the ranch, part two.

This should be a Thanksgiving post.

I mean, I'm posting it on Thanksgiving, but it will not contain all of the warm and fuzziness that it probably should.  I mean, it is every Blogger/Facebooker/Twitterer's duty to post things that they're thankful for each day of November, declare how blessed they are, or at the very least post pictures from a pumpkin patch or an apple orchard, right?

This is not a typical Thanksgiving post, but not because I am not thankful or because I don't realize how completely blessed my life is.  There were challenges, but I can say for certain that expressing gratitude feels much easier to do this year than it did last year and for that I am immensely thankful.

So while this isn't a typical holiday post, it is inspired by something for which I am grateful - my trip to California and my time at the Los Laureles Lodge, aka the ranch.  In the spirit of Thanksgiving and with the hope of finishing writing about Elizabeth's August wedding before the new year, it's back to the ranch we go.

I'm sure I don't need to tell you that we woke up after the beach bonfire with a whole slew of stories from the night before.  Some things - like the cab driver's roll call - I didn't even know happened until the next morning. I must've really been into the sing-along because I also missed guests over-pouring their wine glasses in the dark, or guests (ahem, my friends) falling in the sand and flopping around like seals.

Wedding stories - just another reason to be thankful.

While our rooms at the Ranch were stocked full of Sun Chips and muffins from our late-night grocery run, a proper lunch that allowed us to maximize our time in the beautiful scenery as well as rehash all of the evening's transgressions was a definite priority.  We opted to drive south to Nepenthe Restaurant in Big Sur to enjoy magnificent Pacific Ocean views from their treehouse-esque deck.




Only, once again, visibility was non-existent.  We sat outside and crossed our fingers that the fog would eventually lift, but it never did. The place was cool and happening, though ,and our waiter was friendly (until we asked him if we could pay the bill with more than one credit card.  I honestly thought his head might explode.), so we were happy.    




We shared a lot of laughs about the previous night's debauchery, ate some good food, and most importantly, drank some tasty drinks (read: hair of the dog) of the Bloody Mary and Moscow Mule variety. 

After lunch and our drive back to Carmel that included stops for scenic photos and an errand run to CVS (where there was booze for sale. At a CVS!  Right next to the disposable razors!  Again, THANKFUL.), there wasn't a lot of time to do much more than welcome new friends (aka new campers) who had just arrived and get ready for the rehearsal party.





Despite the fact that her wedding was a destination variety for many of her guests, her wedding still had many guests.  Most everyone who was invited to the wedding was also invited to the rehearsal, so family, childhood friends, college friends, San Francisco friends were all on hand to toast the happy couple.



The stories were plentiful and varied from humorous to extremely heartfelt.

Greg even wrote a poem.
I went into my remarks with a, "Make them laugh, make them cry, try not to embarrass yourself or anyone else," mentality. I thought my toast hit on all the appropriate emotions. I even had a woman I did not know come up to me and tell me later that she loved what I had to say.

I'm worried she might've been the only one, though, because just last week one of my girlfriends asked me, "Wasn't it you who brought up all of Elizabeth's ex-boyfriends during your speech at the rehearsal dinner?"

"Um, no," I told her defensively, "I did not."

It was just one.  And I never named him.  And I only used this story to make a point.

Elizabeth and I really didn't know each other that well when we decided to be roommates our last semester at Georgia, which was fine, except for the fact that Elizabeth and her boyfriend broke up days before I moved in.  So while I was pumped to get to know a new, fun girl and make her my friend, she was not really in that mindset. She was in a bad, emotionally low place. 

We laugh about that time now and how we healed her broken heart with Ben & Jerry's, American Idol and the Anna Nicole Smith show.

After she moved away to California, it seemed our visits always occurred during really low lows in my life or really high highs.  The way we met seemed to follow our friendship.  The first time I went to visit her in San Francisco, I'd just ended a four year relationship. Then I whisked into town giddy on romance with Mountain Man.  When that went nowhere, I returned to the west coast for reality television and Elizabeth-time.  

