Something about this just feels wrong, but I don’t admit this right off that bat. No way. I wouldn’t want to offend my best friend’s brother who makes a living doing this. I’m sitting on some sort of wooden stoop on a farm in Santa Rosa, California, as I reach my hands over and pull – kind of. The whole thing feels weird. It feels like a stuffed balloon that’s ready to pop… and then it happens: the milk comes out! I’m milking a goat!
I had to do it. How often can you say that you actually milked a real live goat? Being from a city this is like some sort of phenomenon. This weekend was jam packed with various and yet very unusual adventures.
- Milked a goat
- Snuck alcohol in paper cups at a Mormon wedding
- Had a date with the Italian Stallion.
After running into a Target on a last minute “I need to wear a different dress to this Mormon wedding” episode, my leggy and very beautiful best friend who resembles an auburn-haired mermaid and Marisa Tomei accompanied me to the dress aisle where we tried on flowered (hideous) dresses that we just couldn’t allow ourselves to buy, Mormon/conservative wedding or not.
Now this wedding was a “dry” wedding, meaning no alcohol. Now, I’m not a big drinker, but no wine at a wedding? No champagne? I’m being the supportive best friend politely sipping on my glass of water, sitting at the outside table getting to know her family when I’m nudged by Anna’a gum-smacking blonde cousin with bright pink lipstick (some on her tooth) who has snuck wine into the wedding and offered it to me under the table in a red plastic cup.
Thankfully no one saw and we left the wedding unscathed and laughing a little more than usual.
And then there’s the Italian Stallion. After returning from Santa Rosa intact and vacationed, I went on a date with Corrado. He’s Italian aka: tall, dark, handsome AND a gentleman. (Yes, it’s possible.) He’s from Brooklyn so this is what he sounds like, “Hey Ma, how yu dooin.” I eat it up. I’ve never been on a date with a New York Italian and have secretly desired this ever since I saw the Sopranos. So here we are. The beach. Trillions of twinkling stars sparkling millions of miles above our heads and of course, his “accent.” His phone rings and, I’m not kidding, he says, “Hey Tony, how yu dooin…fuugget about it….” My knees are weak. But while he opens doors for me and stares intently into my eyes, one thought keeps popping into my head: Did I really milk a goat this weekend?
Alice can be reached at AliceActress@yahoo.com