What, there’s more? Of course there is, we haven’t even covered the “hot dog” portion in the title for gods sake.
Sunday morning me and my aching legs and tired feet awoke to rain pelting into the sliding glass door of my room. Shit. Sometimes a rainy day at the beach is nice when you’re there for a week and you could use a day off from the sun, but I had only had three days on the beach, so I was not thrilled. I wanted to punch the sky in the face, but since you can’t punch a sky in the face, I got up and made a pot of coffee.
Although I had nothing to drink the night before, I definitely had a contact drunk, and apparently, a matching contact hangover. It was weird. I was all sore and fuzzy, sipping my coffee in the living room as Mariah wandered out to join me. She was a little tipsy the night before, but nothing like my extra jovial little baby brother who wanted to drive the shuttle bus home. He rolled out shortly after and sank into the sofa with a cup of coffee. He said he felt “fine.” I know what kind of fine he felt, ding dong.
We rehashed the evenings events and caught up on all the shit going on in our lives. It was a slow, lazy morning, and then Jake called. “Helllloooooooo? Where arrrrreeeeee youuuuuuu??!!” I was stunned that he was even awake/alive let alone full of rainbow flags at almost 10am. “We’re having mimosa’s at Mommys, when are you coming over? I misssss woooo!” How could I resist. I jumped in the shower, threw on shorts, a tee shirt, and the Kenneth Cole blazer I had commandeered from someone in the wedding party. I completed the look with Rachel’s garter belt, and rolled out.
Joe and Mariah were heading up the 4 wheel drive beach to Chris and Rachel’s to help them clean up, and also collect lights and centerpieces that they were going to leave behind for their own wedding. If my brother is anything, it’s thrifty. I arrived at Cheryl’s and was informed that we all had to go over to Chris and Rachel’s to help clean up, because The Worlds Worst Wedding Coordinator had shit the bed on this little detail as well.
I was so hungry I could have eaten my fist, but instead I helped myself to about 12 of the stale donut holes in a bowl from the night before. We all went outside where we had to pretend we were auditioning for a starring role in the circus as clown car performers. Corrie (cousin on the other side) and Jess (her girlfriend, who wears patchouli but not Crocs) were the only ones that had 4 wheel drive, so in 1 Toyota 4Runner, we had Corrie, Jess, Myself, Jake, Cheryl, Samantha, Aaron and Tim. 2 up front, 5 in the back seat, and Tim in the trunk, because he weighs 8 pounds.
We started out onto the 4 wheel beach, and we passed an older gentleman in a truck who looked at us like we were escapees from the local institution. Aaron suggested that we give him a canned ham. We wanted to, so badly, but there was just no room to do so. For those of you who are not familiar with the canned ham, it is a bare ass pressed against the window. Opportunity knocked, and we couldn’t even open the door. We continued the bouncy and overcrowded ride to their house, while I made comments on how impressed I was that Corrie could “drive a stick.”
We all basically toppled out of the car and headed up to the house, where Chris’ family and Joe and Mariah were balling up wads of wet tablecloths and sweeping up rose petals and broken glass. Currently it had stopped raining, but in addition to it being a fucking disaster, it was now a fucking wet disaster. Chris stood behind the bar as if he had been there all night, popping champagne and pouring mimosa’s for everyone. Everyone except me, I had an orange juice when his Mom said, “what, you don’t drink??!!” I told her no, that my card had been revoked and that I had been sober for a year and a half. That turned the heads of his sisters, “what? you weren’t drinking last night??!! You’d never know! I thought you were hahhmud!” Again, best compliment ever.
Everyone was pitching in and helping to clean up. I recovered 4 missing tablecloth clips, and then located the bouncy spot on the dance floor over the pool and began repeating my amazing pogo from the night before. It was obvious that everyone had quickly managed to revive their buzz from the night before. The laughter got louder as empty champagne bottle after empty champagne bottle crashed into the trash can. Boxes of cigars were brought out. Jake was laughing because he had found a random, lone shoe lying in the sand of the dune. He put it on, he did a dance, then laid it Cinderella style on top of the fence.
The cleanup was almost complete, and they loaded up a box of booze to take back to the house. Just then, the (stoner) DJ popped up from the side of the deck, like a puppet, and asked, “Hey man, did anyone find a shoe? I lost it last night, along with the whole hard top of my truck that blew off, haaaaahaaaaaaa!” Comedy, pure comedy. How the fuck does the DJ lose just one shoe, and not notice, and the top of his truck, and have the balls to come back the next morning to the wedding he had been working, to ask for the one shoe? I would’ve have been like fuck that shoe, bye bye shoe. Not him. Cinderella returned to the ball.
We all piled back in Corrie’s truck, and I reminded her that at the end of the night, while I was dancing, that she stumbled up to me, did a full handed double squeeze of my boobs, and said, “honk-honk” then chuckled and walked away. Everyone in the truck lost it. She had no recollection, and I told her that if things didn’t pan out with Red Pants or Dr. Slobbertooth, that I would play on her team. Obviously, “honk-honk” was quoted no less than 487 times that day.
