by Mamrie Hart
Ashleigh is your quintessential Southern lady. She is great at her job, and her friends, and her marriage. Every outfit she wears looks like it was taken off a perfectly curated Pinterest board. She has a beautifully decorated Tudor home in Charlotte and a hilarious and sweet husband, and she does things like run marathons and host a soup club once a month at her house. Yes, you read that right. A soup club. They exchange Tupperwares of their brothy goodness so that you get a week stacked with various homemade soups to try.* The woman clearly has got her shit together. Meanwhile, I’m the human equivalent of Taz from Looney Tunes, who spins around the globe leaving a mess in her wake. But despite our yin-and-yang approaches to life, when she and I get together . . . IT’S ON.
One of our favorite things to do together when I come home to North Carolina is go wine tasting. For the past ten years, tons of small vineyards have begun popping up in my hometown area and the counties surrounding it. And thank the God of Grigio, because when I was growing up, Yadkin County was drier than my cooter after a guy tells me he’s a Republican. If you wanted alcohol, you had to cross county lines. Convincing someone’s older brother to buy you booze in high school is difficult enough, but add in him having to drive his Dodge Ram twenty minutes to the next county, and you’ve set yourself up on a hell of a mission.
So now going to these vineyards has become sort of an annual tradition for me when I visit my family. Each vineyard is adorably down home. While the tasting rooms in Napa look like they got dropped in from Tuscany, with marble countertops and stone fireplaces, the ones in North Carolina are more like Cracker Barrel gift shops. Traditional vineyards give you water crackers to cleanse your palate so the flavors don’t get muddy between each taste. At RagApple Lassie in Boonville, North Carolina, they give you Cheez-Its. That’s right. Fake cheese–flavored squares from the local Food Lion.
But these trips home aren’t as frequent as I’d like. Luckily, Ash came up with the brilliant idea to plan a girls trip . . . to Sonoma!
It was July 2015, and I was in full preproduction mode for my movie Dirty 30, which was shooting a few months later. My brain was filled with everything from script changes to casting to location scouting. Sure, it was a small movie, but you wouldn’t believe how many meetings you have over things like whether “we see the guy puke into the fountain or just hear it.” I was halfway through sending a very stern e-mail to my director about how important it was to hire an extra who would let me take a body shot off them when an e-mail from Ash popped up in my in-box.
“Lady Vaca! Cheers, Bitches!”
In perfect form, Ash had put together an adorable Evite, complete with little wineglasses and glittery hearts.
“If you are getting this invite, I want to travel with you! In an effort to prevent a lengthy discussion about where and when we could all go, I picked for us . . . Sonoma! Let’s go drink some wine and take in the Cali sun. I promise not to plan every hour of your day! ”
And right below that was a tentative plan of essentially every hour of the vacation. I loved it. For weeks, I had been knee-deep in minutiae related to the movie, and here came my knight in Anthropologie armor, ready to plan out a vacation where all I needed to do was show up. I was in. Drinking some crisp pinot among the vines with a bunch of North Carolina sorority sisters was just what I needed.
Not my sorority sisters, though. Ha! Can you imagine?! The closest I ever got to being a part of the Greek system at UNC was frequenting the Pita Pit so often that they started letting me throw on gloves and build my own pocket. This is not hyperbole, and I’d like to formally apologize to the Chapel Hill franchise for how much feta I overserved myself. Anyway, these were Ash’s sorority gals. Luckily, I already knew them from her wedding and bachelorette party.*
These women are hilarious. They start 30 percent of their sentences with “bless her heart,” which, in case you aren’t from the South, is the equivalent of saying, “Listen to this shit . . .” For example:
They say, “Bless her heart, she’s fallen on some hard times with the law.”
Which means, “Listen to this shit: bitch got arrested for weed possession.”
Or
They say, “Bless her heart, she’s been through the wringer with her husband.”
They mean, “Listen to this shit: Daryl can’t keep his dick in his pants, so she’s leaving his ass.”
But don’t be fooled just because they sound like Sally Field in Steel Magnolias—these girls know when to hang up their monogrammed cardigans and get down and dirty. I knew this trip would start off with class but that one (or most of us) would end up showing our ass.
