I don’t like writing stories that involve alcohol.
Drunk stories, if you will. Stories about being under the influence.
Sure, they’re funny and they show a part of our personalities that most people will never see. But the land of the Internet is not just you, Scott, and me. It’s employers, it’s potential clients, it’s our parents, possibly our future adult children. It’s our doctors making a mental note to check the “drinks alcohol” box on our charts. It’s people we’ve never met watching Scott and me roll by their house in a red golf cart at 10 a.m. on a Saturday morning.
This wasn’t a normal Saturday morning joy ride through the hood. It’s not summer. No one in their right mind would be driving a golf cart in the bitter, blowing 27-degree wind.
We didn’t have coats. My shoes were in my lap. Scott’s fly was down. My makeup smeared under my eyes matched my rat’s nest hair. You could smell our breath coming a block away. Our eyes looked like penny slots because the sun was burning our eyes and our souls. We don’t even own a golf cart.
It was the golf cart ride of shame.
As soon as we turned down our street, two things came into focus: The SOLD FAST! realtor sign was gone. And moving trucks were in our neighbor’s drive way. Our new next door neighbors closed on their new house.
First impressions are everything when you meet new neighbors. Here we come – Mr. and Mrs. Burton in a golf cart bouncing into the driveway followed by moaning because Scott took the turn too fast.
You’re probably asking – Julie, you’re 36 years old. You’re a mother. Get ahold of yourself. What in the world happened the night before? Excellent question. I’ll tell you what happened. We traveled back into a time warp – also known as the neighborhood progressive dinner. Scott, me, and 70 of our fellow neighbors thought we were in college again. We traveled from house party to house party. We were 21-year-olds with no kids.
House 1 – The Gordon Household: White mojitos, a veggie tray, chips, friendly hellos, and introductions.
House 2 – The Burton Household: Burton’s saltwater whiskey, Moscow mules, wine, hot ham and cheese sandwiches, and chatter about who lives on which street and how many kids we each have.
House 3 – The Ricks Household: Apple cider punch laced with Fireball. Maybe. I don’t really remember what house 3 had. I don’t remember what food either. I do remember telling a neighbor she looks like the hot chick from Joe Dirt. Not white trash hot just hot hot. My last known google search on my phone was “hot chick from Joe Dirt.”
House 4 – The Willauer Household: Rumple and Fireball shots. That’s it. No food. No water. Just Rumple and Fireball. Mint or cinnamon – pick your poison.
House 5 – The Johnson Household: If you made it to the Johnson’s house you were the true winners. Chocolate martinis and a dessert bar. Champagne for being fabulous.
Something snapped in Scott. The basement bar morphed into a club. The DJ played Taylor Swift’s “Look What You Made Me Do” and Scott decided it was time to give our neighbors their Christmas present for making it to the Johnson’s house. He went down as the Christmas progressive dinner legend. Scott Burton is Magic Mike.
In our true 21-year-old fashion – Scott and I shacked at the Johnson’s house that night. We slept in their guest bedroom. I got up to pee in the middle of the night, forgot I wasn’t at home, and ran into a window. I could barely open my eyes the next morning because I woke up with a 36-year-old hangover.
We found a way home. The golf cart.
We briefly met the new neighbors last night. They’re our age, they’re huge OU fans, and they have two kids. We invited them to our neighborhood New Years Eve party and they accepted. They suggested we could even do a progressive dinner and I damn near threw up in my mouth.
Our new neighbors still don’t have a clue about the blog they’re living next to. For all they know, we’re the quiet couple next door with a golf cart because I don’t like writing stories that involve alcohol.
And don’t forget to buy my book, “But Did You Die?”