Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Larry and I leave Manhattan at 11:30 and head for the Lincoln Tunnel. Unfortunately for the two of us, every single registered driver is out on the road today.
Once we enter the tunnel, our lane slows to a creepy crawl while the cars in the other lane shoot by at full speed. I worry that there's been an accident that will leave us stuck here for five hours. I'm not claustrophobic, but this scenario scares the shit out of me.
We finally exit the tunnel and discover that the delay is due to a clusterfuck of non-EZ Pass assholes clogging up the "cash" lanes.
Every road is bumper to bumper traffic. A 45 minute trip becomes two mind-numbing, teeth gnashing hours. By the time we reach the Waldbaum's parking lot, Larry's face is ready to crumble from the tension.
Click Read More to continue
I can barely walk when I get out of the car. We pick up some cold cuts and head for his mom's house where we discover that the next door neighbor was nice enough to cut her grass - although he took out her azaleas in the process. She swears they were dead anyway as Larry complains.
Even though we are headed to a BBQ, we eat with Larry's mom anyway. The food there could very well be shitty and/or late. Why risk starvation and/or disappointment?
After we eat, we head for the liquor store. While Larry puts all his effort into choosing just the right wine, I am merely examining the different bottles. Little does Larry know that all future wine and liquor purchases will be biased towards cool bottles that can be sacrificed to my new bottle cutter.
Did you know there is a brand of wine called Jealous Bitch? Really.
At the counter, we are served by the same, bleached-blonde, white trash bitch as last year.
After we pile the bottles onto the counter, I remind Larry to have her gift wrap one of them (as if he's as stupid as I am and might forget?)
"Can you put this one in a plastic thingie?" he asks.
"A gift bag?" asks the hag. I swear, the two of them read my story last year and have been rehearsing this moment for my benefit.
Once we arrive at the house, all I can think about is how one of the hosts has a ton of stained glass that he doesn't use anymore. He's promised to give it to me, so I think about how I can casually bring it up in conversation.
Host: Guys, thanks for coming.
Larry: Thanks for having us.
Me: (whispers) stained glass.
Me: Nice grass!
We are early, but guess who's earlier? That's right: fat Katrina and her fat, fug family are all sitting out on the deck, nearest to the food. Her daughter wears a tight white t-shirt, black spandex pants and ugly flat black shoes (not that I could ever imagine her in heels because they would be pulverized in two steps)
The first course is hot dogs. Since we've eaten already, we are able to sit back and watch the theatrics from the garden. Katrina and her brood line up to attack the food tray up on the deck, which no doubt will need repairs after today.
Carol arrives and everyone tells her she looks great. Maybe it's because she's wearing clothes that fit this time, instead of halter tops that show off her muffin top.
If there's one thing Carol likes to do, it's brag. When she had a Corvette, she wouldn't shut the fuck up about it. She was a member of the Corvette club, a fact that she repeated about 35 times when we saw her in Provincetown a few years back. I'm in the Corvette club! I'm in the Corvette club! I'm in the Corvette club! I'm in the Corvette club! I'm in the Corvette club! I'm in the Corvette club!
It's been a while since she owned that Corvette. We never found out why, but I'm guessing that she was forced out of the club and that the car simply set itself on fire to get away from her.
Today, she brags about her newly remodeled kitchen. "My new kitchen is gorgeous! My new kitchen is gorgeous! My new kitchen is gorgeous! My new kitchen is gorgeous!"
I think Polly wants a cracker - or a slap in the mouth. Little does she know that we've already heard about her new kitchen, especially how it's already been overrun by her 12 cats and 2 dogs. (Yes, 12 cats)
Carol has brought with her a new pit bull puppy. We take bets on how long before it attacks the white, poodle-ish dog sitting up on the deck. Although Carol and her fug girlfriend take pains to watch the dog, they let it run amok long enough for it to take a big shit right in front of us.
I get up to grab Larry and I a couple of drinks. The bar area is up on the deck, where Katrina and family are sitting. I have my sunglasses on, so, even though I can sense that she's looking at me, I completely ignore her.
Karma attacks when I discover that the ice bucket is empty and all the soda and liquor bottles have been sitting out in the sun. I guess I could go into the house for ice, but then I spot Host #2. I follow him around like a lost pit bull puppy while he takes out a new bag of ice and smashes it on the floor.