 Our visits are less dramatic than they used to be - and I couldn't be more thankful.

And though I'm embarrassed it took me 32 years to figure it out - watching Elizabeth and Kristof work so easily together, and exists so happily as a couple without the drama that so many of us (me) had confused for true romantic love, it occurred to me that real love isn't cobbled together by a string of highs and lows.



The day-to-day comfort of knowing someone who wants the same out of life that you do, who has your back and will make you laugh and builds you up - that's what solid relationships are all about. It might not make for a Hollywood film or a good romance novel, but off the emotional roller coaster seems to be where all the good stuff happens.

Right in the middle. 

Then again, good stuff also happens at an out of town rehearsal dinner where the wine flows easily.

Considering the groom split his pants before the party even started - (I love you, Kristof!) - I shouldn't have been too surprised that after several (se-ver-al) glasses of wine, and a couple dozen toasts, guests started falling again. Into fountains. And bushes.

There may or may not have been some indecent exposure, and I'm not talking about Kristof.

I'm sure all of the California crowd was looking at us, shaking their heads and thinking, "Who are these Georgia rednecks?"

Country had certainly come to town. And everyone (well, most everyone) was grateful.  

the ranch, part one.

Without necessarily doing new things everyday, which is what I used to blog about before I turned 30 and how this blog got started in the first place, sometimes I wonder where it's going.  What's its purpose?

I mean, I think I'm quite clever sometimes, but my biggest fear is that someone will get to the end of one of these blogs and say, "Yeah?  So what?" 

Perhaps that's why I've tried to look for the larger meaning in just about everything - how can I make this road trip a metaphor for life kind of stuff, which even I recognize can get a little hokey and annoying.  I mean, sometimes a road trip is just a road trip, you know? 

I myself love to read blogs that really have nothing more to say than, "This is my life, these are my crafts, those are my kids."

I do not have crafts or kids, but I do have a pretty good life and I believe it's worth writing about.   I understand that doesn't mean anyone is going to want to read about it, but that's a chance all of us bloggers must take.
     
So full disclosure here (I don't want anyone getting to the end and saying, "Yeah, so what?"), the next leg of my summertime journey that started at my friend Kelly's has absolutely no deeper meaning than, "wild wedding weekend."  So if you came looking for inspiration or profound words about the meaning of life, you may want to move it along.

Please don't leave without at least perusing the pictures of my hot friends and the gorgeous scenery that we partied in for three days.  This was the kind of weekend that was so much fun, I felt sad when it ended because I knew the anticipation of it was over, and even if I did my best to recreate it, I'd never succeed.



But there is a good chance that these stories I'm about to tell, many of which have been watered down for the parents and children who may visit, are all of the "You had to be there," variety.  

I'm going to tell them anyway.  Besides, I know that there at least 20 people (the cast of characters I call my friends) who will think these stories are worth telling.  I dedicate all of Elizabeth's wedding blogs to them.

Elizabeth's California wedding was in her "backyard," since she lives in San Francisco.  To many of her east coast friends, it was a destination wedding that involved a great deal of planning beforehand, most about where we were going to stay.  

Leave it to the crew from Georgia to decide to take over the cheapest hotel on the list - the Los Laureles Lodge.  Elizabeth's tastes have refined significantly since she moved to California, so I had to believe this place met her standards.  Based on the pictures on the website, though, I couldn't help but think the Lodge reminded me quite a bit of the sublet apartment she and I lived in at Milledge Place in Athens, Georgia.  

I was the first to arrive and I texted Trish, since it was she who had been instrumental in convincing us all to stay there.  

"How is it?" she asked. 

"It's fine," I texted her.  "It's cute.  It kind of reminds me of summer camp."

From the gravel parking lot and the outdated, country decor to the wood paneling and screen doors, it really did remind me of camp.  But not in a negative way.  I mean, it certainly wasn't the Ritz Carlton, but it was affordable, it was clean, it was centrally located, and most importantly - it was a perfect place for my friends and I to completely take over.

