Weekend Recap: Defying Death, Yet Again / by laurel

I realize I'm a day late on my weekend recap, but allow me the discrepancy as I roll my eyes as extravagantly as possible and deal with the unfortunate mores of being an adult. First I must take into account the economy NO NO NO I AM NOT DEALING WITH THIS. I'M IGNORING THE PROBLEM HERE, LA-LA-LA-LA-LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU, ICELAND. I CAN'T HEAR YOU, WAMU! That is to say, what's that? Economy? Well I've buried all my gold bricks in a gym bag in my backyard, what did you do with your weekend? 

Then I suppose there's the whole Human Beings Are Evil, Obstinate Trolls and I'd Ship Them All To Iceland And Withhold Mother's Cookies From Them Until They Cry, Whilst Laughing Evilly If I Could thing. Namely, that I got into a wee fender bender a couple of years ago wherein my faithful Volvo barely sneezed on the bumper of Polly High School's parent's 2000-whatever Altima and today I found out that Polly feigned injury with her doting chiropractor, Dr. Doolittle-Chargemuch and now I have the insurance record of a drunk driver. 

Polly, a word with you, if I may? Honey, you need to learn that it's NOT POLITE to take advantage of people, even if your doting parents - who have raised you to believe that you are the princess, the Palin, the Alpha, and the Omega - insist that you somehow sustained a massive trauma to the spine by being an idiot. Babe, you can't injure your spine if you hadn't a spine to begin with.

And also? You're an idiot. 

Glad I got that out of my system.

Now where was I? Oh, yes. Being an adult. Right. So I have a suitcase full of excuses as to why I haven't been on the ball with the weekend updates, not the least of which being that entire COUNTRIES are plum out of money right now.

Adulthood: 1
Laurel: 0

But trust me, dears, Iceland was the least of my troubles on Friday night.

My good friend and gondolier Mike Ruffino (That's Michael Angelo Ruffino to you, fan club) offered once more to take us out for a leisurely boat ride around the Newport Bay, and forgetting for a moment the near catastrophic events of the last jaunty sail (minus the sail, plus an elaborately long stick), we exclaimed, "BOATS? I LOVE BOATS! WHEN DO WE BOARD?"

To answer the question, we boarded around 7:30 p.m., cheap champagne and a 4-pack of Boddingtons in hand. It was a bit chilly but luckily Mike had the forethought to bring a blanket with us and graciously allowed Ashley and I to saddle up for the three hour tour. Out we went, drifting purposefully to the middle of Lido Bay, giddy with good fortune - A gondola ride! For free! It's all so beautiful! Life! Etc!

Hey, you think that stick will see us through the coming squall? No? 
Oh...then I guess we're screwed. 

Our good fortune lasted perhaps another 10 minutes before we turned to head back to the docks and realized that those grumpy Santa Anas had picked up, making the going tough. The tough attempted to get going, but went nowhere and we found ourselves adrift in the middle of the bay, because need I remind you that we were in a gondola? Not a canoe. Not a kayak or a raft or a speedboat or a yacht. A gondola. Essentially we were floating on a giant couch propelled entirely by a long stick. 

Oh, the Flinstones feet? Nevermind those...

The severity of our situation became startlingly apparent when I finally stopped nursing my bottle of Cook's and noticed that we were adrift in a veritable minefield of anchored boats, all of which were considerably larger than we were. And all of which were looming ever closer to our vessel as the mercurial wind had her way with us.

"Nevermind that enormous oceanliner there, kids. They're just overcompensating for something."

Our first collision was preceded by Mike hollering, "Brace yourselves!" and followed immediately by my intestines releasing their contents into the boat with a contented sigh. Off we drifted again, this time toward a dark and looming fishing boat aptly named William B. With a thud, we impressed upon William B our most cunning of pickup lines (Hey, fella. Come here often? No? Mind if I cling to the side of your hull for dear life until magical unicorns swoop in and fly me to safety?), and doing just that, we clung to the hulking vessel in an attempt not to crash haphazardly into any OTHER extravagantly expensive boats. 

Mike had attempted to signal to surrounding docked boats with our lamp, but we determined that his frenetic blinking only suggested that instead of languishing in distress on the open sea, we were throwing a massive disco and snorting foot-long lines of coke in the bathroom. Not exactly the message we intended, so Mike decided to use his considerable vocal capabilities to yell for help, except that his version of Save Our Ship sounded something like a cross between Tim Gunn admonishing wayward designers and a Long Island mom hollering for her kids to stop playing in the sewaaar, I swear, I'm gonna get a migraine from you kids.

"Hell-looooooow!" He yelled. "Hel-LOOOOOW! We need some HELP here!"

I was convinced that no one in their right minds would respond to a call for help such as the one we were offering to the flickering lights in the distance, but miraculously, somebody responded faintly: "Are you guys in trouble?"

"We were just about to take tequila shots before you interrupted us!"

Tethered to the William B

Our rescuers came to us with the names Rick and Rick, a couple of genial guys with a skiff and a radio who offered to call the harbor police for us while giving us a fancy nautical flashlight which we immediately used to shine annoyingly into each other's eyes while taking cool pictures. We never pass up an opportunity for maturity. 

I'm thinking of selling J.J. Abrams the rights to our story.

Eventually the Newport boat police arrived and we disembarked our gondola for their slightly more impressive rescue ship. "You can stand up at the front. Just don't touch the M16's." (To which Mike's fingers were immediately drawn like moths to the fully loaded flame). 

Okay...but can I drive?

See that, Polly High School? How about I run over you with my GIGANTIC RESCUE BOAT? Who's injured NOW, biatch?

We towed our boat, our lives, our dignity, and our last can of Boddingtons to shore and, upon breathing a massive sigh of relief, said, "Man, I could really use some Jack In The Box."

Ahoy, matey. 

Adulthood: 0
Action and Adventure: 1