by Mamrie Hart
Hayley slept through the overcast afternoon while I got some much-needed R&R, watching TV and vegging out. When dinnertime rolled around, I shook her gently. “Hey, sleepyhead. I’m going to go have dinner. Do you have it in you to join?”
“I can’t do it. I’m sorry.” I assured her it was okay and headed out on my own, hearing her call, “But let me know if they have anything good,” as I closed the peeling door. Cove Haven was back to being dark and quiet as I walked down the snowy path to the Colosseum restaurant. As soon as I entered, I knew it was gonna be awkward. Every single table was filled with couples. It was Noah’s ark up in that piece. Look, I am a girl who is totally okay to do things by myself. I love going to get a drink in solitude; I prefer to go to the movies solo so the only people I have to violently shush are strangers. But I am big enough to admit that rolling up to that host stand and saying, “Table for one,” in this situation was embarrassing.
The hostess sat me, and I immediately tried to order a glass of wine off her. “Sorry, I can’t get stuff from the bar, but a waitress will be over in just a sec,” she said with pity in her eyes, looking at me as if my husband and I had broken up in our suite and I was just waiting for the next bus out of there. As I sat there, I took inventory of the room. The bar was a huge heart shape. Another display champagne tub, like in the welcome center, was dead center in the lobby, filled with packing peanuts to give the illusion of bubbles. Every table was a two-top, with a lovey-dovey couple enjoying their buffet bounty. I’ve never seen so many people feed each other bites of food.*
“Where’s your sidekick, sweetie?” I looked up to see a smiling Maureen standing in her tux and holding an order pad. “Maureen!” I exclaimed. “I’m so happy to see you! I feel like a loser eating by myself, but Hayley hit the bottle a little too hard, and now she’s cooped up in bed sick.”
“Aww, don’t feel like a loser,” she assured me. “People eat here by themselves all the time.”
I stared at her blankly. “Besides Forever Lover widows?”
Maureen laughed. “Yes, besides widows! Now what do you want to drink?”
I gave her my order (a glass of red wine the size of a champagne tub) and headed to make myself a plate. Pasta, mashed potatoes, rolls. My plate was whiter than a Trump rally.
Just as I was digging into my plate o’ carbs, the hostess sat a couple down at the table next to mine. She walked away only to reveal that, of fucking course, the couple Hayley had almost puked on was gazing lovingly across the table at each other. I immediately hid my face with my wineglass to avoid being spotted but also to make it less obvious that I was completely eavesdropping on them.
Within seconds, I realized, holy shit, this couple was on their honeymoon. In fact, their wedding had been only twenty-four hours prior! I listened to them swoon over each other, talk about how great of a dancer her dad was, and how both of them got teary during the best man’s speech. It was the purest thing I’d ever spied on! I finished my last bite of baked potato (yes, I had mashed and baked, don’t come for me) and started to make my exit. This was not easy, seeing as it was a packed house and the tables were bumped up beside each other. I had to decide: Was I sliding out with my butt lingering over their plates? Or my crotch? I went crotch.
But just as I was skimming past their salt and pepper shakers, I was stopped by Maureen.
“I know your friend’s sick as a dog, but I fixed her up a plate just in case she gets her appetite back,” she said with a smile, handing me a to-go box. I looked down at the couple, whose blissful grins had morphed into blank stares as I thanked Maureen and continued past their table. I walked about two feet away before turning back and leaning down to them to say, “The wedding sounded beautiful. Congratulations.” Hell, at least now they would have a honeymoon memory besides a whole bunch of missionary-style sex.
The next and final morning, Hayley woke up bright-eyed and bushy tailed. We were ready to make the most out of our last day at Cove Haven, determined to do all the activities. We roller-skated! We played basketball while roller skating! We mini golfed while roller skating! The only thing we couldn’t do was take our roller skates out on the ice-skating rink, but don’t think we didn’t try.
We made some poor bastard who was just trying to romance his girlfriend take approximately ninety pics of us.