And that's exactly what we did.

The innkeepers made a take over easy - putting several of our rooms in a row. 

Despite it having the most occupants in the least amount of space, my room - Room 23 - was a popular meeting place.  Sort of like the front stoop on the television show 227, people were always popping in for a visit. 

The instant camraderie and summer camp feeling often led to unsolicited singing of the theme song from the Nickelodeon show, Salute Your Shorts - "Camp Anawanna, we hold you in our hearts . . ." 

We also started calling the Los Laureles Lodge, the "Ranch."

We referred to the staff of the lodge as the "ranch hands," which in my room full of unmarried women, led to endless teasing about someone making a move on one of the ranch hands, and of course, even more singing.

"I wanna man with a ranch hand . . .," (to the tune of "I wanna man with a slow hand . . .") My friend and trip roommate Lisa made up her own version, "A ranch hand's handssssss . . . ," which I think was a take on the country song, "Daddy's Hands," but I'm honestly not sure.

We talked about "ranch hands" so much during that weekend, that when Rick Santorum delivered his speech at the Republican National Convention and made countless references to hands, my phone immediately started blowing up with friends saying, "Did you hear Santorum talking about hands?  Reminds me of the Ranch!"

The first event of the Elizabeth and Kristof's wedding weekend was on Thursday night - a beach bonfire for all out of town guests. 



I'd noticed on my ride north on the PCH that the temperature is quite different in the Northern California along the coast.  Elizabeth's instructions for us to "wear a light jacket," were appropriate, however for us thin-skinned humidity loving southerners, we might've been better off had she instead advised, "Pack mittens and a warm coat.  And a hat. And cuddle duds. And brown liquor."

It was freezing.

Certainly nothing a glass (or several glasses) of red wine couldn't fix, so my friends and I enjoyed the festivities, toasting the happy couple and getting to know Kristof's family, many of whom had flown in from Belgium.

I got caught up in caught up in the excitement (and the red wine) of meeting everyone, I brilliantly opted to wait until the sun went down to find myself something to eat which meant I was blindly grabbing at Mexican food in aluminum containers.

Thankfully, the summer camp similiarities were endless.  There were S'mores.  And a sing-along.

Trish embraced the sing-a-long - and brought a little bit of the ranch to the beach, spiritedly leading the group in favorites such as Green Day's "Good Riddance" and Don McClean's "American Pie."



When the party ended and it was time to go home, we called our cab driver that we'd appropriately named "Captain" earlier in the evening when he picked us up for the party.  

He arrived to take us home wearing the same tie-dyed shirt, leather vest and Captain's hat he was wearing when he picked us up.  We forced him to take pictures with us before piling into his cab. He offered us some of his moonshine (which he may or may not have been sipping on himself), let Lisa borrow his leather driving gloves, and then took us to the grocery store so we could pick up some rations that every summer camp full of immature 30-somethings' needs -- breakfast muffins . . . a variety pack of Sun Chips . . .and beer.



Then, in what is now my favorite cab ride story of all time that Lisa shared with us later, the Captain turned around to make sure all his human passengers were accounted for and then looked down at his center console and counted off his collection of stuffed animals, one by one.

"Squirrel, check!"

"Bear, check!"

"Dog, check!"

"Ok," he said to Lisa, who was riding shotgun, still wearing the gloves, "Everyone's here, we can go."

And we went.  Back to the ranch.

day drinking.

My friend Elizabeth flew east from California a couple of weeks ago so that we could celebrate her upcoming nuptials, shower her with gifts, and force her to wear a tiara.


I used the shower as the opportunity to validate my extravagant food processor purchase and prove to myself (and to my mother) that I was capable of making more than just pesto.

So when my friend Trish suggested we create a Bloody Mary bar for the party, I first said, out loud to myself, "Booooyaaaaaah." (Seriously, the best idea ever.)

