When you hear the word “yacht”, you probably think of Jay and Beyonce drinking champagne on their private vessel in the middle of the French Riviera. Something like this, right?
No. Not right. Wrong. This was essentially the “yacht” I was expected to meet my soulmate on.
A little less Jay and Beyonce on the French Riviera, a little more shark boat at the end of Jaws. It was like the Black Pearl without the warmth and charm. As someone who has lived at sea (holla, SAS S08!), I am very picky as to where I spend my time on the ocean. And by ocean, I mean New York Harbor with dirty diapers floating around. Samesies. Anyway, this shit was like a rundown ferry. I’m fairly certain I contracted tetanus.
So, the batch of eligible bachelors on this cruise is something only to be imagined. I truly try to have a positive outlook in life. I like to THINK that I go into every situation with a great attitude, but I also like to think that it’s okay if I do not really adjust my speed when I see a slow-ass posse of birds crossing in the middle of the street. I could be wrong. The group of singles that were herded on this vessel made me ashamed to be a member of the human race. Talk about a gaggle of misfits. My god. As they came streaming in, I thought I was witnessing a perp walk. Can I get a full set of teeth in here? Some clothing with some cotton or silk in it and not just polyester fibers? What the fuck. The men on this boat closely resembled every single character that Steve Buschemi has ever played in an Adam Sandler movie.
There were two ladies behind me in line that were dressed like they were going to their cousins quinceanera, and they were also horrified at the selection of potential mates. One of them said, “what the hell. This is not for me. I only date ball players.” I’m sorry? Ball players? Oh, you’re talking about the guy who works part-time with his uncle Darius and shoots hoops with his friends at the park across the street, right? The park with no net on the rim, right? You must be. SURELY you did not think that Carmelo Anthony and Amar'e Stoudemire signed up for a Sunday night singles cruise. Something tells me that they are doing perfectly fine on their own. They do not need to spend $25 to have a coordinator named Deb organize ice-breaker games to meet women. Wait, how many of you are proud of me that I could name two players on the Knicks? FINE, I HAD TO GOOGLE IT. GET OFF MY ASS, ALREADY.
As the ship was pulling off, most people on board probably thought I looked so peaceful and pensive as I was gazing at the beautiful waters around us. I was actually calculating how quickly I would die from NYC water toxins if I jumped off the side and swam to shore. I decided I didn’t want to risk it because the odds of me getting rescued by a cute fireman like one from Chicago Fire was slim given my luck, so I realized that the name of the game for the evening was chug as much chardonnay as I could squeeze down my gullet and try to make it until 10pm.
I had been doing a pretty good job of avoiding guys all night, when a couple of Africans strolled over and decided to sit with me and my two friends. DAMNIT. I couldn’t figure out why they came over. I had been doing all the right things. I had puffed my gut out (more than it usually does naturally on its own), I messed up my hair a little. I was silently mouthing the lyrics to “Party in the USA” so I looked a little crazy talking to myself. I pulled out all the tricks I use on public transportation when I don’t want anyone to sit next to me. You basically just want to look as unappealing and weird as possible.
I guess my radiant beauty just can not be masked. Anyway, these guys sat down and all the fake texting and phone calls could not deter them. I gave up and was like, fine, whatever, I’ll be nice. They were talking about something for about 25 minutes, but I couldn’t tell you what it was about. I was too busy wondering if African #1 would notice if I stole his sea breeze. I did manage to find out that they were from Cote d'Ivoire. Guys, let me tell you about my time in Africa. It is tangent time. So back in 2008 when I was a young girl of only 21, I did SAS (duh) and one of our stops was South Africa. Wait. Some dumb girl on the ship who I didn’t even really know came up to me before we got to Cape Town and was like, “OMG, Lindsay. This must be so major for you. You’re going home. What's it like?” You dumb trick. We’re going to my home? Really? I had no idea we were sailing to Long Island! Oh, wowie! I can't wait to show you all the strip malls and bagel places. Dummy. Okay, that’s my tangent’s tangent. So we arrive at my “home” and all is great.
Ooooh, girl. Do NOT get off that ship. I loved South Africa, and South Africa did NOT love me back. While strolling with my friends, I would get yelled at with things like, “I want the big juicy fat one in the middle!” and “uh oh, here comes big, big, big trouble!” EXCUSE YOU, AFRICA. IT IS JUST A LITTLE BABY FAT AND I AM WORKING ON IT. THANK YOU. And trouble? I play connect four by myself for fun. Get out of here. In the townships, I was literally followed by little kids who would throw pebbles at me. Great. I came to the motherland and got stoned. I thought I had finally gotten close to some teen girls I met at a school who liked my headband (smart girls), but once they found out that I did not know Paris Hilton personally just because I was from America, it was a fucking wrap and I was not worth their time. I’m sorry, do you know Charlize Theron? Does she come to your house for Sunday dinner? Didn’t think so. Ugh, I bet Oprah’s girls would never treat me like this. Long story short, I have some issues to work through with that beautiful continent. Yep, the whole thing.
