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.)
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.
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 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.