Then I typed an email back to her, "I want to make a Bloody Mary mix. From scratch."



I imagine my super supportive friend Trish was probably on the other end of that email shaking her head at my need to always make things more difficult than they need to be. But she indulged my crazy and simply responded, "Sounds great."

Zing Zang makes a damn near perfect mix already, so my desire to mess with perfection was, and is, troubling. I recognize my own insanity in wanting to spend my entire day in the kitchen coming up with the most perfect recipe for Bloody Marys that also involved hand stuffing olives with blue cheese.

That Friday, I let Trish know, via text, that I had started to make the mix. She texted me back, kinda-jokingly-but-not-really, "Don't screw it up."

The pressure was palpable, but I went for it, juicing lemons and limes, chopping garlic and adding spices, blending away in my food processor. I let the mix incorporate overnight, as suggested, and was excited about how it had turned out. It was certainly different and far more fresh tasting than any other Bloody Mary I'd ever had, but there was a chance it might not go over with a crowd who was used to a pre-made mix.

When it came time to set up the bar, I retrieved the containers holding the Bloody Marys from my bag and nervously put them on the counter. Several of the other hosts looked at me inquisitively.

"It's the mix. I made it from scratch," I said.

I heard how crazy it sounded coming out of my mouth and I flushed with embarrassment when they looked at me and then looked at each other as if to say, "Seriously? Who does this girl think she is?"

But not until my friend Lisa, truly a Bloody Mary connoisseur, arrived and began surveying the scene did I really start to freak. If I did screw it up, I knew she'd be the first one to inform me (and likely everyone else) of her disappointment.

Why, oh why my need to be experimental?



The shower started and though we had other drink options, nearly everyone wanted to get in on the Bloody Mary bar. I held my breath as they all filled their glasses and smiled big when every single person came to tell me, "These. Are. Awesome."

Since I have unabashedly shared my kitchen mishaps on this blog (pumpkin pie, anyone?), nothing pleases me more than to be able to tell you these Bloody Marys were at hit. People could not get enough.

We did end up having to go into our stash of backup Zing Zang, but only because the fresh Bloody Mary mix (MY mix) ran out so quickly. Even the 50 and over crowd (ahem, Trish's mom Claire, who doesn't even drink) was clamoring for it. We were day drinking. Aggressively.


I considered keeping the recipe to myself in hopes of achieving worldwide cocktail fame, a la Bethenny Frankel, but seeing as how I mostly stuck to Emeril's Bloody Mary Mix Recipe (below), I guess that's probably out of the question. I did increase the amount of garlic and hot sauce and added celery salt for extra flavor. The mix was rather thick, even after we added the vodka, so we added in a cup of water as well.

• 3 cups tomato juice
• 3 tablespoons lemon juice
• 3 tablespoons lime juice
• 1 tablespoon prepared horseradish
• 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce or to taste
• 1 teaspoon minced garlic
• 3/4 teaspoon hot sauce, or to taste (recommended: Tabasco)
• 3/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

I'm all about shortcuts when it comes to throwing parties, but if you have the time to make Bloody Mary mix from scratch, I highly recommend it.


I also recommend throwing a shower that begins at 11am, takes a time out for an afternoon nap and then goes well into the next morning. There truly is no other way to party.

Cheers!

sorry for partying.

I've never been a huge St. Patrick's Day fan, which is a shame, really, because everyone else in America seems to love it. Plus, I look Irish, I’ve been to Ireland, I enjoy Guinness and Black Velvets, Irish coffees, and the color green. What's not to love?

I guess it's not that I DISlike it, I just find the Shamrock Fests, Lucky Fests, Any (insert name here) Fests less fun, more mere opportunities to pay a lot of money to wait in long lines for beers next to girls dressed like sluts. I get it - this kind of debauchery is right up some people's alley, but it's not really for me. Maybe I'm a curmudgeon or just lame, but the older I get, the less I like hanging out in large crowds of people I don't already know. Unless music is involved. And then I make an exception.

