not quite palm beach


Thank goodness for summer Fridays in advertising.  Mine afforded me to head east in an SUV filled with bottled water, containers of cantaloupe, and an iPod with a playlist titled, “Camp Hamps.”  It’s not really the Hamptons unless you hear JoJo and Will Smith at least twice.  Forget sugar, a teaspoon of Smelly Clarkson will make all the Hamptons drama go down.  It’s all drama, and this doesn’t really counts, mostly because no one feels accountable for their actions.  It’s camp, self-tanner not included (Thank you Gloss Day Spa: for making me get naked and sticky without an orgasm).

Friday night, while we could still smell freshly cut lawns and the sun was still glowing orange, we headed to East Hampton for pizzas.  While there, I met a boy I like to refer to as Rainbow Bright.  Orange shorts, lilac button down shirt, half buttoned.  Blue eyes.  In a word: adorable.  We’d meet up later.  Information was beamed from one high-powered nerd phone to another.

Later consisted of JL East, where my friends and I ordered three plates of French fries and three stools at the bar.   We were ready to settle in for the night.  The chef insisted on sending us entrees with his compliments… for my friend.  More of my friends arrived, the ones without summer Fridays, on plate two of the fries.  And, with them, came the rest of Manhattan, and its men offering polite smiles and offers for drinks, and rides home.  The thing with the Hamptons, it’s suddenly perfectly acceptable to hop into the car of strangers.  It’s what’s done and encouraged.  Make new friends, share crudités with them at 3am, then pass out on their sofas, or in their beds, or make them take you back to your place after they remove their contact lenses.

The story becomes a bit fuzzy here, when I sit poolside while the rest of my house is asleep.  I’m not quite sure how I met the characters I did, only that I was solely responsible for doling out the nicknames for the boys we met.  Stripes and Romeo captured our attention.  I didn’t want to talk about what I did for a living because I still don’t know how to categorize it.  And that’s what I’ve come to say now when people ask.  “I don’t know what I do.  It’s too hard to say.”  Then I list off activities and someone hiccups “renaissance.”  Then I sound like I’m braggy and hate myself the next morning.  I don’t regret a kiss or a brazen move, a grab, or a look.  I regret my mouth and the telling of my life.

I was nearly done with the evening until I’d felt an ice cube on the small of my back while asking the JL waitress/model for a glass of water.  Rainbow Bright’s hand was holding the cube, trying to get my attention.  “Try talking to me next time.”  I don’t understand when men behave as though I’m surrounded by jungle gym bars and black playground flooring.  Pulling my hair isn’t going to work unless we’re kissing.

The next day, I was busy not writing but saying I would write by our pool.  I devoured lobster for lunch, then kicked it with the girls poolside, using facial bleach to combat the uneven self tanner that had marred my unpedicured feet.  I was a disaster.

Later that night, Saturday night, I became a guest, armed with a bottle of obligatory house party wine, at a lovely barbecue.  In the first five minutes, I was faced with an ex—I don’t even know what to call him.  Not an ex-boyfriend, or ex-lover, an ex-date.  I was faced with a man I’d dated for a few months.  It hadn’t ended horribly, but it had ended with drama, the kind usually reserved for the Hamptons.

My relationship with the ex-date ended with a David Gray attachment via my email inbox.  He was tired of making all the effort.  I was tired of hoping he’d grow on me.  So things ended; I knew he was hurt by it.  “You’re so bad for me.  All my friends say it; I shouldn’t be here right now with you.”  He’d said it on our last-try date.  It was the very first time I ever heard I was bad for anyone.  I wanted to argue, mention the word, “honest,” but I knew he was right.  I was bad for him because I didn’t want him back. Of course, he was at the barbecue, now months later, and I was drunk, texting him that I missed him.  I was being bad for him, and I knew it.  I didn’t want him; I just wanted him to want me.  How selfish, how immature, how Hamptons.

hamps in the house photos»  when you’re done there… view photos from last summer in the Hamptons »



  1. Stephanie-how can it be that you are already THAT brown-you look fab and if it is of the faux variety where and how, please tell?!

  2. I think you look much better with your natural skin tone instead of the 'spray-on' variety. Beautiful redheads just aren't that tan…

  3. Ahh, the mystifying power of alcohol, and its ability to make us do things we would never do otherwise. Drink up.

  4. Appears as if a good time was had by all but for your's truely I prefer the Jersey Shore.

    Now of course Stephanie honey I have no say in the invitees to your house out there, but what about a weekend of Rachey-Rach! :-)

  5. oooh, i'm queen of the drunk text. i think my cell phone should be kept far far away from me when i'm feeling drunk and lonely.
    i've never gotten the fascination with the hamptons. seems to me like there are better places if you're looking to get away from ny, with less new yorkers.

  6. @Rebecca: I thought the exact same thing.
    @NCTRNL: I thought the exact same thing.
    @Steph: Rainbow Bright is handsome (if he's the one on the pics). He kinda looks like the singer Richard Cheese (RC & Lounge Against The Machine)

  7. I like the Hamptons…its beautiful out there. There is just one teeny tiiiny little thing I'd do to improve it. Get rid of 95% of the people who go there are ruin it for the more appreciative 5%. I wonder where the W'Burg hipsters are going to start spending their summer weekends? My guess is someplace where the beaches will cut your feet up, and the roadside stands sell imported cigarettes and really bland pop music cd's, rather than fresh produce. I dig the pictures, Stephanie…

  8. Luv the house, the food, and the 'make up artist.' The tan? Think I'd prefer a natural tan although you look stunning as always. Looks like so much fun, wow!

  9. Forget the Hamptons of Long Island. Everyone needs to get themselves to Hampton Beach, New Hampshire. That's where Adam Sandler grew up hitting elderly citizens over the head with a hockey stick and stealing their bingo chips. There's nothing pretentious about Hampton Beach, New Hampshire. It is exactly what it is–a cheap place for families and a most excellent location for college kidz who want to get drunk and laid.

  10. I found your blog via Alex Blagg's blog (whom it indicates you hate, but I think he's pretty funny.) I think you are a WAY better writer than Carrie Bradshaw (I always personally thought her little blurbs of writing were pretty bad…) And I am enjoying wading through your blog. Keep it up and if you write a book I'll buy it and read it.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.