October | 2017 | THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID

Monthly Archives: October 2017

NKOTB Cruise 2017 (Part 4: Blockhead Ball)

(Catch up on parts 1, 2 and 3 if you haven’t already)

Still griping about an obstructed view, Rae and I made a quick stop to the cabin to refresh our drinks, met Ana and Jenn at our previously discussed rendezvous point and headed to Lido for the Blockhead Ball. We were a little late to the party, so we settled in behind the pool, next to ADA seating where there was still ample elbow room. I was tipsy, but I was also salty because we had just realized our photo-op wasn’t until Sunday morning. While this sounds like an insignificant detail, it meant that I’d get no face time with Donnie until the end of the cruise, and that we likely weren’t going to get any VIP bracelets or extra lil’ moments at all. Which was a bummer for my lofty hopes and dreams. Especially the one where he thinks I’m SO funny and introduces me to Jenny and then I become famous with little to no effort on my part. So I felt it was important to separate ourselves from the herd, for the safety of the others. When I get salty, my eyebrows get outta control. They’re mean, you guys. It’s not me, I promise. It’s them. They are SO judgey.

Ball-ready faces. Or...something that sounds less like balls will be near our face.

Ball-ready faces. Or…something that sounds less like balls will be near our face.

Blockhead Ball was the “formal” night, and the night where there’s an hour-long period of free drinks. Do not drink these drinks. You will get diabetes. Immediately. The servers carrying these absolute liquid nightmares get realllllll pushy with it, too. Seems fishy to me. Like, what’s your angle, bruh? Who are you working for? Why is it so important to you that I drink this barely spiked sugar water? Get off my dick.

So much room for activities. And the number 8.

So much room for activities. And the number 8.

I did my best to ignore the carnie-like servers and aggressively sipped on my vodka/water as I bopped near the pool, trying to get a glimpse of the guys and their fancy attire. You can’t see much from behind the pool, so I gave up quickly, as I’m wont to do, and just sort of swung my booty around, carefully, so my skirt didn’t fall down and show everyone the front butthole I’m working with underneath my bellybutton. I sincerely hope everyone has read the previous installments, because otherwise that just sounds like a medical emergency. Anyway, I was shaking my moneymaker and suddenly something pulled my attention from across the pool. It was Melissa Lima. The perfectly proportioned mean girl who I either want to be best friends with or just like…touch her butt and giggle. She was swaying and just as I predicted in a previous blog, the wind was perfectly blowing her hair and her skirt. It looked choreographed to a ridiculous degree. The weather was on her payroll. Ana was taken in as well and pulled out her phone to take pictures. I’m gonna guess that Melissa noticed.

Do you think she saw us?

Do you think she saw us?

Once my drink was gone again, I decided I should go change my skirt to avoid any potential accidental nudity, so I put on a body-con black number. I don’t wanna be whatever, but my body kind of looks like the number 8. Some might use the term “hourglass”, but I think the number 8 is more accurately fluffy. So I like to wear form-fitting clothing, lest I look like a pile of dirty laundry. Once I returned to Lido in my new getup, I felt Melissa-levels of confident and started going a little harder with the booty and the dancing. I glanced over toward the stairs, where I saw Z standing guard and simultaneously scanning my immediate area for signs of Rae. She had gone to get pizza from a part of the ship we had no idea existed until just that moment. Oh, shoot. I just told another eating secret.

The deck party was basically just this. A lot of this.

The deck party was basically just this. A lot of this.

The music during the first deck party was, well, not my thing. So we gave up a little earlier than normal and decided to rest up a bit in case Z came through with those “magic” VIP bracelets. Rae does this thing where she can fall asleep on her back, in a funereal pose, and wake up without having to touch up any hair, makeup or like…sweaty areas. It’s a time warp instead of a nap. And it’s amazing to watch. I mean, to glance at. I definitely did not watch her nap. That is very, very creepy. And I swear I was napping too. I’ll testify to that in court. I did wake up around 3:00am, though, realizing that we definitely weren’t getting into that night’s after party. Z had let us down. Or we had grossly misunderstood his use of “magically appear”. It was still unclear.

Photo courtesy of Laura Max and the number 8.

Photo courtesy of Laura Max and the number 8.

