A summer bummer: guests
Summer once again brings the dreaded word “houseguest.” A species that’s a pain in the attic.
Forget the phrase “Go West young man.” The sun rises in the east and sets in the west — but not houseguests. They rise in the west and set endlessly in the East.
As temperatures rise so goes the LIE speed limit. Aging Porsches, dented Lexuses, shiny BMWs, borrowed Fords head out. The usual 90 minutes to Southampton swells to four hours — providing there’s no rain or accident.
Cheapo bus riders hit the first stop. That’s Bridgehampton’s Candy Kitchen. It’s where the lucky host gets them. Comes air-kisses, hugs, back pats — then the dreaded question: “So how long you staying?”
Every street features an aging blond in shorts so short you can tell if she’s had a colonoscopy. Plus the over-the-hill — and dale — longtime missus who’s squeezed nothing but a lemon in years. The chunky type who walking on Montauk Highway would make it a one-way street. The pest schlepping a tennis racquet plus golf bag. The allergist who can’t eat salad, fruits, chicken, veggies or fish. But suggest a sirloin and the answer is “Yes, thanks.”
Friday attracts the weekend boozer who wants additional olives in his martini “because the doctor told me to eat more fruit.”
Many beachfront owners are aging — only now it’s too far for them to walk to the ocean and their pool was last cleaned when Native Americans still owned the area. Prices have risen even if the clientele can’t. Farm-fresh veggies charge a hundred and a half per tomato. Plus the hills are alive with the sound of visitors chatting to Siri.
Tiresome? Boring? Every July an out-East homeowner gets stuck with some long-winded drone. I had one visitor who looked forward to dentist appointments. Why aren’t these extras out working? Saving our city, rescuing our country, stabilizing our economy, translating Biden or widening the Hamptons’ stupid ass one-lane highway where to reach Amagansett you need a passport?
A friend in need is a pest
Forget mosquitoes. It’s the East End’s late-night drinkers, fund-raisers, party planners, politicians who haven’t yet been caught, openings for arcane artists like some obscure gallerist who fashions lampshades from turtle behinds.
And every restaurant has a live-in press person to hustle their latest, and found nowhere else, plant-based mint-covered Milanese crabgrass special.
Oh look, it’s Billy Joel, or Brooke Shields or Jerry Seinfeld driving one of his 1,000 Porsches — don’t wave, you’re holding up traffic.
How I know all this? Because I’ve lived the Hamptons life. I’ve had that special guest who can’t drink coffee — he wants hot chocolate. Veal for dinner? Uh-uh, she’s vegan. Bedroom’s on the second floor? He can’t climb stairs. Bathroom has a shower? She prefers a tub. New divorcée’s cranky when the host can’t include her three kids. Invited Saturday through Sunday, the couple planned for a week.
And conceited? The occupant retouches her X-rays and your extra room has no full-length mirror.
It’s time to leave
Mercifully, comes time to unload your him/her/them. But the car got a flat and they’re heading for Brooklyn. Always Brooklyn. Question: If New York City didn’t have Brooklyn, where would the other end of the bridge rest?
The South Fork was discovered in the 1600s. Those who took that stupid, dumb one-lane highway are still trying to reach Wainscott. Please, enough with the crowded awful Hamptons — however, I am still available for the weekend.
AND may your coming July Fourth sleepover boast to you that he has 100 suits. His lawyer will add, “They’re all pending.”
Only in the Hamptons, kids, only in the Hamptons.
