Friday, June 02, 2006

Not a Hamptons Girl

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I am not a Hampton girl. I don’t wear J. Crew ribbon belts or buy $1,300 knit dresses. I don’t need a man to pay for my dinner, or get me into fancy clubs, and I am not looking for a husband. And since these are the types of women that I normally meet when I am in the Hamptons, I think it is safe to say that I am not a Hampton’s girl.

That being said, I acted like a Hamptons girl this Memorial Day weekend.

It was only my second time to the isle of privilege. The first time was on my 31st Birthday. Fun, but empty, I decided it really wasn't my thing. But when Amelie called to tell me she would be leaving New York and had never been to the Hamptons, I called Carpe and she put it together. Truth be told, I needed a break from DC. And I needed to see my three best friends.

I am fascinated by the Hamptons culture. A culture where all the things I find deplorable about New York are celebrated out in the open. A fancy car matters more than your spirit, a model on your arm is cool currency, designer duds demand respect, and money is the great equalizer. Although I find these things unattractive, I engaged in them all this weekend.

Memorable Memorial Day Moments and Lessons Learned:
  • It is Memorial Day Weekends and all the stars have aligned to put me on a train headed to the Hamptons with my three best friends. Mex and I are perched over the back of our train seats watching Carpe and Amelie page through US and In Touch magazine. Mex fills me up with the intellectual exchange of ideas. Carpe coddles me like a mama bear and Amelie sees the world with optimistic innocence. All of this and we are still on the LIRR.
  • I am not into cars. But I’ve never sat shotgun in a 2005 Red Ferrari cornering through the hills of Southampton. I think it is now safe to say that Ferraris make me, well, a little horny. And no matter how hot a man is, I am sad to say that I have fallen into the superficial trap of thinking he’s ten times hotter when he offers me a ride in his Ferrari.
  • The house is a Southhampton manse with six bedrooms, a pool, hot tub, tennis and basketball courts. Oh, and a basement set up with cots to provide beds for the 15 + models shacking up free to provide house ambience. They let me sleep their too.
  • Night number one left me restless after listening to the bed in the room above me move across the floor from loud and boistrous sex. I bonded with at least two models as we giggled under the sheets next to one empty model bed.
  • When tanning topless poolside, don’t forget to apply sunscreen. Carpe learned the hard way.
  • It’s a beach town. But a beach town with a Gucci store along Main Street. So there is no walking around in thin summer dresses with your wet swim suit imprinting perfectly round spots under your breasts. Having two girlfriends with gorgeous smiles and charming laughs on either side, means that no one notices your wet spots.
  • Our second night brought us to Sag Harbor and a new club opening up without a liquor license. Sober clubs in the Hamptons don’t draw a crowd. But that was okay for Carpe, Amelie, Mex, and I. We had our own private DJ and a wide open dance floor to really try out the moves we had learned earlier that day during poolside aerobics.
  • Everyone in the Hamptons wants to hook up. It is like going back to High School on a Friday afternoon. Everyone roaming the halls chattering about who they are going to hook up with later that night. In the Hamptons, there is a constant buffet of tan options.
    Night three found us cooking a meal together. And we sat down at a table to eat it. Like one big incestual, dysfunctional family. And it was nice.
  • Matt Hughes could hold me in a triangle head lock for a very long time before I would tap out.
  • Going to the Hamptons is like going to camp. No matter what you think of a person when you first meet them, four days eating, partying, brunching and listening to them fuck, make you instant friends. As does rubbing each other down in a massage train.
  • The first time I went to the Hamptons, I felt so young. This time, I felt like the big sis. Julie McCoy, cruise director. House Mom to a crew of eighteen to twenty three year old girls. Constantly overlooked for something younger, less wrinkly, with perkier boobs. Our host wrapped me up in a hug when he dropped us at the train station. “You are a real sweetheart,” he spoke softly into my ear. A sweetheart? When did I stop being that little vixen, grow up and become, nice? But he is the host. So I don’t retort. Because I want to come back. Even though I’m not really a Hamptons girl.

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posted by Pop Culture Casualty @ 6/02/2006 12:23:00 AM |


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