Jenn and I weren’t quite ready to admit defeat in our first night, though. We decided to just wander the ship, aimlessly. We stopped by Roosevelt’s corner, to say hello to his cutie-pie face. He was guarding the majority of the New Kids’ hallway. And he was adorable. He thanked us for bringing our “asses” by, and said he looked forward to seeing them again. In retrospect, I should have been annoyed by that. But, hey. I was on a boyband cruise. My aversion to catcalls was suspended. We didn’t spend a TON of time flirting with Roosevelt, because we didn’t want to look like we were stalking the New Kids corner of deck 7. So we headed up to the casino to see what kind of trouble we could get into there. We quickly realized that nobody was awake on the damn ship. Nobody except Tim, the fireman, that is. Because he saw me, maintained eye contact from across the room and made a beeline right for me. I sort of tensed up, waiting for the big confrontation that was bound to happen after that venomous blog I wrote about him and his rampant misogyny. But he just walked past me, saying, “I loved your blog”, sarcastically. I replied, “Oh my god, thank you!” because I don’t have a quick wit at 4:00am. Then he mentioned how “the entire fire department found out about it”, to which I replied, “I’m sorrrrrry”, VERY sarcastically. Because. Found out about what? The fact that he posts asshole things about large groups of women on his Facebook? Or that some of those women have a biting wit and a domain name with which to hit back? I was confused.

So confused, that Jenn and I decided to just cash in our proverbial chips and head to our rooms for the night. I used that time to stare at the ceiling and think of all the things I should have said to Tim instead of “thank you” and “I’m sorry”. Such as:

“Oh, the whole fire department found out? I’m sure that resulted in the tear-lubed circle jerk of my feminist nightmares.” Mic drop.

 

NKOTB Cruise 2017 (Part 3: Burgers and a Game Show)

(Read parts 1 and 2 here)

Leaving Sail Away with a smirk, Rae and I decided to grab burgers and take them down to our cabin to finish the door and to fix our faces, since surely our luggage would have been delivered by then. I stupidly left all my makeup in my large suitcase and was at the mercy of my melting face until it arrived. If I’m going to eat a burger, I want it to be the nastiest, messiest, calorie-rich burger in all the land, so I loaded that baby up with onions, mushrooms, mayo, pickles, and everything I could fit until it was a leaning tower of disgusting that I then decided to shove into my face while I walked. I don’t know, guys. I’m just SUCH a girly girl. You know? I was perfecting the Guy Fieri “hunch” while walking, and wiping away an errant mayonnaise blob as we turned the corner to the elevator bay and ran right into Mr. Jordan Knight. Rae and I just sort of looked at him, looked at each other, looked at our burgers, shrugged and ducked into an elevator so he didn’t realize we ate food like dumb humans. Everyone knows attractive people don’t eat food. Or poop.

I'm either a girly girl or a boy-y boy, I guess.

I’m either a girly girl or a boy-y boy, I guess. (Left is me during a blatant thirst-bid and Right is me in my drag king boyband getup.)

Once safely back in our cabin, we pushed our beds together to create more luggage space, and to cement our growing Sapphic undertones, obviously. Then I sat on my bed and shoved more burger pile into my face, directly in front of the open door. And then Z came back to see us. Right then. So now TWO men knew I ate food. What a disaster. We invited Z in, because it was already too late to keep up appearances. We chatted with him for awhile and learned that he was Donnie’s personal security detail, both on the cruise and on the set of Blue Bloods. Interesting. This seemed like a potentially valuable relationship. It’s my life goal to play a dead body on television. Blue Bloods seems like as good an opportunity as any. Let’s do this. I’m REALLY talented when it comes to laying somewhere, motionless. Just ask any sexual partner I’ve ever had. While we were schooling Z on the ins and outs of Blockhead culture (he’s SUCH a noob), Jenn came to see us and completed the Trouble Trifecta experience for Z. He’s a very nice man, for sure. Maybe too nice, since I had to remind him that I am a comedian after every self-deprecating joke I made. Which is honestly every time I speak. So. That got exhausting for all of us.

“Down time”, which is a laughable term for this cruise, is a little blurry for me what with all the vodka and rampant seasickness. But I do know that we all got ready for the Blockhead Ball before heading to the game show. Obviously, if you have late dining, you have to be prepared to haul ass to Lido immediately after whatever theater show you’ve just gone to. No wardrobe changes in between or you’ll end up relegated to the weird spot by the bathrooms, behind the pool. It’s like sitting in the bleachers during a school dance. Nobody talks to you, but you did it to yourself. My ball outfit was a vintage (1991) “Drugs Suck” t-shirt from Donnie’s anti-drug but pro-mullet crusade, and a scratchy floor-length gold skirt made of suicidal sequins. I broke the cardinal rule of ordering things online and didn’t try the skirt on in the weeks leading up to the cruise, so of course it was just a little too big. In order for my body to look decent in clothing, I need that clothing to hug my waist and to NOT MOVE. Because. I had part of my colon removed surgically (it was elective. I read a Buzzfeed list that said thigh gaps are out and intestinal gaps are in, so I booked an appointment right away), and now my belly button looks like it has a butthole of its very own. My skirt was threatening to show everyone this bellybutton butthole. So I secured it with an over-sized Joey Mac pin from the 80s. Like you do.