After a few months and a Lady Vaca e-mail chain longer than War and Peace, I headed up on a quick flight from LAX to SFO. When I say “quick,” I mean quick: it’s a forty-minute flight. There is nothing more ridiculous than watching the flight attendants roll up their cart to the front of the plane, serve three people their drinks, then wheel the cart back because the captain is about to descend.
I stood there at the girls’ arrival gate, rocking what would be my signature look for this trip—a floppy hat and romper—wondering if I had time to pop over to Cat Cora’s for that delicious cucumber martini. Then, like a country angel from above—or at least from the jet bridge—I heard Ash screaming, “Mame-a-ho!” Coming at me like a J.Crew billboard brought to life were Ashleigh; Lindsay, an old friend from high school I hadn’t seen in years; and the four other gals from the bridal party.
And wouldn’t you know it? Every damn one of them was decked out in a floppy hat and romper. Ash came in for the first hug, complete with the awkward “we are both wearing huge hats” dance.
A floppy hat didn’t stop a strong hug from my girl Lindsay. Lindsay is the type of person who will dive straight into conversation with you as if when you said bye to her a decade earlier, you just hit Pause on a remote and then hit Play again. She doesn’t skip a beat. Within thirty seconds, you’re waist-deep in the type of local dirt usually only doled out at the salon.
“Mames, you aren’t even gonna believe what’s going on with my sister these days.”
“Which sister?”
“Both of them.” Before I could get sucked into the vortex of gossip, Ash swooped in, putting her arm around mine as we walked to baggage. “Mame-a-ho! I’m so happy you could come. I know your schedule is insane right now.”
“Are you crazy? I wouldn’t miss this. Where’s Molly?” I asked, scanning the pack of girls. Molls and I were closest out of Ashleigh’s friends. She always comes over when I visit Ashleigh in Charlotte and was the only person to puke out of a moving vehicle at Ash’s bachelorette, so we were obviously kindred spirits.*
“Oh, I thought you knew . . . she’s pregnant.”
“Really?!” I asked, clutching Ash’s hands.
“Yes. And bless her heart, she is so sad she’s missing out on all the wine. Talk about timing, huh?” Ash said. “We’ll have to send her selfies. Now, let’s go get turnt.”*
And turnt we got. And by that, I mean these girls were jetlagged, and after a snail’s crawl through San Francisco traffic to our adorable Sonoma inn, we turnt our sleepy selves in to our hotel beds. Ash, Lindsay, and I were splitting one room, and the other four gals split another. Not that I wouldn’t have shared a room with girls I had only hung out with once before (I’ve shared rooms with people I’ve known for three drinks, he he he) but I just needed to be near my old-school girls. The girls I would ride around with looking for boys all while blasting Juvenile’s “Back That Azz Up” from our shitty Honda speakers.
“Aww , you guys,” I said, getting into bed with Ash. “When’s the last time the three of us slept in one room together?”
“My god, probably 2001, at your house,” Ash chimed in from below the duvet. “Except now we aren’t sleeping on a pallet on your floor and your sister isn’t trying to secretly get us high when you aren’t watching.”<
br />
It was true. While I was infamous in high school for maintaining a squeaky-clean track record of not smoking weed, my sister was infamous for getting people to try smoking weed for the first time. She was like the Mrs. Robinson of grape-flavored blunts.
I snuggled under those blankets, totally content. It was like old times. Just a few minutes later, I conked out, dreaming of all the wine we’d drink the next day.
The following morning, after slapping on some makeup and, of course, our rompers and hats, we met up with the rest of the girls at the lobby’s continental breakfast. Everyone was carbo-loading like calories just magically didn’t exist in Northern California—I’m talking toast, waffles, cereal, Danishes, all the perfect foundational elements for day drinking. However, I myself abstained, as I’m not much of a breakfast person. I prefer to drink coffee until I don’t know whether I have the shakes or if an earthquake is happening.*
But skipping breakfast wasn’t just out of habit. It was strategy. After all, I. CAN. DRINK. Not saying these women weren’t capable of putting back a twelve-pack at a college tailgate, but drinking is essentially my profession. I start feeling it after a bottle of wine. Let it be known that I am not proud of this, nor do I think this is a good thing. Do you know how much money and time and calories I would save myself if I could get buzzed off a glass of pinot grigio like a normal woman of my height and weight? My stature might say “average-size female,” but my tolerance is that of Fat Bastard from Austin Powers. Skipping the waffles would hopefully let me start feeling the wine on the same schedule as everyone else.