So going to Savannah - home to the third largest St. Patrick's Day celebration in the country (according to Orbitz.com) - had never really interested me. The crowds, the lines, the college drunks - I just assumed it'd be like amateur hour for party-goers. But when my friend Lisa moved there, I decided, even without the promise of good music, to make an exception and give it a go.

Plus, it's Savannah. And I love Savannah.



So I, along with another willing participant Kristin, hit the road early Friday and headed for the Georgia Lowcountry, excited to see Lisa and what this celebration was all about.

Somewhere between Macon and Dublin, Georgia, Kristin said she'd never been to St. Pat's in Savannah either. Then she asked, "So, what is it? What are we going to do?"

I laughed out loud and nearly ran off the road, because she'd asked the very question I'd wondered to myself since agreeing to go. Kristin, much like myself, was just along for the ride. Lisa said, "Come to Savannah," and we said, "Ok." No questions asked.

Maybe we didn't know exactly what we were getting ourselves into, but within just hours of arriving, we were walking around the picturesque city with cold beers in hand (thank you, no open container law), so I was happy.


This little girl saw my camera, ran in front of me and begged me to take her picture, saying, "Put me on TV!"

After our walk/tour, we cleaned up (which always takes longer when there are three women asking each other, "Does this look okay?" "How should I wear my hair?" and "Are these shoes too tall?" - my shoes were definitely too tall, by the way; huge mistake). Then we headed downtown, eventually winding up in a beautiful bar, Circa 1895, drinking dirty martinis, meeting (and then offending) new friends and telling stories for hours. I couldn't help but thinking that I had misjudged Savannah's St. Patrick's Day weekend.

If this is what it's all about, then count me in.




On Saturday, our plan was to meet Lisa's friends at Oglethorpe Square to watch the parade. But when Saturday morning came, sleeping in became way more important. Lucky for us, the local television station televised the event, so we didn't miss any of the "action."

I realize I could offend everyone in the city of Savannah (except for Lisa who agrees with me), but I thought this parade was rather sad. Parades need floats or clowns or balloons or all of the above. Not old people with green jackets on golf carts or little kids dressed in jumpers waving at their friends. Just because a parade is long (and this one lasted about 3.5 hours), doesn't mean that it's good.

Even though the event was lame, I still felt a little guilty missing it, since that's what the entire festival centers around. But we did watch it, in our pajamas, in the comfort of Lisa's apartment, making fun of the parade announcers, playing with Lisa's dog Murray, and making each other laugh. I guess you could say we had a little parade of our own.

A freak parade.



We eventually made it out, stopping at one of the squares that resembled a Georgia North Campus tailgate party only everyone was wearing green instead of red and black, and then down to River Street where most of the almost one million people that descend upon Savannah bring their shenanigans to party. As it turned out, our little freak parade at Lisa's paled in comparison to the jean shorts convention going on down by the river.

It was a sea of debaucherous green.




Once we secured a table at Tubby's Tank House, which despite the huge crowds and long lines didn't take nearly as long as it could have, we watched the passersby, accepted cat calls from strangers and waved at anyone who looked our direction.

Some guys yelled at us. We took pictures of them.





By the time we'd made it to Tubby's, we were starving. So we order one of everything off the menu (not really, but close) and ate until we were stuffed.

I also tried to dance with a police officer, but he declined, and said he didn't want his picture taken. His loss.



On Sunday, we ended the weekend with coffee at Gallery Espresso, and later tacos at Tybee Social Club.



My weekend did little to disprove everything that I know to be true about myself - the craziness of Savannah on St. Patrick's Day is, on paper, not really my scene. The crowds, the scantily clad women and creepers whistling - it was a little too much sometimes.

But I love a good party. And Savannah throws excellent parties.

So excellent, even, that sometimes my friends and I have to leave the party before 10pm to go to bed. I'm ok with it.