I am approximately 80% "basic." I eat a ton of Kale (in smoothie form and otherwise), have a white iPhone with a designer case, and have been known to caption my (heavily filtered) Instagram photos with #squadgoals and #blessed. I draw the line at drinking pumpkin spice lattes and wearing Ugg boots in public, but for all intents and purposes I know I'm a cliché and I've accepted it.
Like any #basicbitch in 2015, I LOVE Taylor Swift. The Bad Blood video basically got me through my last breakup, and I am absolutely certain that if ever we were to meet we'd be immediate best friends and she would invite me on her and Karlie's next Vogue-photographed BFF road trip. We both like kittens, both enjoy eating at Bubby's in TriBeCa and both have made careers of writing about our ex-boyfriends.
Last month, when I was invited to spend the weekend with a friend who lives in the town next to Taylor in Rhode Island, I was understandably ecstatic. (I was also excited to go to the beach, drink wine at the fire pit and hang out on her friend's boat, but, come on guys-- it's TAYLOR SWIFT.)
The weekend was off to a rocky start after I got lost on Friday night post-3am swim in the ocean and had to be taken home in a police car, but it was worth it because I now had an AWESOME story to tell Taylor when I ran into her on the beach.
After an amazing Saturday spent sailing out to Block Island to drink mudslides, we headed off to dinner at the (very, very fancy) restaurant directly next door to Taylor's house. This was my chance. I put on my fanciest sundress (that I could get away with wearing without a bra, because a usual, I had forgotten to bring one on vacation) and made myself as presentable as one possibly can after spending the afternoon drinking mudslides.
Though Taylor was nowhere to be found, dinner was truly amazing. We watched the sunset from the most beautiful place I have ever been, and the food, wine and conversation were all fabulous.
At 8:30, we were told that we had a half an hour before the restaurant closed and we would have to leave, so we naturally ordered 2 bottles of rosé and took our sweet, sweet time drinking it (wise women, I know). Despite the dirty looks from the waitress (and the other diners, who I don't think were quite accustomed to seeing a group like ours at this particular establishment on a Saturday night) we took our time finishing the wine and ended up far, far overstaying our welcome.
Which was totally fine, until we realized we had no way to get home.
We had been dropped off at the restaurant before dinner, and had planned to get a taxi home when we were done (none of us had any intention of being in driving shape). 4 bottles of wine and a round of dirty martinis later, we were ready to call it a night and called the local cab company, who pretty much laughed in our faces and told us it was going to be at least 5 hours before someone could come pick us up.
There were no cabs, no Ubers and no other options at that time of night in the teeny beach town of Watch Hill — We were pretty much screwed.
Luckily, one of my girlfriends — who happens to be one of the best problem-solvers I know — took it upon herself to find us a ride. She disappeared for 6 minutes, and returned (as she always does) with a solution.
"No problem guys! Jack is going to take us home!"
... Who?
Jack, as it turned out, was the 17-year-old valet at the hotel, and agreed to drive us the 15 minutes back to the house for an exorbitant amount of money. But Jack was kind of cute, and was our ONLY option (plus, we had no idea he was 7 years younger than us at the time this transaction was made).
We all piled into the car — me with an empty martini glass still in hand — and sang (ok, screamed) Jason Derulo's "WANT YOU TO WANT ME" the entire way home (further proof that I'm pretty basic) while simultaneously grilling 17-year-old Jack about his life and begging him to come to a party with us. It was at this point that we learned how old he was, which wasn't great, but did not disparage us from bombarding him with personal questions.
15 minutes later, and a near nervous breakdown later, Jack got us home safely. We tipped him generously, but it was still, apparently, the most difficult money he's ever made (which was practically more than I made in a day at my old job, and for way less manual labor, but whatever). He did not, in case you were wondering, decide to come to the party with us.
A special, special thank you to our wonderful host for the weekend, and to her amazing mom (who happens to be one of the few loyal fans of this blog) for tolerating all of the madness, and for showing me where the "I KNEW YOU WERE TROUBLE WHEN YOU WALKED IN— NO TRESPASSING" sign used to be on Taylor's lawn. Love you both so much!
Oh, and as it turned out, Taylor had a concert in Seattle that weekend.
 |
| Babes at the Ocean House, blurred because my friends have real jobs. |
Though Taylor was nowhere to be found, dinner was truly amazing. We watched the sunset from the most beautiful place I have ever been, and the food, wine and conversation were all fabulous.
At 8:30, we were told that we had a half an hour before the restaurant closed and we would have to leave, so we naturally ordered 2 bottles of rosé and took our sweet, sweet time drinking it (wise women, I know). Despite the dirty looks from the waitress (and the other diners, who I don't think were quite accustomed to seeing a group like ours at this particular establishment on a Saturday night) we took our time finishing the wine and ended up far, far overstaying our welcome.
Which was totally fine, until we realized we had no way to get home.
We had been dropped off at the restaurant before dinner, and had planned to get a taxi home when we were done (none of us had any intention of being in driving shape). 4 bottles of wine and a round of dirty martinis later, we were ready to call it a night and called the local cab company, who pretty much laughed in our faces and told us it was going to be at least 5 hours before someone could come pick us up.
There were no cabs, no Ubers and no other options at that time of night in the teeny beach town of Watch Hill — We were pretty much screwed.
Luckily, one of my girlfriends — who happens to be one of the best problem-solvers I know — took it upon herself to find us a ride. She disappeared for 6 minutes, and returned (as she always does) with a solution.
"No problem guys! Jack is going to take us home!"
... Who?
Jack, as it turned out, was the 17-year-old valet at the hotel, and agreed to drive us the 15 minutes back to the house for an exorbitant amount of money. But Jack was kind of cute, and was our ONLY option (plus, we had no idea he was 7 years younger than us at the time this transaction was made).
We all piled into the car — me with an empty martini glass still in hand — and sang (ok, screamed) Jason Derulo's "WANT YOU TO WANT ME" the entire way home (further proof that I'm pretty basic) while simultaneously grilling 17-year-old Jack about his life and begging him to come to a party with us. It was at this point that we learned how old he was, which wasn't great, but did not disparage us from bombarding him with personal questions.
15 minutes later, and a near nervous breakdown later, Jack got us home safely. We tipped him generously, but it was still, apparently, the most difficult money he's ever made (which was practically more than I made in a day at my old job, and for way less manual labor, but whatever). He did not, in case you were wondering, decide to come to the party with us.
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| I got in a lot of trouble for this filter, but I think we look tan and awesome. |
A special, special thank you to our wonderful host for the weekend, and to her amazing mom (who happens to be one of the few loyal fans of this blog) for tolerating all of the madness, and for showing me where the "I KNEW YOU WERE TROUBLE WHEN YOU WALKED IN— NO TRESPASSING" sign used to be on Taylor's lawn. Love you both so much!
Oh, and as it turned out, Taylor had a concert in Seattle that weekend.
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