Recommended wine for today’s entry: 2008 Thomas Henry Chardonnay, from Sonoma. I tried this recently and found it comparable to a Tormaresca or even a Bonterra chardonnay — both favorites for everyday drinking. It was a silver award winner in chardonnays in the $10-$14.99 range at winejudging.com. The description from the winery’s Web site: “The Thomas Henry Chardonnay was fermented and aged in stainless steel. Flavors of Asian pear and bright apple aromatics. The finish is bright, clean, and smooth. Great on its own as an aperatif, or enjoy with seafood, or a light cream sauce pasta.” I had it with shrimp tacos and it was perfect!
OK. I have returned from my brief jaunt to South Beach — SOBE, to you young rockstars who are under 40 — and here is what I did NOT see:
Here’s what I DID see:
A bunch of women who obviously shopped for (and subsequently donned) swimwear at night, during a blackout, with their eyes taped shut with scads of duck tape. There is not one thing you could say to convince me that even ONE of the Roseanne look-alikes who had chairs surrounding us on the beach honestly put on the string bikini, held up the flaps of back fat so her husband could tie it, then looked at the mirror and went, “Yes. It’s perfect! That’s the look I was shooting for.”
And next to them: men, often bordering on decrepit, in Speedos so tight that their legs were turning blue. I shudder to think about what circulation issues the Speedo was causing to their boy parts. Actually, I just really did just shudder — even thinking about thinking about that. Ick. I am going to have to watch Glee tonight to get hairy, droopy old men in clingy swimwear OUT OF MY HEAD. LALALALALA…they’re not going away!!
Of course, there were also the topless women. And of course, they set up shop right next to me, so that everytime I rolled over to tan my back, I was staring straight at them. Just a bit uncomfortable. Well, actually, they didn’t seem to care at all, but I am an admitted prude and so I avoided turning over. Now I have a very white back and my face looks like the old tanned leathery landlady from There’s Something About Mary.
The whole “Hey, let’s get nekked on the beach and see what sheltered prude we can totally freak out” thing reminded me of the third day of my honeymoon in St. Maarten. That morning, we packed a cute little picnic of Amstel Light and smoked gouda and baguette and found this really remote beach. It was really remote at like 10 in the morning, at least. So we unfurled our little beach mats, carefully folded our cute little beach cover-ups (OK, that was just me) into little pillows, and promptly fell asleep. It’s good we got a nap in because that night I ate escargot and threw up for the ensuing 48 hours and my brand spanking new husband had to listen to me. He was very lucky though, as they had a Little House on the Prairie marathon going on and he didn’t seem to mind that it was in Dutch.
Anyway, when I awakened on the beach, the sun was high overhead, the surf had come in and this yicky, wrinkly old man (and he was old even by my age-adjusted to NOW standards) was, uh… waving at me. In a matter of speaking.
So I immediately flailed my arms about, trying to cover my eyes but only flinging sand into them, and slugged my husband in the arm as hard as I could. Where did you BRING me? Wait til I tell my father what you’ve done! You freaking sicko. Now, mind you, I was still staring at the naked George Burns look-alike, kinda like you stare at an accident scene. I also wanted to make sure he didn’t come any closer.
My husband was still half asleep and said he didn’t see anything. The guy was walking past now, so I screamed and pointed …OHMYGOD THERE IS A TOTALLY BUTT NAKED ONE-HUNDRED-YEAR-OLD MAN WALKING RIGHT THERE…RIGHT THERE…RIGHT THERE AND LOOK YOU IDIOT, HE LIKES ME!
Now I understand that I am not the most liberal person in the world, but it can be quite disconcerting to awaken from a gentle slumber only to find a past-its-prime package not ten feet from your face. I hope it never happens again.
At least it was only topless women in South Beach, and had they not been on display in the chair next to mine, I might not have noticed.
Oh, but there was the guy who stood next to his car on Ocean Boulevard at 5 p.m. and stripped off his swimsuit, fished in the backseat, pulled out a pair of sparkling white grippies, stepped into them, fished in the backseat, pulled out a pair of shorts, stepped into them …
I definitely recommend a South Beach vacation, all in all. We had a lovely time, a lovely hotel, and oh, a REALLY lovely Italian 30-year-old waiter on Tuesday night.
Who needs Don Johnson?