As the sun began to set, we knew we had to get on the road. But before we left, we had to stop and say good-bye to Maureen and Mike. “You two better come back!” Mike told us, while exchanging info and big hugs. “Yes!” Maureen added. “If you two are going to be Forever Lovers, this has to be a tradition!” And we knew it would be. Maybe with less vomiting on newlyweds, but a tradition no less.
We drove away from the resort just like every couple does—completely in love. But in our case, it was with Cove Haven itself. Completely and unironically in love. Sure, she might be a little old for us, and idiots might say she needs a face-lift, but we thought she was just perfect. I’ll never forget that first trip to Cove Haven. And something tells me they weren’t forgetting us anytime soon. We were burned into their memories . . . although according to the caricature drawing I had made of us, they will remember us as a random news anchor with a strong jawline and Cuba Gooding Jr.
A Forever Lovers duo for the ages.
Starr-Spangled Manners
RALPH WALDO EMERSON, the godfather of transcendentalism, once said, “Life is a journey, not a destination.” Why do I bring this up?
A) Because I want to prove that I’m actually educated.
B) Such was the case on my way to meet Hayley that fated MLK weekend.
You guys, I should’ve known that I was going to have a time in Pennsylvania because just getting there was a story in and of itself. Let me back up.
As you’ll find out over the course of this book, I fly a lot. I think in 2016, the longest I went without flying was three weeks. This means I’m generally pretty calm and prepared when it comes to air travel. When I have a layover, I don’t run around scrambling to find my next gate or stuff my gullet with the nearest shitty wrap. When I deplane, I know exactly how long it’s going to take me to get to my connecting flight and where I’m stopping to eat. Flying Virgin in San Francisco? You better believe I’m getting grilled artichokes and a cucumber martini at Cat Cora’s restaurant.* JetBlue out of JFK? You know I’m hitting up that greasy food court pad thai but pairing it with a crisp pinot grigio from the tapas place.
So, yes, I fly all the damn time. And while I might fly like a bird, I usually drink like a fish while doing so. As far as I’m concerned, airports are like international waters. Time zones don’t exist. When you saddle up to a bar, you have no idea if the guy to your right is about to get on his first flight ever, which is why he opted for that thirty-six-ounce Blue Moon, or if he needs a little hair of the dog because motherfucker is on Shanghai time.
These rules apply on the plane, too. If my feet are thousands of feet off solid ground, you best believe I’m ordering a cocktail no matter what time of day it is. And you can forget it if it’s an international flight! I’ve considered bringing my stewardess an Ace bandage wrist protector for how often I’m gonna make her hoist up that big-ass magnum of merlot to refill my cup. But there was never a time I wanted a hard kick of vodka to my face more than on my flight to meet Hayley.
Picture this . . .
It was maybe a hair past six A.M., and after dragging my sleepy self through security, we were finally boarding. I had upgraded my seat to economy coach (what can I say? I had had a good year) so I could relax and stretch these German gams. I quickly realized that relaxation was not on the docket when I glanced at my seatmate. There she was, rocking some major leftover makeup from the night before* and a bedazzled sweat suit that looked like she let a few cars run over it before putting it on. This woman had headphones on that were blasting horrible techno so loudly that I wondered if she was actually deaf. Regardles
s of this, the real problem was that she was in my seat.
“Oh, excuse me,” I said, pretending to double-check the seat number on my ticket. She took her time taking out the headphones, the cabin filling with her pulsating beats. “Are you also in 8B?” This sweet routine of looking surprised instead of just saying, “Bitch, you’re in the wrong seat,” had become one of my favorite airplane acting exercises, along with pretending to feel guilty when I have to make the aisle seat get up to let me use the bathroom.
“Yeah, I’m the window seat, but I need a tray table,” she replied brusquely. I looked at the window seat, positioned beautifully behind the emergency exit row, with no seat in front of it. Unlimited legroom all in exchange for one of those awkward pullout tray tables? I’ll take it!
