Summer Guide 2003
Hangover breakfast at Tiffany’s
Life is like a blue box from Tiffany’s. You never know what you’re going to get, but it’s going to be good, and if it’s not as perfect as you want it to be, you can take it back and exchange it for something better. That’s my motto. It works for everything: jewelry, food, friends, men and summers.
Last year, I had a decent summer at Lake Tahoe. It wasn’t your 5-carat-diamond-ring-in-an-antique-platinum-setting summer, it was more of 1-carat-solitaire-set-in-18K-gold sort of thing. So, I went to Maui during the winter to make up for it. Two summers in one year: one good, the other phenomenal.
My good summer started out when Daddy rented me a beach house at Lake Tahoe. He thought I might find Reno a little pedestrian with my years in the sophisticated East (What’s changed this year, I don’t know. Maybe his portfolio tanked).
Things were generally fun. I threw parties on Saturday nights. There were lots of cocktails and the cutest little hors d’ouvres you’ve ever seen. They made pigs-in-a-blanket that were so elegant you hardly wanted to chew them up; you wanted to swallow them whole, so they could sit in your stomach and be just darling. My stomach, anyway, you know they wouldn’t stay long in Heather’s.
My favorite things about the parties were the sweet, itsy-bitsy umbrellas they put in the martinis just for me. The next best things were the Tahoe hunks. There are definitely some hotties at the lake. Mostly surfer-types with dreadlocks, auburn skin, ripped tummies. They’re usually rugged, dirty and smell like beer, but they’re 100 percent sexy.
You better believe I have no complaints about those parties. It was the mornings-after that were less than phenomenal. In Hawaii, on mornings-after, the ocean breeze is sweet, juicy and sandy, like biting into an Asian pear.
But at Tahoe, mornings-after are less easily cured. By morning, the umbrellas have lost their novelty, and there is no ocean breeze. One morning-after, I was trying to relax on the lake in one of those floating lounge chairs, you know, the ones that keep you high and dry. Well, I fell asleep … for four hours. By the time I woke up, I was miles from shore. My skin had turned redder than a prom queen’s face when her classmates find her the morning-after with puke in her hair in the boys’ bathroom. I could’ve swum back—I’m very physically fit—but I had qualms about getting my $600 Prada bathing suit wet.
Fortunately, but disappointingly, some college freshman in an unimpressive speedboat rescued me. This was not a Tahoe hunk; this was a polo-shirt-wearing, fake ‘n’ bake, comic-book jock. Half nerd and half captain-of-the-football-team. He brought me back to shore in exchange for a peck on the cheek and a fake phone number.
I took my summer to Hawaii in exchange for an imperfect one at Tahoe. Hawaiian summers are a girl’s best friend. <div align="right">—BUFFY</div>
You would think having lots of money and not having to work would mean my life is pretty tension free. Yeah, I wish. A lot of my tension involves deciding what sort of clothing to buy, deciding whether I want warm tones for summer or cool tones. Oh my God, three days ago, I was shopping at my favorite store in the mall—guess what it is … it’s Guess?—when I went to grab this hot pink, retro miniskirt number off the rack. Some platinum blond snob snatched it just before me and gave me a nasty little smirk. I didn’t say a word, but this incident sat like a marriage proposal on my shoulder for the rest of the day. So, I went to David Walley’s Resort, Hot Springs and Spa (2001 Foothill Road, Genoa, (775) 782-8155) to de-stress. With six hot springs ranging from 94 to 106 degrees and a lukewarm swimming pool, it wasn’t hard to do. For $20 a day, you can use their workout room, their saunas, tennis courts and game room. Massages and facials cost extra. Then you can enjoy a 10-hour-roasted prime rib at D.W.’s restaurant. The ribs aren’t accommodating to my diet, but they’re great for wrinkled prune skin and stress. Scrumptious! <div align="right">—Buffy</div>
I recall one time in my life when I felt that I’d reached the end of my rope. Everything felt passé. The first love of my life, Biff, had allowed himself to become enamored with another. Daddy said that I should just get over him and bought me a new BMW, but all I could do was cry, shop and eat high-fat dinners at the finest restaurants in town. Well, I finally decided he was just a silly boy. “Buffy,” I said, “you should stiffen that upper lip, give yourself permission to love yourself, and do something empowering.” OK, it wasn’t me who said that, but sometimes, it’s like my therapist can read my mind. So I decided to jump out of a plane. I called Skydive Lake Tahoe, (530) 832-1474, and discovered they charge first-time jumpers $185, but just then, guess what? I got over my broken heart, when Biff discovered that his new flame was actually new money. Delish! <div align="right">—Buffy</div>