Vinny arrives. Since last seeing him, we've learned that A) he's moved to Texas, B) he can't keep a job and C) he's back in New York, but moving in with Carol - and her 12 cats. She will reportedly help him find a job. Maybe he can clean the litter boxes.
Cigar Boy is also here. From what I understand, he used to date the woman who lives on the other side of the fence. And from the looks of her, I assume she's filthy rich, because her body is doing her no favors. She's absolutely massive, second only to Katrina. We watch her attempt to make the three steps down to the yard. She struggles, taking baby steps down with her plate of food.
Cigar Boy is a wannabe if there ever was one. He's probably in his late 30s, wears ripped jeans, and an untucked, white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. As his name implies, he chain smokes cigars non-stop.
Even though he sits away from the tables, the smoke and stench still waft over. He also wears flip-flops, which make me wonder how I could shove his face into the BBQ grill and make it look like an accident.
The know-it-all lesbians have arrived, with their manly clothes and superior attitudes. But something's different. One of them has a new hair do and it's definitely a hair-don't. It looks horrible on her. It sits flat on her fat head. It looks like a cheap wig.
Compliments fly over Tracy's new hair. When she leaves, I overhear someone comment that she'd had her hair straightened by Jim's boyfriend, Steve.
"Is Steve a hairstylist?" I ask Larry.
The shishkebobs are ready, so Larry and I head up to the deck. Of course, Katrina is first, pawing and scooping and waddling back to her table. While we wait on line, we overhear the obligatory food talk.
"The macaroni salad looks good. Who made it?"
This means that the macaroni salad is safe. Linda made it, not Katrina.
Because I trust Larry's taste in food, I let him go ahead of me on line so that I can observe his selections. He skips over the soupy cole slaw, and takes a shishkebob and macaroni salad. We both ignore the pasta salad, because we recognize it immediately.
This is the infamous Peanut Butter Pasta salad. It is a salad so vile that it should come in a black bowl with a skull and crossbones on it. I'd eat dog food before I even considered this.
Oh, and did I mention that Carol made this pasta salad? In the same kitchen overrun by her 12 cats?
When I go back for a second shishkebab (that Larry and I will split) I encounter Katrina, who is directly ahead of me on line. She takes the last two with her meaty hand.
For some reason, the host enjoys spreading the food out over the course of seven hours.
"If this were a wedding, I'd be out in the hall taking money out of the envelope." I say to Larry and John.
I never notice the candle on the table until one of the hosts comes over to light it. And then I smile. It's one of those horrible gadget candles where the bottom half lights up and changes color. It's so gaudy that I'm transfixed. Luckily I don't outright bash it because the person who gave them this candle is sitting at our table. Just imagine that conversation.
Wow. What a piece of shit candle. Anybody have a hammer?
I mean, it's like you want to take a blowtorch to it.
Did they find this in the garbage? Because that's really where it needs to go.
I gave them that candle.
Oh, it's lovely.
Hours later, the next course is ready. We wait a bit before going up for the "sausage and peppers" course. Melissa's famous Greek salad is also coming out. I can't wait.
Linda comes back to the table, plate in hand.
"Oh, Katrina's full - she's just gonna have a few olives," she says with a straight face.
I listen for the sound of an olive truck backing up into the yard and dumping several boxes onto the lawn.
Even though it's been hours, and plenty of food has been served, Katrina and her family are up there again, so we wait for them to leave down in the yard.
By the time we get there, the sausages are gone. Katrina strikes again.
It's time for dessert. Nothing gets people moving faster than the call of sugar. Inside the house, the desserts are laid out on the table. Katrina is already sitting at the table, as if they're all for her. I can imagine her inner dialogue. "I can haz everything?"
We sing Happy Birthday to the hosts, who are both celebrating a birthday this month.
The candles are blown out and John notices that Mary, a woman in her eighties, is standing, while fat Katrina, in her 50s, is sitting.
"Katrina, let Mary sit!"
Katrina doesn't say anything. Either she can't hear him, or she's ignoring him.
"Katrina, get up! Let Mary sit down."
It's like a scene straight out of Curb Your Enthusiam. Just replace Katrina with Larry David.
I've never liked John more. "You're my new hero," I tell him. I don't care that I say this within earshot of Katrina's daughter.
The crowd clears to reveal both Katrina and Mary sitting at the table.
We finally leave at 10:30. When I get home, I feel like I just got back from vacation. I feel homesick.
I hope we can make it to the Christmas party this year.