We piled into the limo and headed to the first vineyard, drinking mimosas on the way. It felt like we were all headed to a very classy prom, unlike the ones us Yadkin County gals had attended in a badly carpeted conference room at the Comfort Inn off exit 82.* But this time, we weren’t headed to a hotel that shared a parking lot with a Cracker Barrel; we were headed to classy establishments, with barrels of wine and crackers to cleanse the palate.
We rolled into the first tasting room, excited for what the morning held. The room was gorgeous, with exposed wooden beams and lots of stone. Seeing as though it was all of ten A.M., and Ash had scheduled to have a private tasting with the sommelier, we were the only ones there.
“Today, we’ll be diving into a variety of white and reds,” said the mustachioed sommelier (we’ll call him Som) as he poured everyone a dollop of cabernet. “You’ll notice the first one we are tasting is very dry”—we all nodded—“with strong notes of black cherry and even a little tobacco.”
“No thanks, I quit years ago!” I said while exaggeratingly sniffing my wine. The girls all laughed. I knew this was because they were already buzzed from the road mimosas, but I didn’t care. A captive audience is a captive audience.
Som continued describing the wine, only pausing to swat away a fly every few seconds. We watched him trying to keep his composure while talking about the subtle bouquets and tannins, but this fly was circling him like he was Pig Pen from Peanuts.
By the third wine, Som’s face was redder than the pinot we were about to taste. “This damn fly! It has been pestering me for days.”
“Looks like you literally . . . caught a buzz!” I said, buzzing like a fly to really send the pun home. Laughs all around. I was on FIRE. This was my Apollo audience, and based on Som’s unenthused expression, he wanted to be the Sandman and straight-up shepherd’s hook my ass offstage.
“I wish I could catch that buzz,” Som said, while opening another bottle. “I tell you what: if one of you caches that fly, I’ll give you a free bottle of any of the wines we’re tasting,” he said, with a little laugh in his voice until he realized what he had just done.
You gotta remember, this was a group of girls who grew up in the country. Not only do we love free shit, but everyone in that room had dated someone in high school who had hunted, if they themselves didn’t hunt.* So, Som continued describing the wines, and we kept sipping and nodding, all while keeping the fly in our peripherals.
“Now for our first white is a steel-cast chardonnay that . . .” THWAP!
Everyone looked over to Ashleigh, whose hand was suction-cupped over her tasting glass. Underneath . . . was the fly. “You did it!” I exclaimed, as if she had just wrangled a wild tiger with her bare hands.
“I think I’ll catch and release,” she said, slowly standing up and making her way to the door. With great flair, she released the beast as we all applauded.
“I will take a bottle of the pinot noir, kind sir,” she said, curtsying and plopping back on the corner couch proudly. “Unless you were joking. I’m sorry, were you joking?” Classic Ashleigh. So nice that even though she trapped that fly like a boss, she wasn’t going to make the man pay up.
“A deal’s a deal. Now, as I was saying, this chardonnay is extra special because at first you’ll taste the crisp honeysuckle flavors, but let it rest on your tongue for a moment, and notes of green bell pepper will start to emerge.” We all sipped and oohed and aahed as if we could taste anything that this man was talking about. He was halfway through describing what stones we were supposed to taste on the back notes when, don’t you know it, that fly was back at it.
The poor guy* was trying his best to block out the buzzing and continue on with the presentation as it hovered around us. As he started pouring our sixth and final wine, the buzzing stopped and the fly was out of sight. It was finally silent. That is until . . . I started giggling.
I couldn’t help it. Something was lightly tickling my foot. I looked down, and the fly was perched right on my strappy sandal.
