The Story of Mr. Weemit

Since the TV fall premieres are taking over my social life, I’m adding a post from the past.
Here’s a story I had sent my girlfriends this past March.

Friday night I wound up at Brooklyn Bowl for the Derek/Susan Bowlive sit-in.
As one would expect, mama was accompanied by an icy cold glass of tequila rocks.
I rested said glass on a case of bowling balls, only to turn around two seconds later to find a gentleman sitting right where the beloved tequila had been residing.
“Excuse me, I think you’re sitting on my tequila,” said I.
The gentleman stood up, revealing my toppled, spilled glass wedged in the crack against the cushy lane seats.
“Let me replace that for you,” said the dark gentleman.
“No,” said I, quickly grabbing the glass and throwing the dripping remains down my throat, “That’s OK, I’m already drunk enough.”
“Well, then let me replace it for you another time,” pleaded the gentleman.

Apparently I gave him my number because he called me the next day. Not recognizing the number, I let the call go to voicemail.
We spoke on Sunday and made plans for Monday evening to go see The Allman Bros at The United Palace Theatre. He called himself Robert.

Sunday evening I was out having a few glasses of the brown stuff (after all, it was rainy) with my friend Tiffany. Surveying the circumstances of my next evening activity, dear Tiff inquired, “What’s this Robert’s last name?”
“An excellent question!” I retorted, “I couldn’t make out what he said on my machine, (a term I still use to refer to my voicemail). Here, you listen and tell me what you think he’s saying.”
I played back his message and handed her the phone.
“HA!” she said, “He didn’t say his last name, Jordan! He said, ‘Hi, it’s Robert, WE MET at the Brooklyn Bowl last night.’!!!”
So from here on out, we will be calling him Mr. Robert Weemit. Admittedly, my vision is far superior to my hearing.

The date was OK. He’s attractive (but I didn’t find myself resisting urge to rip off his clothes, or even throw him against the wall and kiss him like he’d never been kissed before), generous (those Allman tix don’t grow on trees), polite (but almost too much, I felt like I shouldn’t be cursing around him… which is limiting as certain colored words in my vocabulary make for such excellent emphasis), smart (he programs digital mapping, like google maps, but for the police dept.), and likes music (this helps). However, there was no spark, and the conversation was so canned, I felt like he had recently read an article in guy cosmo on “what to say on a date.” He kept hounding me with questions, firing them off one after the other before I’d even had the chance to finish the first one, and without having any of my responses lead to further discussion or sharing his answer to the topic.
I think the poor guy thought he had scored first row tix (they were avail that day actually) as he wanted our seats to be a surprise, and then hesitated a little when he saw the first 15 rows were double letters. We were in row A. “Row A!” I exclaimed, “This is the best sound in the house! Look, we’re dead center and right next to the soundboard!”
The Allmans rocked it. Mama got her “The Weight” (that Warren sure can sing ANYTHING!!), “Jessica” (best driving song evs), and “You Don’t Love Me” (in my top five for sure!)
After the show, we tumbled out onto 175th St and headed to the subway (passing the Jesus Deli, Jesus Hardware, Jesus Bar, and We love Jesus Rite-Aid.)
I gave him a peck on the cheek and thanked him as the A train rolled into the 96th st. stop before darting out to catch a cab across the park. He was continuing on to Penn Station to catch LIRR to Mineola, the Nassau county seat.
I also sent him a thank you text later that week after the Bijou* craziness had subsided a bit. (*My dog had died suddenly the next day.)

Since then I’ve gotten random “Hi, Jordan, how are you?” texts. But predictably, none of my responses have triggered anything more than small talk (if it could even qualify as that…).

And that brings us current with the story of Mr. Weemit.


Discussing Mr. Weemit at Girls Night at Salt


North Fork Bachelorette

For the life of me, I couldn’t fall asleep last Friday night. I had just rocked out to the Sister Sparrow and Orgone sets at Sullivan Hall and decided to head home at around 1:30am to make sure I got a decent amount of sleep. There was not an available taxi in sight in the area and after waiting over 30 minutes and wandering around with my arm in the air trying different corners (what?), I stumbled upon the 6 train and decided to go the subway route. By 3am I had made it to the Upper East Side, only for my body to fight in protest that we had flown 3,000 miles west, not east, and refuse slumber. So when my alarm went off at 8:00am granting me enough time to take care of Louie’s 14 year old puppy routine and pack for the weekend, I had to mind alpha my body and take charge of this east coast time zone.
Only five minutes late, but still the last one there, (sometimes I like arriving alphabetically), I met up with the girls at our mid town limo pick up location. Mike, chauffeur extraordinaire, from Crossroads Limousine was about to take seven sassy women on a Long Island Vineyard Tour for a bachelorette. So we cruised across Long Island, blasting Billy Joel, and venturing to explore the grape world of the North Fork.
It was a glorious day, weather wise, company wise, activity wise, etc. But to be honest, none of the wines were that memorable or dazzling. The whites definitely outshone the reds, but nothing I wanted to take home with me (and I’m usually so much easier with wine than with men, wait… I’m not.)


