This weekend I wandered into the deep, dark woods of the Catskills with a bunch of friends. Every once in awhile we find some place far away from civilization where we can indulge in massive amounts of disgusting keg beer, games, and food that makes us nauseous. It’s pretty amazing–a lot like The Big Chill, without the death, cocaine, or wife swapping (as far as I know). For years, my friends have been going to “The Lake House” but until this weekend I’ve never been able to go, so I was counting on it to be epic.
PrissyBitch put this little shindig together, which meant it was a Tri-State area gathering, with folks coming in from all over CT, NY, and the Dirty Jerz. Rather intrepidly, we set out on Friday for the house. If you remember correctly, it was pouring. In upstate New York, however, it was snowing. That didn’t really present a problem until we really got to the middle of nowhere and the plows seemed to have forsaken the place.
In the emails leading up to the big day one of our friends, known only as Bear, suggested that if anyone in a front wheel drive vehicle had a problem getting up a hill they should turn around and drive backward up the problematic hill. We were in the AWD Volvo, so this didn’t really pertain to us, but it didn’t stop us from pretending we were going to. Eventually we got to the house and it wasn’t long before the other folks started showing up.
Somewhere along the line Renaissance Man decided to personalize everyone’s Solo cups for the weekend and quickly gave us the weekend’s first running joke: the scorpadillo. Now, this was meant to be a scorpion for the PrissyBitch who, I learned, spent quite some time in college wanting a scorpion tattoo on her neck. I immediately started making fun of her. Well, it’s a good thing she didn’t let Renaissance Man design her tattoo because what was meant to be a scorpion looked much more like armadillo… now better known as a scorpadillo.
Friday night was going along swimmingly and then Bear got out the 4Loko. I won’t even drink a regular energy drink, nevermind one with alcohol in it, but Bear doesn’t seem to have a problem with bad decisions and he housed that thing after quite a few watery keg beers. This led to an angry wife, me contemplating a call to the police to report the illegal possession of this monstrosity, and a conversation that went some like this between Bear and Renaissance Man:
Renaissance Man: “Drinking is fine. It’s healthy. I mean, not this…not what we’re doing. This isn’t healthy. But drinking is OK.”
Bear had a few other choice quotes of the evening–one included teaching his son to do something no father should ever teach his son to do. We will never, never let him live that one down.
Saturday morning–or, more accurately, Saturday afternoon–we all woke up, ate, found out that Dave had unconsciously roamed the house in the wee hours of the morning startling many people, and then headed out to the slopes… and by slopes, I mean the meticulously groomed sledding path that led from the top of the hill behind the house all the way down to the lake. If you had an especially good run, which I had at least one of, you found yourself out on the frozen lake wondering if you were going to die. Lucky for you readers, I lived to tell the tale.
After endangering our lives, we headed back inside for “lunch” around 5 p.m. That’s what happens when half the house doesn’t get up until noon. I spent a few hours alternating between being awesome at Wii disc-golf and being terrible at Wii disc-golf: that’s what Pabst Blue Ribbon does to you.
At 10 o’clock we finally sat down for Taco Night, which is not a euphemism… I’m talking about dinner. We spent most of that time reminiscing about Chapelle’s Show and how genius it was. Eventually we went back to drinking… and now I’m too tired to bother telling you the rest of the story.
Long story short: if you’re experiencing some serious winter blues, get a house with some friends, get drunk, and go sledding. You’ll feel better.