“Oh, okay. I don’t mind the window,” I said, waiting for her to acknowledge how chill I was being, or at least ask if this arrangement was okay. Naturally, this never happened, so I just made myself comfy. I stretched out my legs, buckled my seat belt, looked to my right, and saw exactly why a work surface was so important for this person.
She had her laptop and supplies spread out everywhere like she was renting 8B as a personal office space. Her long nails (minus one, RIP right-hand ring finger) were clicking away on her keyboard, and it was already driving me crazy. I never knew someone could produce such volume just by simple keyboard taps. It was like she had microscopic microphones under each pointy claw.* Seriously, the nails were filed into such sharp tips, she could sit at a bar and spear an olive from four stools down. They were sharper than the tiny forks you use to dip fondue! I digress.
Before I could block out with my headphones the assault-rifle sounds of her typing, a business-looking skeeze of a man rounded out our row with the aisle seat. Now, I know I sound extremely judgmental in this chapter, but I am just going to say fuck it and really give you my inner snarky thoughts. This suit-wearing dude had such a smirk on his face when he saw this woman that it just made me think . . . well . . . have you ever looked at a man and just known he hires hookers? That “hey, whatever happens on my business trip is business, and my wife, Sheila, doesn’t need to know a thing about it” look? The kind of guy who flirts with the babysitter while his baby is in the room or compliments how nicely his best friend’s daughter is filling out? That was this guy.
He immediately struck up a conversation with her, and I immediately wanted to crawl into a hole. But instead I did the mature thing: I put in my headphones, hit Play on my favorite playlist, then turned the volume all the way down so I could eavesdrop on their convo.*
“Hi, I’m Robert,” the skeeze said, offering his hand for a shake, which was risky since his hand was basically coming in hot to shake five pocketknives. “I’m Starr, two Rs,” she replied. Of course her name was Starr with two Rs. The woman was a star. A fiery, giant ball of a gas. I watched Starr shake his hand before immediately returning to her work. And here’s where I’m going to go ahead and take this opportunity to bust out my first KOHLRABI! Please and thank you.
I sat there wondering, What the hell kind of business does this mess have to attend to at the ass crack of dawn? So I decided to take a peek at her laptop. Turns out, it was actual ass cracks.
There, on Starr’s laptop, was a screen laid out like a grid, full of little squares of girls doing webcam sex videos. I KID YOU NOT. This woman was watching porn. Amateur porn. Private-room porn. A grid of nine small squares of women were on display, performing into their low-res webcams. It looked like a really low-budget, porn version of the Brady Bunch opening.
I wasn’t the only one who noticed. When Robert saw the screen, his face lit up so bright, you would’ve thought that Starr’s laptop had a giant Kardashian-style LuMee case on it.*
“Ladies and gentleman,” the soothing voice of the flight attendant purred though the speaker. Oh yes, I thought to myself, normalcy. I remember it well. I leaned into the sound of her voice, tilting my head like a cat wanting to be pet. “We are going to begin our taxi to the runway if everyone could just make sure their bags are slid all the way under the seat in front of them, their tray tables are put away, seats are upright, and your seat belt is securely fastened.” This did not sit well with Starr, who let out the most exaggerated, exasperated sigh this side of teenagehood, an exhale so strong a tsunami of coffee-and-buffalo-wing-flavored-Pretzel-Crisps breath knocked me in the face. Something told me that Starr had stayed out all night and brushed her teeth in the airport bathroom with the corner of her pink hoodie.
Luckily, she had her new bestie Robert to keep her entertained and to interview her as we took off and reached cruising altitude. I closed my eyes as to up the “I’m not eavesdropping” ante and listened to my new favorite podcast, The Bobby and Starr Hour.
“So, what do you do for work?”
Gimmie a break, Bobby! I thought to myself. She’s clearly a surgeon. A pediatric surgeon who just really loves to watch girls strip on top of mismatched bedding and piles of clean clothes they’ve yet to fold. I kept my trap shut and continued listening. Apparently, Starr was leaving LA from one of the world’s biggest porn conventions. She was super close to selling her live-streaming porn website to one of the big dogs in the porn world, because according to her, they only had Eastern European girls, and she was the only one with “all the American bitches.” Currently, she had to watch her girls in their private rooms to make sure they didn’t do anything against the rules. Which occasionally they would, but Starr, ever the classy lady, would put her hand up to block the screen when one of them indeed got out of line.
