Bar-B-Ew

While I was living in New York City, so was my friend David (the one from the Party Shirt story). He lived farther uptown than I did and had recently acquired a local assortment of BFF’s, all of whom I was eagerly looking forward to adopting myself. Most of his latest buddies were, like the both of us, total nerdballs, but one, Austin, was actually fairly adorable, despite his shockingly large ghetto booty and propensity to reference video games at every turn in every conversation.

But Austin, of course, had a girlfriend. She lived back home in Georgia, and judging by the photo he carried in his wallet (who even does that?), she appeared petite, pretty, and exorbitantly Southern: her Miss Hummingbird sash was draped across her perky chest, her blond hair was piled high atop her head à la Marge Simpson, and she was making a kissy face for the camera, lathered in more lipgloss than could be collectively scavenged at a sweet sixteen. The girlfriend, Leanne, was apparently of the on-and-off variety, but that horrid pageant picture beamed back at me every time Austin flipped opened his wallet, and it was clear he was perpetually off limits. 

Each Sunday David and I went to one of those NYC bars that shows every NFL game, each on a different TV, so we could watch the Patriots and scream loudly while surrounded by all sorts of other fans, without being too terrified of being decked with Duracells. Sometimes Austin would tag along and complain that the NFL wasn’t nearly as good as the NCAA, and talk about the University of Georgia as if we cared. The bar was great though, and you could order buckets of beers for $7.00, plates piled high was cheesy, drippy, nachos, pyramids of buffalo wings, and hot dogs that you needed the wingspan of an albatross to actually hold properly. Each week our checkered, plastic tablecloth was a graveyard of chicken bones and tortilla chip crumbs, and we’d recline on our benches, rubbing our bellies like Buddhas, and groaning intermittently from fullness.

Leanne’s eventual celebrated arrival, which I had been hearing about ad nauseam for weeks and weeks, happened right before Thanksgiving. She and Austin went into immediate hibernation, regardless of the fact that the previous weekend he had been hanging all over me: maybe because he was drunk as David Hasselhoff eating a cheeseburger, or maybe because he was slightly fascinated by my little crush on him, but regardless, it happened, so there. I had zero desire to meet Miss Hummingbird, but while I got situated in our regular booth that Sunday, my Brady jersey on and a bucket of Bud Light in front of me, in she walked, clutching Austin’s arm as if he might bolt like Seabiscuit were she to loosen her wrestler’s grip. Her high pitched giggling was audible over the referee’s whistles and commentator’s bantering that blared from the thirty-seven televisions on in the room.

They snuggled up across from David and me and she literally did not let go of Austin the entire time. I was legitimately afraid she might cut off his circulation and he’d end up at Lenox Hill Hospital with a gangrenous arm. I certainly have my overly girl moments, but this chick was the exact opposite of me in every possible way: I was wearing a football jersey, she was wearing some pink, fuzzy turtleneck with embroidery on the cuffs; my hair was in a ponytail, and she had clearly spent more than an hour applying her mascara and pouffing up her hair; she had on a necklace with her sorority letters, and when I inquired, trying to do anything to appear less than totally livid at her existence, she blabbed on for close to half an hour about her UGA sorority and the fabulous girls she met and what a wonderful experience it was, ending her speech with a squeal of delight. (For those who don’t know me too well, I’d rather spend a weekend in a stockade than in a sorority. Ick.) 

She refused to touch the beer (“Too many carbs, honey-bunny! Don’t you know?”), went to bathroom roughly twenty-three times to fix her hair and make-up (“It’s all part of being a girl, sweety! Don’t y’all know that?”), and for the most part wouldn’t shut up. Now, I’m a girl who relishes a good Southern accent, but after listening to this self-proclaimed Belle drone on and on and on about her life in fabulous Georgia and just how in love she was with Mr. Austin for three whole quarters of a football game, I was more than ready to poke my eyes out with a Cajun french fry.

When the fourth quarter started, a mountain range of wings was slid in front of us. Austin and David licked their lips and dug in. “Oh, Honey Bunches, don’t do that,” Leanne drawled, “Here, let me help you.” In five seconds flat she had fashioned a stack of disposable napkins into a chic bib and tied it around Austin’s neck. He smiled goofily as he munched on the wings. Eventually the bib was slathered in orange hot sauce, and his face and fingers looked like that of any boy after he’s devoured his weight in buffalo wings: a total disaster zone. “You’re disgusting,” I said, laughing, unable to comprehend why no guy can eat wings without getting half of it on his face.

“Ohhh, Austin!” Leanne moaned. “Just look at ya! What a mess!” She pulled another stack of napkins out of the red plastic dispenser and swiveled around in her seat. “Now what are we going to do about this?” Holding Austin’s chin firmly in her hand, she dabbed and rubbed the barbecue sauce off his face. This carried on for several minutes. “You’re just such a yucky one, aren’t ya?” She said while she systematically removed every molecule of mess off her boyfriend’s face. Yucky, indeed. Was this for real? Who does that? In public? Or in private? How about, ever? I was half expecting her to burp him once the task was properly wrapped up.

Feeling those Cajun fries rise in my stomach as I watched this repulsive spectacle, I excused myself, unable to watch those two interact any further. Later on I was informed that upon my departure Leanne had sighed in her cutesy accent, “Thank heavens that girl went to go throw up. After all those carbs, she needed it! Don’t you think so, Austin, hun?”

Sometimes I just can’t win.