If someone invites you to her country house for the weekend I want you to repeat after to me:
Alternative answer: Nononononononononononono.
And then I want you to do something very difficult: I want you to tell her the truth - that you would rather stay at home in New York, sit around in the sweaty, stinking heat, and chain smoke.
And if she protests, I want you to tell her that you live in New York because you are afraid of the dark and didn't know that people actually lived in houses until you were thirteen.
And then I want you to stay strong, because someone is going to try to convince you that what you need is a delightful weekend away from it all, though you're not even really sure what "it all" is exactly except the very thing that makes you love New York in the first place.
And when you reluctantly agree because you feel that your friends have no one to play with/really want to share their largess with you, I want you to ask how long it will take to get there in your rented Zipcar that costs as much as five or six really nice dinners in your neighborhood.
And when your friends chirp, "It's only two hours!" I want you to ask them how long it really takes, because it sure as shit doesn't take two hours, which you will discover after your ass numbs four hours and two bags of Doritos later.
And I want you to make sure you shower before you go, because it turns out the well "is a little funky" which means that the water smells like the inside of a sow's intestine, and if you liked taking fart showers, you'd bathe in the raw sewage treatment plant just minutes away from your own home. Because that's really and truly how bad it will be as you raise your toothbrush and gag at the overpowering stench of rotten eggs.
And I want you to make sure you tell your hosts how charming and inviting the house is, even though what you're really thinking is where the hell Mrs. Havisham and Jame Gumb are hiding all the outfits they made out of human flesh.
And then, when it's time to leave, when you've paid for breakfast and lunch to thank your adorable hosts, I want you to leave 4.5 hours to get home, because that is how long it takes, even when you drive like Thelma and Louise on the shoulder and across medians and orange cones because your your Zipcar registration is about to get revoked for returning late.
And when you think you are about to die because your boyfriend is driving like the Dukes of Hazard, I want you to avoid screaming "I DON'T WANT TO DIE!", because it turns out that it really pisses him off and the last thing you need is a 45 minute fight about "driving trust" on your hands, which is what you end up having anyway.
And before you go, I want you to make sure you don't inadvertently bring an entire tank of propane gas from your host's grill with you, because you know what? Propane is illegal in New York City and there is no proper way of disposing of it without getting your ass fined or thrown in jail or whatever. And knowing that, I want you to leave it on the street and run.
And also, when you leave the Zipcar garage, I want you to remember to leave the keys in the car, because you are about to take a $15 taxi home with the keys in your pocket, only to realize that you have to go back to the garage and return the effing keys to the parking attendant, who is having a nervous breakdown because of your fuck-up.
Are we clear on this? Any questions?