently as possible. Despite the straws, Joanna and I are both gentlewomen and scholars, here in this fine city as upstanding representatives of the North. I’ve also determined that in Ferris Bueller terms, I’m the Cameron of our group, so it’s important to me to follow rules and respect decorum and make sure no one drives my dad’s Ferrari through a glass wall.
With every bit of Yankee gravitas I can muster, I say, “We have to use your bathroom real bad and no foolin’! We were drinking wine with straws and it’s hot here—it’s so hot, Jesus Christ is it hot—why is it so hot, did you lose a war or something, oh, wait, heh, scratch that, sorry, I know you’re still sensitive about The War of Northern Aggression, damn you, Ulysses S. Grant and your hipster beard, and we were dehydrated so Julia kept giving us more wine and you should never drink with straws because it’s a BAD idea and I don’t know how she’s so healthy because she’s hashtag Team Lettuce and now we’re here representing hashtag Team Butter because we have to pee, and is your house like the one on Chicago Fire and if so, which of you is Severide because he’s my favorite.”
The young firefighter appraises us with a gimlet eye.
(Ooh, gimlets!)
The younger firefighter, probably the Peter Mills of the group, says, “I’m afraid we don’t have a ladies’ room.”
Joanna fields this one. She steps up, throwing her mom-seat-belt-arm in front of me for protection. She tells the
m, “That’s okay—we’re not ladies today.”
He points to the bathroom across the engine bay, and clutching each other for balance and comfort, we make our way over there only to discover our next obstacle. “Oh, no, Joanna, there’s only one stall! Can I go first? Please? I can’t hold it anymore. I already ruined three shirts today sweating out spray tan and I don’t want to wreck my pants, too.”
And then Joanna, the minister’s dining companion, the fixer of plumbing, the navigator of maps, and the person who began saving for a down payment on her first home when she was a freshman in college, utters the best words I’ve ever heard her speak over the twenty-eight years of our friendship.
“You go ahead, Jen. I’m going to pee in the urinal.”
• • •
I share my shame with Fletch over FaceTime the next morning. He’s still on the big couch, all sprawled out, blanketed in dogs.
“You’re why the South hates Yankees,” Fletch says. “Nice job.”
“Listen, those firefighters thought we were cute,” I reply.
“No, they thought you were cute twenty years ago.”
“Ouch.” Seriously, ouch. “I’d argue, except you’re not wrong.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t get a tattoo.”
In the haughtiest voice I can muster considering my wicked headache, I say, “I most certainly did not. Julia and I did climb the Death Stairs to see a psychic but she was already booked. She told us to return in twenty minutes but we didn’t go back. Julia and I agreed that if she were a real psychic, she’d have known we were coming and budgeted her time accordingly.”
What I don’t mention is that we didn’t run across a tattoo shop, which is the only reason I’m not currently sporting the newly inscribed name of my dead dog.
I Regret Nothing: A Memoir Page 3