Next BBQ, Be More Specific

It has been brought to my attention that several readers think this is actually me. This is absolutely preposterous. I sleep on my back.
For the record, I found this photo at CollegeHumor.com.



There are three things I associate with Labor Day: drinking, sleeping in and drinking. And if I had to pick a close fourth, it would be cookouts. There's really nothing better than a Labor Day BBQ with some good friends--and that was my plan this past Sunday.

Most BBQs are BYOB, so I stopped to pick some beer and headed over to my friend's house. Of course, you can't go to a cookout sober, so we had a brew or two before heading to the party. WHAT? I DON'T HAVE A DRINKING PROBLEM. STOP LOOKING AT ME!

So now we're low on beer. Easy fix to this problem: bring vodka. Fortunately there was a liquor store on the way, so after my friend counted out nickels (WE'RE FINE! STOP LOOKING AT US!) to pay for said vodka, we were off.


I should also mention that since this is a cookout with friends, I wore my finest garb. Shredded Citizens of Humanity Jeans, dirty flip-flops and that one Splendid tank top that makes it look like I kinda have boobs. My friend was basically wearing the same thing, except she really has boobs. Bitch.

So we're walking up the drive carrying an open case of beer and brown bags filled with booze, laughing and yelling and announcing to all our friends who are presumably in the backyard that "the strippers are here!"

We turn the corner and about fifty family members look up.

Oh. Holy. Shit.

Mothers holding babies. Fathers flipping burgers. Grandmothers with their perfectly coiffed hair and sailor-cut pants trimming friggin' rose bushes! ARE YOU SERIOUS??

Our friend who was hosting the party approaches us with a grin and grabs the beer, putting it in the tent somewhere between the table of nuns and the table of kindergarten teachers. We retreat into the house, bottle of vodka in hand. My friend confesses that she's just peed herself a little.

The host finally comes in to see how we're doing (besides half-drunk, totally embarrassed and sorta smelling like urine, great). At this point I'd rather walk directly into oncoming traffic than back into the party, but after a bit of coaxing, I relent. Fortunately for us, most of his family is totally cool. The old men really take to us, which may or may not have anything to do with the stripper announcement.

There's a lesson here. It might be "don't invite assholes to a cookout." But I'd like to think that it's "go ahead, invite close friends to a BBQ--but Sweet Jesus, tell them if it's going to be attended by your entire extended family."

Hope y'all had a great Labor Day Weekend. If anyone finds my dignity lying around, give me a call.