My body is too big to fit into a selfie. So. Just trust me about my outfit, Ok?

My body is too big to fit into a selfie. So. Just trust me about my outfit, Ok?

Once we had our faces beaten and our uncomfortable outfits secured, we realized our cabin smelled a lot like hamburger. Nothin’ sexier than the smell of ground meat and a splash of body spray. Not really knowing what to do with the rest of our burgers and uneaten, flaccid fries, we stashed the plates in the bathroom and pretended they didn’t exist. Which is honestly how I live my life in general. No sooner had we stashed the rotting cow-carcass, than did Z come back to see us (Rae) in our (her) BH Ball outfit(s). It was then that Ana asked him if her boobs distracted from the rest of her outfit, to which he responded that yes, yes they did. Fairly. She then asked him how she might get her hands on some VIP party bracelets. And he said, “keep hanging out with these two, some will magically appear”, very cryptically. I wasn’t sure if he was implying he had a thing for closeup magic, or if he was going to slip some under our door, or what. But I wanted answers. And I wanted into that night’s after party. But I didn’t want him to know that. So I gave him a sarcastic, “Oh yeah?” And moved on with my life.

Rae and I made some drinks with our $75 bottle of Skyy Vodka and headed to our first theater show of the weekend, the Game Show. And then we realized we were in the nosebleeds in the back of the theater, but don’t worry. There was a giant pole DIRECTLY in front of us. But um. Aren’t obstructed view seats supposed to come with the cheaper cabins? And aren’t you supposed to know if you might have those? We were not pleased. I had to get really friendly with the girl to my left as I leaned on her right breast for an hour, trying to catch a glimpse of Daddy’s Special Treat. For the love of everything holy, Joe was in a towel and was struggling to sit cross-legged on the damn stage and I had an OBSTRUCTED VIEW. Did I wrong someone in this life? Was this Karmic retribution? I didn’t even bother with silly questions such as, “Why are you in a towel, Joe?” Because, do you. Be nude. We love you and your surely over-hyped underwear monster.

What a view!

What a view!

Between Jordan lightly choking Donnie and all the drag queen runway walks, I ended up being delighted despite the obstructed view. Especially during the saga of Jon’s broken nose. I’ll not share details here on the internet since he took such great pains to make sure nobody had a camera out. I respect your pseudo-privacy, Jon. And I’ve been in a similar situation, bruh. Gotta watch the dosage. It’ll sneak up on ya. However, it was nearing the end of the game show and literally no game showing had happened. I was starting to feel bad for the excited BHs who got picked to be up there, on a team that was for no reason. But I couldn’t be salty. Not when my boo Brandon gets a chance to do his thing on stage. I want to say right here and now that I’m pretty sure Brandon is a witch. I can’t even walk down a sidewalk and maintain a conversation without getting winded. But somehow he can shake his groove thang and RAP without missing a goddamn beat. Witchcraft. Teach me your ways, witchy Brandon.

Listen, I told you guys my experience this year was weird. But if you’re into it, stick with me. Several more installments to come.

 

 

 

NKOTB Cruise 2017 (Part 2: Embarkation)

(You can read Part One here if you haven’t already.)

Thursday morning crept in and I was only mostly hungover, so I was in a pretty good place to begin the cruise adventure. The TT (that’s what I’m shortening “Trouble Trifecta” to from now on because it’s easier and it sounds like titty which I find hilarious) and our faithful fourth, Ana, checked out of the haunted AirBnB, said goodbye to the headless horseman or whatever, and set out in search of some brunch. One of these years I should probably try to get to port early so I can do that whole, “I saw Joe at embarkation and now I’m pregnant with spotlight-seeking twins!” thing, but I am not a morning person and my face is pretty frightening without at least two pounds of carefully placed makeup. And again, lines. I hate standing in line.

Literally our view from the living room window of the AirBnB. Like.

Literally our view from the living room window of the AirBnB. Like.