Once back at the house, I was crazy hungry, like a rabid animal. I hadn’t really eaten in over 18 hours in spite of burning a minimum of 4000 calories on the dance floor. I ordered like 8 pizzas for everyone and Jake and I went to pick them up, along with “anything that you can mix with vodka” per Aunt Cheryl. I did receive a few looks from the local patrons in the pizza joint, probably due to my man blazer, shorts and garter belt. My awesomeness can be astounding at times. I told him thank you for the pizzas, that I was very hungry, and met Jake back at the car with his bag full of cranberry juice, club soda and tonic water.
When we got back, I think I ate 4 slices of pizza in under 3 minutes. After that, it was on like donkey kong. Tim, being a musician, brought his full stack, complete with huge amps on 4′ stands, and 3 microphones. Yes, that’s right, 3 microphones. You see where this is going, right? We had a full house, Aaron, Robin and the girls, Tim and enzyme eating gluten-free Samantha, Corrie and Jess, Cheryl, Jake and myself. Cheryl’s BFF and her husband were on their way over, and when they called to ask if they could pick anything up, I heard her say, “Yes, we need a pack of hot dogs, some string, and two Snapples…oh, any flavors, it doesn’t matter.” Aw, snap!
Next thing you know, out come the “brownies.” Shortly after, it was a fucking giggle fest. Next thing I know, I hear the familiar buzz of the amplifiers signaling that a concert is about to begin, Jake plugs in his iPod, and it’s full on double rainbow family brownie karaoke time. Best. Rainy. Day. Ever. We start off with a good old-fashioned dance party, the kind where you grab anything as a prop and include it into your routine. I was rocking the vacuum cleaner and jake had a wooden seagull decoration. Apparently we were the entertainment, because everyone else was melted into the sofa silent cry laughing at us.
We were taking a breather and sitting on the massive sectional sofa with everyone when we hear the door fly open, and here comes the drunken groom diving over the sofa with a beer in one hand and a childs’ inner tube around his waist. My brother ran up behind him and grabbed his feet in the air just before his head dove into the floor. Joe, Mariah, Chris and Rach were back, and they were all very happy.
I noticed right off the bat that Mariah was extra happy. By extra happy, I mean hammered. In the almost 9 years that I’ve known her, I have never once seen her drunk. Perhaps slightly tipsy on too much wine, but that’s it. This was going to be quite a show. My brother, who does not even have a sliver of the showboat gene that Jake and I possess, grabbed the microphone and started singing karaoke. I was in the twilight zone. Everyone was taking turns singing, dancing, being ridiculous, and my stomach hurt from laughing.
During the next intermission, I decided the hot tub would be a perfect idea for a rainy day. I put on my bikini, blazer, and necktie and sauntered out. I looked like a stripper, I was told, and I knew I had my next match.com profile pic locked in. Aaron was in the hot tub and I grabbed an O’Douls and joined him, then in came the girls, and right behind them, Jake, in the teeny tiniest itsy bitsy white and black bathing suit/bikini bottom/boy shorts you’ve ever seen. He was obviously ready for a photo shoot.
I was right. It went something like this:
After a while, I came back in for more karaoke. Jake stayed outside, apparently to scale the side of the house and freak the crap out of everyone.
Here’s some more of the picture story.
It got stuck in our heads for days. Here’s your chance.
This hilarity ensued for hours, and then it was time for The Hot Dog Game. It was such a hit at Thanksgiving, we had to give it another go. You tie a hot dog to a piece of string at the end, and then tie it around your waist, so that it hangs down to your knees in the back. Then, you place a Snapple bottle on the floor and the object is to see who can drop it into the bottle first. It is always inappropriate and hilarious, just like my family. After Jake and I took our 37 turns, a very wobbly Mariah came and took the hot dog from me and said, “Oh yeah? Well I’m more awesome than you because I’m gonna do it with TWO hot dogs!” She was speaking in cursive but I understood her perfectly. She proceeded to tie another one around her neck for the double dip. I’m pretty sure I squirted out a little urine.
It was now around 8pm, and Jake needed gay men around to laugh at him, among other things. Here we are in the freaking Outer Banks, and he happens to know of some other gay gentlemen on the island, one of them he pulled up on Google and showed us, on a date with Lady Gaga herself. No joke, only Jake.
In roll three guys, welcome to our family karaoke brownie shit show! I was about to head back and call it a night, but one of the unfortunately gay men was just too attractive not to stay and stare at for a little longer. What is it with the gay guys and their freaking amazing bodies? Jeez. Within five minutes Lady Gaga’s date handed me his phone and said, exasperated, “ugh, will YOU talk to him?” I was like “talk to who” and he said “my boyfriend. ” Of course I’ll talk to your boyfriend strange beautiful gay man. So I told his boyfriend that he had gone straight, and was having an affair with me, to which he replied “uh-uh honey, if there’s one thing I know about him, he aint straight.” Said with a circle and a snap voice.
We flirted in a way that only a guy man and a woman can. He told me to try on his hat and told me I looked hot in it. I could see Jake across the room with the other two boys, giving me the stink eye because A. He was not getting all the attention. B. Clearly he wanted that specific gay man in his corner, and was not impressed at my attempts to try and turn him.
It was time to make my exit, as I had not been pouring booze down my throat all day and things were getting ugly. I hugged and kissed my wonderful family goodbye. Jake got his three boyfriends back, and all of the attention, just the way he likes it. I got a full 8 hours of sleep, and a shitload of happy memories to take with me the next morning on the drive home.
Categories: Adventures & Travels