“Nobody move!” I said to the gals who were definitely not planning on moving anytime soon. “I got him.” I looked up to Som, who froze so perfectly that if wine didn’t work out, he could totally be one of those street performers who paint themselves gold.
“If I can get this fly out of here, do I get a free bottle of wine, too?” I asked, hope glimmering in my eyes.
“I guess . . .” he started to say. That was all I needed to hear. I rose to my feet with the precision and balance of a tightrope walker. And for the next three minutes, I took the world’s tiniest steps, inch by inch, making my way to the door. This was harder than it sounds seeing as I was wheezing laughing. The combination of morning drinking, while admitting my feet were so gross that they were a goddamn Golden Corral buffet for that sucker, was too much to handle.
This is basically Man on Wire except Bitch on Budget.
I finally got to the doorframe, looked at the captivated group, and said—are you ready for this?—“Talk about SHOE FLY, don’t bother me!” kung fu kicking the fly into the outside heat. Guys, when I say the joke killed, I mean it. I almost retired right there, but instead I graciously took my hard-earned bottle from Som, and we continued on our journey.
For the rest of the afternoon, we cruised around to other vineyards, doing our tastings, having a glass on their grounds, then drinking whatever we bought when we got back in the limo. It was top to bottom an afternoon of laughing and cutting up and telling various gorgeous women in their early twenties who worked at the vineyards that we were jealous of them and that they had luminous skin. It was the perfect day, but I could tell that Ash was a little distracted. She was smiling and joking, but when you’ve been someone’s best friend for seventeen years, you just know. But I wasn’t about to confront her about it in the back of this stretch limo in front of everyone. This wasn’t Vanderpump Rules.
By the time we were dropped back at the inn, the whole gang seemed a little tired and a little cranky. I looked over to Lindsay, who was rubbing her eyes like a toddler, and knew we all needed to be put down for a nap.
“Let’s all meet back up in the lobby at seven and go to dinner? Is that cool with everyone?” Ashleigh asked, the ever-consistent sweet mom of the group. We all nodded our sleepy heads and split off to our rooms for some hard-core napping, the kin
d of napping where you instantly start dreaming and when you wake up you freak out for a second that you slept until the next day. Luckily, I had set an alarm. Nothing like waking up at six P.M. already slightly hungover to know you did wine country right. Only thing to do now was power through and keep the party going.
I rallied the girls, and we sleepily fixed our makeup and put our hats back on to hide our bedhead. We headed to the lobby to meet everyone else before Lindsay was stopped in her tracks. “Holy hell, come look at this.” Ash and I reversed it to meet her in front of a room with its door wide open. Inside was the rest of the crew, totally knocked out, one of the girls facedown like the dead man’s float with her dress shimmied up so high, her ass was on display for anyone walking by to see. It was Hayley on the Cove Haven bed all over again.
“Aw, bless their hearts,” Ashleigh said. “I feel bad waking them.”
“Me, too,” I said. “Let’s let them sleep and go catch up just the three of us.” They nodded as I crept inside to pull down the dress and cover the exposed booty. Then we turned off their light and gently shut the door.
We took a quick Uber ride to the main Sonoma square, stomachs rumbling. All the restaurants were packed, so we did what anyone would do: we put our name on the list at a Mexican place, then sat at the bar drinking margs and filling up on chips and salsa, to the point where we would eventually be too full when they finally called our name, also known as the most annoying thing you can do at a restaurant. We weren’t two margs in before I looked over at Ash and saw she had tears welling up in her eyes. Oh, please don’t let her be having marriage problems. They aren’t even a year in, and I refuse to stop showing people that pizza picture, I thought to myself.
What’s the pizza pic? Oh, only my FAVORITE pic of Ash of all time. Picture this: it’s the end of her wedding night, and while the wedding party is bouncing back to the hotel on a party bus singing along to “Ignition (Remix),” as one does, I came up with the genius idea of going online and ordering from the local Little Caesars so that it would be delivered as soon as we arrived. I initially was going to keep this plan on the down low so everyone would marvel at my brilliance and be jealous of my piping-hot crazy bread, but if there’s one thing I love more than stuffing my gullet full of food when I’m drunk, it’s telling people when I have a great idea.