Look, I’m not being a hater for a girl getting out and being entrepreneurial, no matter what the profession. In the words of our Lord and Savior, Beyoncé, who run the world? Girls! And I believe that. I simply wish that this particular girl had also run her tracksuit through the wash cycle before being in such tight quarters.
As soon as the doctor drink cart rolled up, I knew I needed a little something to get me through the rest of the flight with these clowns in tow. “I’ll take a coffee with Baileys,” I said sweetly to the flight attendant. Based on the look of sympathy she gave me, word of the woman watching porn must have spread to the flight attendant corridor. I half-expected her to mouth, “Wink twice if you need saving,” like I was a kidnapping victim.
But that wasn’t the crazy part. The crazy part was that as soon as the word “Baileys” left my mouth, Starr did a straight up–cartoon double take at me. The look of disgust on her face was as if I had just ordered a stem-cell latte. I’m sorry, but this woman who was explaining erotic asphyxiation to Bobby* was judging me?! What, like, I’m the freak because I’m having a drink at six A.M.?
That’s when the thought hit me: OH MY GOD, I’M HAVING A DRINK AT SIX A.M. I am drinking at six A.M. to go spend the weekend at a lovers’ resort in the Poconos. Maybe I am the gross one in this row, I thought to myself. Maybe I’m the one who should reevaluate my life choices. As I lifted up my hand to tell the flight attendant to cancel my order, I looked down to see Starr pointing out her site’s top searches, which were, naturally, “anal” and “bondage.” I was transfixed watching her letter opener of a nail pointing to the sidebar of keywords that would make Jenna Jameson cringe. It felt like an episode of The Twilight Zone. If I would’ve looked out the window, surely there would’ve been a gremlin attacking the wing of the plane.
“Yes?” the flight attendant finally asked, noticing my now-frantic waiting.
“Oh,” I said, smiling, “I’ll also take a Bloody Mary.” Starr’s jaw dropped, and I’m pretty sure her clip-in extensions fell to the floor from the way her head jerked toward me in shock. I couldn’t believe it: I was being judged by a porn czar named Starr. A LITERAL PORN STARR.
But I shook it off. I took my vodka with a splash of bloody mix and put my headphones back in, this time cranking up some music to block out the haters. I had zero fucks to give. And I think that was inspired in part
by Starr. If she could stream sex chats at thirty thousand feet without batting one of her Daisy Duck–level fake lashes, I could have a damn drink or two to get through this flight. In a world of judgment and people always looking over your shoulder or trying to get a peek at your screen . . .
Be the Starr!
But please don’t force porn on other people on a plane. It’s just rude, guys.
That’s So-Noma
IF THERE’S ANYTHING that I’ve learned in my time on this planet, it’s that there is nothing more sacred or more important than your female friendships. As you get older, your girlfriends become your rock, your therapist, your sole source of empathy when it comes to the female experience of dealing with today’s world. And having someone who knows your history is important. Being able to say, “Oh my god, remember the time . . .” becomes less and less available as you get older and new people get cycled through your life. So it’s necessary to hang on to the good ones. The ones who have known you through bad haircuts and bad relationships and bad versions of yourself and still consider you to be their good friend. And I’ve been lucky enough to have that in my high school bestie, Ashleigh.
Ashleigh, or Ashole, as she is so lovingly referred to in my phone, is like my sister. Metaphorically speaking, anyway. She’s not like my actual sister, who is a raging tornado of brash hilarity. Ash is quite the opposite. She’s funny and smart and definitely speaks her mind . . . but goddamnit if she isn’t the sweetest woman alive.* I’ve seen her apologize to a doorframe after running into it. I’ve seen her apologize to a waiter for ordering something they were out of. And I’ve definitely seen her apologize to me after calling her out for apologizing too much.