The Vacation, Episode 2: We Will Vacation, You Can Be My Parasol

Once again, I’m sitting by the pool with my nouveau boyfriend Jack Daniels. It’s probably not a good sign that I consider a drink to be a suitable replacement for commitment, but hey, different strokes.

I spent Monday and Tuesday here on the beach in a desperate attempt to upgrade my skin tone from “Borderline Translucent” to “Something Actually Resembling Flesh”. Unfortunately, I tan like an albino in the center of the friggin’ sun. My back is now a delicious shade of pink. Super.

Tuesday night, my Dad decided to go out to an Italian restaurant. A good idea, but I would be remiss not to mention that he would need a reservation. Of course, he didn’t listen, but then again he’s footing the bill, so who am I to complain?

In order to actually get there, we took a golf cart. Yup, I get to spend a week driving around in a motherfucking* golf cart. Bitchin’! Or it would be, if I didn’t have three back seat drivers bossing me around. I’m a competent enough driver I think. I’ve never hit someone or gotten a DUI (knock on wood), and the only time I’ve ever been pulled over was the first time I drove my car, and even then, it was because I couldn’t figure out how to turn on my lights. I’m a fucking idiot, I know.

However, they took every opportunity to throw in their two cents. At one point, I was approaching a fork in the road, only to have them shout out “LEFT!!!! RIGHT!!!!” Apparently, they never bothered asking for directions, so they figured they would just wing it. Needless to say, my first stop once we got to the restaurant was straight to the bar for some alone time with my lover. No wonder my mother drinks. Hell, she’d have a problem if she didn’t drink.

As big of a bitch as I am sober, I’m really quite friendly drunk. I also have the limit of a twelve year old, as numerous family members, friends and gay porn stars will attest to. So within five minutes of arriving, I was best friends with the kinda cute fratboy sitting beside me. His friend just died, so I stuck it out and gave him as much comfort as I could, considering my Blood Alcohol Content.

He was charming, and somehow managed to figure out I was gay after all of ten minutes, which means I’m either a complete stereotype, or he has one of the most accurate gaydars ever. He said he wasn’t homophobic, although after the eighth time he said this without any solicitation, I had to wonder exactly where the fuck he was going with that. I’m just saying, he invited me back to HIS place for a beer. What can I say, I’m very good at turning out drunk straight boys. Consider this your warning.

If it wasn’t for the fact that I was supposed to be having dinner with the family, I probably would have had a drink with him, but instead, I decided to clean up the broken beer bottle he kicked over on the floor, bandage his foot up, and put him to bed on his side, so he wouldn’t pull a Bob Marley and choke on his own puke. As you can see, I have experience with this sort of thing.

Apparently, Dad wasn’t too happy with the fact that I helped a total stranger. According to him, if you help someone in need, you’re ‘Naive’. I hate to say it, but if given the choice between being naive and being an asshole, I will gladly take naivety any day of the week.

I ended up going back to the room about midway through the dinner, as my Dad was drunk (I know, shocker) and I had no desire to go through that again. I left the golf kart for one of my brothers to drive and walked back instead, since it was only fifteen minutes away, and I figured I would just work off dinner instead of throwing it back up.

Of course, I’m the only person in the world stupid enough to fuck up walking. I stubbed my toe against the sidewalk, and earned myself a blood blister the size and colour of a grape. All things considered, I think I handled it pretty well, assuming you consider grabbing my toe, bunny-hopping the length of a football field and screaming “HOLY MOTHER OF GOD THAT HURT” over and over as ‘pretty well’.

Then there was New Years, and anyone who knows me knows that I hate New Years. Hate hate hate hate hate hate hate it. What can I say about it? Dad got drunk, a fake U2 cover band played, and I entered 2009 the same way I entered 2008: Praying for the sweet, icy embrace of death. Yup, not much changed, really. Auld Lang Syne, motherfuckers.

That’s the vacation up to New Years. More to come tomorrow. For now, I have to gouge out my eyes due to the elderly woman three beds down from me. She has purple hair, and for reasons beyond me, she has decided to wander around the pool without her bikini straps off. Her boobs look like two runny eggs fighting their way out of a candywrapper. It also doesn’t help that she’s looking after her screamy-little grandchild. Incidentally, I just googled the word “vasectomy”.

*Did you know that Microsoft Word considers ‘motherfucking’ to be a word? ‘Bitchin’’, however, is not in the dictionary. It suggests Birchen up instead. Go fig.