Our first stop was Jason’s. There was another bachelorette party of 20 + girls all seemingly under the age of 25, and all in pink custom printed tops. Immediately upon entering I exclaimed, “Crap, Lauren! We forgot your penis hat!” No one was rattled, mostly because there was no such hat left behind. This was the one stop where we didn’t get to taste all of the wines, which I didn’t like. What if I missed the one I’d want to buy? Give me a sip of each, please! I think the winner here was the Reisling. I was the only one who could handle the Merlot; it was smoky, like mama takes her scotch, so I didn’t mind so much. Anyway, onward to stop #2.


Second stop was Macari. These were some of the best of the bunch. I actually wasn’t completely turned off by their Chardonnay. (I’m an ABC – “Anything But Chard,” but I’ll always try it just in case…) Not surprisingly, their first chard had a splash of Sauv Blanc in there. This helps.
At one point I turned to Lauren and said, “Look at that cute old man with his pants up to his boobs.”
Lauren (who’s possibly my funniest friend) responds, “That guy has proprietor written all over him.”
Mr. Macari sure does keep his ribs warm.


The third stop was Laurel Lake where we had lunch that was pre-ordered through the tour. The lunch was crap, next time I’ll pack a picnic basket for everyone, but we had to include some solids in the diet for sustainability purposes. This stop had the best staff and a really low key vibe. The guys always made sure we had wine in our cups and weren’t at all stingy on the pours.
They also had a musician doing a little acoustic set.
“Hey Liza! Play something that doesn’t have lyrics involving someone wanting to die,” we requested.
“Oh, you girls just missed the happy set.”

Osprey's Dominion

Refueled with some carbs and ready for the second leg, Mike safely deposited us at Osprey’s next. We had to shut off my iPod with The Greyboy Allstars cranked up in the limo and subject ourselves to what seemed to be a Kenny G cover band in the mid-lawn pagoda at this one, but we managed to enjoy ourselves. (Actually, it was beautiful.) I pulled out a move from my 21st bday (when people were buying me more shots than I could handle and I’d cheers them and throw the booze over my shoulder instead of down my throat. “Jordan, we can see you do that!” they said. “What, I’m pacing myself!” I retorted,) and tossed some of the samples on the lawn at this one. First of all, drinking all day requires skill, if it wasn’t worth drinking, I won’t do it. Second, the other wineries had dump buckets, the lawn was just asking for it!

Pindar for Magic Hour

Since Mike was mistakenly under the impression he was taking us back to the city, when he learned he was leaving us at our hotel in Riverhead, we decided to add an extra stop, Pindar. This one had the best wines yet (or maybe our buds were failing us at this point, can’t be sure.) But we got a bottle of the Sauvignon Blanc and a bottle of the bubbly and went out back to enjoy the Magic Hour with the vines.

Our accommodations for the evening were at The Hotel Indigo, a cute boutique hotel with pretty nice rooms, comfy beds, a pool, and a painfully slow restaurant. I seriously wound up having to eat my eggs benedict (which wasn’t even what I ordered) out of a to go box at the Jitney bus stop Sunday morning on my way to make it back to the city for first football Sunday kickoff.
After a dip in the pool and a shower, we pulled it together and got in a $10/pp (what is this, New Orleans during jazzfest!?!?) cab ride to Amarelle in Wading River.
Great choice. Dinner was lovely. My fresh strawberry cosmo made me forget I don’t go for girly drinks. And the Pinot Noir was the best red we’d had all day (2008 Fin, Finnegan’s Lake, CA). Lauren and I split the lobster crepe (Mmmm) and seared scallops with crispy leeks (good). She didn’t touch my clams because of the bacon sprinkle (best part!), and I wasn’t the hugest fan of her fluke (insert your own “kitchen fluke” joke here). All in all, the perfect end to a perfect day.
Cheers, Lauren!
Cheers, North Fork!