We sidled up to port sometime between 2 and 3pm, wine bottles in hand and a vague memory of our attempted (and foiled) vodka smuggling from last year hanging over me, and there was NO line. We waltzed right on. And NOBODY even glanced at my damn wine bottle. It could have been filled to the brim with cocaine and I would’ve walked it right onboard. But no. It was just stupid Cabernet Sauvignon. I did have my blue lipstick on, though. I wasn’t going to take any chances. As far as I knew, Donnie was face-blind to me and could only see the color blue, so you better believe I led with those #blukaki babies. I had it on for the infamous interview (and fans hated it with a weird passion) and I had it on when he recognized me and grabbed me in the crowd during the tour this summer. So. Yeah. It was a thing. A thing I’d like to discontinue because of waning makeup trends, but still.

Ok, so this is from the summer tour, but it's proof that the lipstick works.

Ok, so this is from the summer tour, but it’s proof that the lipstick works.

Once aboard, we lost Ana and Jenn, so Rae and I headed to deck 7 to survey the land and get our door decor up. Since our door decor was literally just one poster that we recycled from last year, it wasn’t a tall order. While standing in the doorway, I saw a dude wander past, said a cordial hello, and when he turned to say hello back I realized he was super foxy, so I revised my hello to sound more like, “hell-ohhh” and he smiled and did the same. Good start. Off to a good start. The countdown to the dreaded muster drill was upon us, and Rae and I wanted to take a lap before standing in excruciating heat for the rest of our lives, so we headed for the elevators where we ran into Mr. Hello again. Me, my Spanx leggings and my Lay-Z shirt were giving it all we had in the flirt department before we realized he was a member of security. And that he clearly had eyes for my roomie and not me or my big butt at all. But that didn’t stop me from answering with, “we’ll leave the door open for you” when he said he knew where our room was. Mr. Hello introduced himself with only one letter. We’ll call him Z. I said goodbye coyly (for no reason, since he was giving me nothing) and we headed up to muster miserably.

Mother-effing muster, you guys. I know it’s a necessary evil, and honestly, it’s not even the thing itself that’s annoying. It’s the other women. Particularly this loathsome foursome in front of me who had somehow managed to get wasted before sail-away. Was I a little jealous? Of course. But I got over it when I realized they might not have any bones in their bodies. Because they couldn’t manage to stand up by themselves without grabbing on each other and switching places every five seconds and making me roll my eyes so hard I got permanent vertigo. Andrea Barber (you know, Kimmy Gibbler?) was standing directly in front of them and I was just waiting for her to get an errant elbow to the back of the knee or something. Truthfully, I’d be curious to see her react to that. But she stayed perfectly calm and unbothered. Bless her heart. I was groaning audibly and making “can you believe this?” gestures to everyone around me. The only saving grace was a peppy lady who ran up to me to take a selfie, thus fanning my pseudo-celeb delusions and placating me for the time being. Thank you, Kristy. You saved those women from my vengeful tongue. Tim the fireman knows what my angry rhetoric can do. Don’t ask him about it, though. He’s still very salty.

Snark-saving selfies with Facebook people.

Snark-saving selfies with Facebook people.

Finally released from that sweaty deck-hell, Rae and I trudged slowly up to Lido to get situated for the Sail Away party. Half of my eyebrows had melted off, but my blue lips were still intact and we were somewhat visible from the stage, so I had high hopes. Still. The moment would come. The moment of recognition and “Oh man, I can’t believe you haven’t been showered in special treatment yet!” I was waiting. Waiting, half-heartedly dancing and sweating the previous two days’ alcohol consumption out onto lido deck. While I read a message from Jenn that said, “I can see you and your face is literally melting”, the guys made their way down to the center stage. Donnie walked right past Rae, who was right in front of me, grabbed her and kissed her on the cheek and kept on walkin’ as I stared lasers into his face.

I kept dancing, pretending like my skin hadn’t turned to actual liquid, and then I happened to glance toward the stage just as Mr. Wahlberg aggressively pointed at me, and when I didn’t believe he was actually pointing at me, nodded, mouthed “yes, you” and then smiled and waved back at me in recognition. Bless that man. I mean, it wasn’t the royal treatment, it didn’t save me from the sweaty cesspool that is the lido deck crowd, but it did make me smile. And I hate smiling. So that means a lot.

(Read part 3 here)

 

NKOTB Cruise 2017 (Sarcastic Expectations)

I’ve been staring at this blinking cursor for four days now. I can’t seem to find the words to begin the recaps of this year’s New Kids on the Block cruise. I’m not sure if it’s because this year was my second, making me a wise and seasoned veteran, or if it’s because I already set a precedent and I’m terrified of living up to my own hype. I feel the need to add a disclaimer that these blogs are a reflection of my personal experience and mine alone. And my experience this year was weird. Here we go:

The “Trouble Trifecta” formed out of my friendship with Jenn and Rae from last year was only made stronger by Facebook group messages and theme planning this year. We spoke in some way almost every day, whether sending links for things to buy on Amazon or to squeal about Donnie acknowledging one or all of us on social media. And let’s be honest, there was a lot to squeal about after that viral-ish interview video my comedy partner and I managed to pull off. Shout out to Megan for carrying me into brief BH fame. (Follow Inaccurate & Inappropriate on all the things if you don’t already.)

