Last weekend, I was in Virginia, "Down by the Rivah." There's a substantial group of girls that I've been friends with since elementary school, who've not only managed to tolerate me, but love me for the past 20 years.
We've all taken different directions in our lives that led us to different cities, but every summer we roll up a fatty of fellowship and fun and unite at a cottage in the middle of nowhere, somewhere near Tappahannock, Va. by the Rappahannock River, a part of the Chesapeake Bay. You know, where there was a false terrorist attack as seen on Michael Moore's Fahrenheit 9/11.
The girl whose family owns the cottage had been telling us about a neighboring house that had fainting goats in their front yard farm. And, for some reason, this excited me. We drove a golf cart to said house, and we saw a goat alright ... on a chain connected to a dog house. I attempted to scare it, but the guard goat wouldn't faint.
So, instead, we drove the golf cart to a "pirate bar" on the water where the waiter just walked up and handed me a shot of "Dirty Bong Water," in a shot glass that had a picture of aliens having sex on it with the caption: "Aliens Are Cumming."
He then asked me where I was from. "Charlotte, N.C.," I responded proudly.
"How'd you get from the big city to here?"
So I told him the truth: "My spaceship crashed in the rivah, and I figured while I'm here I might as well have a beer."
The next night we stayed at the cottage, made fried green tomatoes, played board games, and celebrated one of our recent engagements by drinking so much champagne that we thought it would be a good idea to jump off the dock and go skinny dipping. Turns out -- not a good idea.
My "sista from anotha mista" was violated by a jellyfish and I landed on a rock, adding another scar to my leg. Apparently, I'm collecting them. Meanwhile, I woke up the next morning with the most unbearable pain for which only cranberry juice could cure. So, we went to the one general store within miles, marked only by an old man sitting on the porch in a rocking chair.
As I was scouring the coolers for cranberry juice, the old man warned us to be careful jet skiing because the rivah was so rough.
"It's OK, I like it rough!" ... I think I need a word filter for when I speak.
He looked at me peculiarly and in the most twang accent said, "You're a trip," somehow making trip a three-syllable word.
(More QC After Dark at www.qcvibes.com)