The Frat House Gets Grown

We had a frat house original reunion a couple weeks ago for Roommate A’s wedding in Gulf Shores, Alabama. Look at us. We all look so cute. And I can barely fit into my dress, but I am still not ready to talk about that.


If you ever find yourself in Gulf Shores, Alabama and no – I have no idea why you would ever go to Gulf Shores, Alabama – except for FLORA-BAMA. Which is only the best people watching of all time. And my mother and I have made a sport out of people watching (and eavesdropping).

I’ve never seen so many multi-generational drinking situations – grandma, mother in skin tight dress and gladiator high heels, daughter in equally confusing yet more age-appropriate outfit, 18-year-old granddaughter because it’s 18+.

I bought like eight beers for $20 and the bar advertised a mullet toss. Which we all thought was like literal mullet wigs that you threw at each other until Sunday afternoon when we were heading to the airport that he realized there is a mullet fish and that’s more likely what they were talking about, which some light research confirmed.

Seriously, they throw fish at each other in Alabama for bar entertainment. How could you not want to hang out there.

Former Roommate A and his bride put up their respective wedding parties in a beach house which was about 17 feet from our hotel. The beach house had a pool and numerous fridges that just happened to be filled with beer and I think we successfully drove every bridesmaid away by the end of the weekend with our (super responsible, grown-up, respectful, quiet) shenanigans. Because we’re fun like that.

The standard information: Former Roommate A’s bride looked gorgeous, Former Roommate A also looked pretty handsome, the food was incredible – and I don’t mean just for like a wedding good but I want to eat those shrimp and grits and mashed potatoes for every meal good – the 80’s cover band was amazing.

R has a firm set of life rules that include 1) no dancing and 2) no karaoke. I kindly suggested that if he wasn’t interested in dancing with me, I’m sure I could find someone else to grind on and then refilled his wine often until he was ready to cut a rug. He even continued dancing with me after I knocked a whole glass of red wine onto his white dress shirt during a particular vivacious dance move during the Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive.”

After the wedding, we went back to the beach house and I proceeded to take off my dress and jump into the pool wearing nothing but a bra and boy short underwear. Which, in my defense, covers more of my person than my bathing suit.

There were two crucial issues with this decision, the first and minor of the two being my friends lovely parents were standing on the deck. And the second, I was in the pool wearing the only bra that I brought to Alabama.

Behold, how to dry your bra you washed in the hotel sink while on the way to the airport:


Worked like a charm.

The wedding night conclude with a vigorous game of Marco Polo and me serving frozen pizza to those still in the pool. It was all around classy and wonderful.

Former Roommate A + Wife moved to Atlanta a couple weeks later. I only cried a little. And then Former Roommate hauled out and moved to San Fransisco. A decision we mourned by karaoking R. Kelly’s Ignition (Remix) on a Tuesday night.

Former Roommate B and I are the lone holdouts in Washington, D.C. at this point.

(And this without a doubt the song of the wedding weekend for your Friday listening pleasure.)


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