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I spent the past six months really celebrating social media and literally pimping myself out to willing Blockhead sisters in the form of promised butt grabs and boob signage. I posted videos and blogs and tweeted and pretty much pretended I was a celebrity because in my head, a handful of people on the ship potentially recognizing me from the internet was the most famous I’m ever going to get and I wanted to fucking bask in it. I’m a struggling comedian, after all, and I’ll take the crumbs. You say, “I loved your blogs last year” and I hear “I’m the president of your fan club” because I’m a slight narcissist and I don’t really listen. And my girls pumped me the eff up. We were ready. We had matching theme outfits. We had glitter. We had way too much spandex. We had inflated senses of self and selective body image blindness. I’m honestly surprised we didn’t have theme music and wind machines. Which is how I imagine the “mean girls” enter every room and every hallway ever. Champagne in hand. Hair blowing in exactly the right direction. Boobs and butts propped up by invisible doting handmaidens. The whole thing. That’s what I saw in my head. That was my plan. That is not what happened.

The Trouble Trifecta take The French Quarter dogs by storm.

The Trouble Trifecta take The French Quarter dogs by storm.

So there I was on Tuesday morning, head full of expectation baggage and hands full of actual over-sized baggage, trudging through Louis Armstrong Airport and straight into the arms of my booty twin, Jenn, who I hadn’t seen in person since last year’s cruise. And nobody had approached me yet. Like. You guys. Was I not pseudo-famous? Would Donnie Wahlberg not recognize me and whisk me away to be giggling besties forever? Was everything about to come crashing down? No, surely not. It was only Tuesday. And I wasn’t even wearing my blue lipstick. The cruise wasn’t even for another two whole days. I’m sure my elaborate and delusional plans would all fall into place just as those recurring dreams I was having showed me. It would all come down to the pre-party in New Orleans on Wednesday night. That was when my face and my face alone would set the dominoes of the perfect cruise-experience into falling motion. Right? RIGHT?!

The pre-party arrived and my crew and I were ill-prepared. We rolled up later than expected because Rae had just arrived, and our haunted AirBnB only had one mirror and it was placed at the top of the stairs, presumably to lure ghosts into an alternate realm. It’s hard to beat your face when Margaret LeFaoueauox from the massacre of 1767 is asking to borrow your highlighter. Once I looked enough like an extra from The Birdcage, we headed out and got in the longest line I’ve ever seen. I hate standing in lines. It’s a thing. A thing directly related to my ego and impatience. But at least five people had approached me to ask where they knew me from in the past day, so I rode that feeling and sucked it up and dutifully stood. Everything would be fine. Donnie would be there. Donnie makes everything better. Even standing in lines. The other guys are all amazing as well (marginally) but they don’t know me and frankly, every interaction I’ve ever had with Jordan has been painfully awkward. So Donnie remains my saving grace. Surely once he saw my familiar face, my crew and I would be plucked from the masses and situated comfortably in VIP. Surely.

I always end up looking like a drag queen. A really hot drag queen, but a drag queen nonetheless.

I always end up looking like a drag queen. A really hot drag queen, but a drag queen nonetheless.

Nope.

I didn’t go to the pre-party last year because, well, I didn’t want to. I went this year for exactly the aforementioned reason. To be seen. I did get to speak to a few BH ladies who I’d interacted with on Facebook through my I&I persona, and that was lovely. But I was not prepared for an elbow-throwing crowd so early into the week. I couldn’t even see what was happening on the stage, and all the guys sounded like the parents from Charlie Brown. I even tried to wait in a clusterfuck of girls to get a selfie with Danny, but gave up after it became apparent I’d have to shove someone to get in there. I’m not a shover. If my facial expression doesn’t move someone, then I guess I’m the one who’s moving, or we’re going to stand there and stare at each other for all of eternity.

Disillusioned and very irritated, we left to hit up Bourbon Street for a self-esteem boost and a bunch of liquor, grasping at the hope that the pre-party was not a bad omen for the weekend to come.

Stay tuned for parts 2-who knows, when I promise I’ll actually talk about the cruise.