Okay, so these guys told us where they were from, and they were talking about how they spoke French and I made the mistake of saying, “comment t'appelles-tu?” which is literally the only thing I remember from the three months of French I took in fifth grade. Thank you, Madame Harrington. You would have thought I told them that I was Ed McMahon and I just showed up at their door with a monster sized check. They freaked out. Calm down, I’m just passing time until I can muster up the energy to go get more booze. My one little line of French opened up a flood gate, and they started throwing French at me like I was Marie fucking Antoinette. I just sat and nodded and thought about jumping into that water again, ugly firemen be damned. The boat was so loud that I still could not hear anything these dudes were saying, and then all of the sudden, one of them picks up my hand and starts kissing it. Like, repeatedly. What the fuck was going on? My first thought was to pull my hand away, but 1) my wine would have spilled and that would have been a trav, and 2) three little words came to mind. Coming. To. America.
WHAT IF THESE AFRICANS WERE ACTUALLY PRINCES, ON THIS LAME SINGLES CRUISE TO MEET A SWEET AND UNASSUMING AMERICAN LADY?! Let me find out that I rebuffed the advances of a prince, and watch me jump off of a bridge. Guys, I would literally be a nubian princess. I would have been the best royalty Africa has seen since Scar.
That’s a Disney reference, folks. It would have also given me a chance to exact my revenge on everyone who ever wronged me over there, Count of Monte Cristo style. The fact that Cote d'Ivoire is like 3,000 miles away from South Africa doesn’t matter. Revenge is revenge. Even though there was a faint chance that I could be the next Kate Middleton, something inside me told me that rose petals and James Earl Jones would not be waiting for me back at the dock, so I somehow found a way to shake free of the Africans and went back to the bar.
The disastrous cruise was almost over and I could see the port so close, yet so very far away. We had about 15 minutes left, and then I would go back home where my High School Musical 3 DVD was waiting for me. Second Disney reference. I’m minding my own beeswax, and some weird dude comes up to me and is all up in my grill. I don’t even remember what he looked like because 1) the booze, and 2) the new name of the game was no eye contact. I remember glancing once, and then calling it a day on being nice. His opening line to me was, “wow, you’re tall”. I was done. He then goes on to say, “why are you frowning so hard?” Hard is a texture. Can you frown a texture? And I am frowning because you are 4 inches from my face and your breath smells like Greek yogurt that has been left in the sun for 5 fucking days, and my nostrils are on fire. Thats why I’m frowning. I just said I was tired and he offered to take me home if I told him where I lived. HA, he obvi had no idea how much Law and Order: SVU I watch. Elliot Stabler would NEVER approve of that. I’m not trying to end up in a padlocked refrigerator under some overpass by the docks. Ice-T would find my foot floating in the river or some shit. No bueno. He did, however, trick me into giving him my phone number. I am too much of a lady to give a fake number (see past posts about the reject hotline), so there was that. THEN, he grabs my head, RUINS MY PERFECT SIDE PONY, and slowly leans in for the kill. GET. YOUR. CRUSTY. FUNKY. HERPES-INFESTED. LIPS. AWAY. FROM. ME. I do NOT have insurance, I can NOT afford all of the antibiotics that it would take to kill whatever it is you are planning on giving to me. Ya know when you find one wonky, dried-out, discolored baby carrot in the bottom on your fridge? That's what his lips looked like.
They looked like slugs after you pour salt on those little bastards and they shrivel up and die and then their corpses rot in the sun the next day. There was no way those things were getting near my beautiful face. Do you understand the lengths I go to to get my face to be this texture? You’re not roughing it up, no siree bob. Do you remember when Belle repeatedly dodges Gaston and his creepy sexual advances in Beauty and the Beast?
That is what the scene on the janky, ferry boat looked like. Third Disney reference. Speaking of Beauty and the Beast, please contact me with your phone number so that the next time I am drinking, I can call you and serenade you with the ENTIRE song “Belle” (the song with all the townspeople). It’s kinda my thing. It’s just what I do. I do all of the parts by myself. It’s magic.
So anyway, I successfully avoid this crunchy looking dude and his rusty mouth, and I bounce the fuck off of that ship. I finally get home and recover from such a great evening, and THEN, I get THIS gem yesterday.
LIZZY? I know ONE Lizzy, and that is my arch nemesis and frenemy, Lizzy McGuire. Fourth Disney reference. At least get my name right. If you are reading this blog, then you are (probably)(kinda)(maybe not) my friend, and you should know how much I love my fucking name. Lindsay Chandler Mays. All day, every day. BTW, more than just my name, I love my monogram and initials (TWO DIFFERENT THINGS, PEOPLE), so when I marry, it would be great if my hubs last name also began with an “m”. I just have too many personalized shirts, totes, and necklaces to change it up now. I also LOVE first names as last names (James, Matthew [no “S”], Brian, etc), so I decided I have to find someone with a last name beginning with “m” that is also a first name. I have found exactly ONE person on my entire FB friend list who fits this criteria. If you are a male, between 22 and 30, and your last names is a first name that begins with an "m" and you are reading this, know that I am talking about YOU, and we’re gonna happen sooner or later, so just get ready. Just don’t worry about it, I’ll contact you when the time is right. If you think I’m joking, you obvi don’t know me well. It’s alright. We’ll have our whole lives together for you to get to know me.
GR8? I literally do not have the energy or enough time in the day to get into why “gr8” is the worst thing to appear on my phone screen since Sallie Mae found a way to start texting. LEAVE ME ALONE, BITCH. YOU WILL NEVER GET MY MONEY.
Here’s what you all need to take away from this. Africa hates me. Apparently slobbering on yourself on purpose attracts men. I love wine in plastic cups. I love Disney even more. I’m still single.