Rob did bring me a coffee (because he values his life), and in an attempt to make up for the abandonment, he had Dewey written on the cup, which is not only the name of my dog (who you may know from Instagram), but also our next destination and happiest place on Earth: Dewey Beach, Delaware. We were finally en route to my homeland.
Shortly into the drive, we realized just how brutal it was going to be. It should have taken 3 hours max and it took us 4.5. We rerouted early due to FIVE accidents on the map, and the alternate route had like, 239472974 accidents (give or take). WHY CAN’T PEOPLE DRIVE I DON’T UNDERSTAND.
Within the first 30 minutes of the drive from hell, I decided to entertain myself and see how many Miley songs I could get away with playing before Rob noticed. I played exactly 3.5 before: “What the f*ck are we listening to?”
I consider that a win.
I also painted my nails and it was the closest I’ve ever seen Rob to hyperventilating whilst behind the wheel. No I did not spill. I’m a goddamn manicure pro, YOU KNOW THIS.
But the highlight of this painful drive was introducing our fearless driver to the triple threat that is Wawa: The finest gas station/convenience store/hoagie shop in ALL THE EAST COAST LAND.
I held my breath as Rob (with his tendency for food snobbery) noshed on his meatball sub (weird choice, but no judgment) and after he finished the last bite and I anxiously awaited his review, he reported…”That was legit.” Translation: I’m impressed.
One small victory for Wawa. One massive win for my entire life purpose.
We FINALLY arrived in Dewey, snagged the last hotel room in town (seriously) at the new Hyatt Place, and went straight to the Bottle & Cork for Saturday jam session, a debaucherous day drinking session with high-energy cover bands and Fireball shots a’plenty. My bestie Cory (who may or may not have been the inspiration for this blog) was waiting with open arms (and alcohol).
We soaked up the scene (literally), then headed down to The Starboard (read: best place in the universe) where my brother tends bar, met up with my parents, and went to a nice dinner at Salt Air in the neighboring town of Rehoboth, where we proceeded to drink them out of Silver Oak Cabernet and discuss how kids today are spoiled pussies. Anywho. The rest of the night was bar-hopping and shot-taking and ended like any successful night in Dewey with late-night Grotto pizza.
Shit, I drooled on my keyboard again.
In the a.m., the first order of business was checking if we could stay at the Hyatt for another night as they only had availability for Saturday when we booked. Surely someone had canceled. It was a damn Sunday; don’t people have to be at work in the morning? NOPE, apparently not. We had to pack our shit up and drive literally across the street to…wait for it…the Best Western. Upon pulling up and seeing an actual “Vacancy” sign illuminated like it was a Motel 6, it was clear: We had fallen from grace. As we checked in, I closed my eyes, clutched my purse tighter, breathed through my mouth as the lobby scent was a healthy blend of moth balls and trailer park, and tried to manifest the cloud I had slept on just three nights prior.
Translation: It was time for a drink. Yes, it was Sunday at 11 a.m., which was already an hour later than I would typically begin boozing in Dewey, but who’s counting?
Let me explain to those of you not familiar with Dewey Beach. It’s a professional drinking town, and the most popular day for alcohol-infused shenanigans is Suicide Sunday where you begin the day at Starboard for breakfast and the world-famous Bloody Mary bar, do champagne celery luges (my patented party trick), hang with the Elvis impersonator, jam to live music, play beer pong, crush Fireball at noon, become best friends with total strangers, FaceTime your friends from the toilet (what?), meet your soulmate, etc. In the afternoon, you head to North Beach, where everyone hangs on the sand overlooking the bay while a band plays acoustic tunes (tell me that’s not heaven), and you continue to engage in alcohol. After that, you typically hook up, pass out, black out, eat an embarrassing amount of food, almost get arrested for trespassing in a private lake (not that I would know anything about that), or end up like this gal hunched over a nice pile of your own puke.
So. We went to Starboard and the day started out rather slowly (read: no shots or champagne luges), and after a few drinks and lunch, we met up with my brother and his friends at Que Pasa Cantina (Spanish for “get wasted”). As Rob soon understood and commented, “These guys run Dewey.” We had some dranks and no one paid attention to me (typical)…
Supposedly my brother is not Armenian, but I’d like to see a paternity test (no offense, Dad).
At this point, there’s no way I hadn’t had at least 14 vodka drinks, but there’s no quitting in Dewey. I saw the town mascot (name another beach town with a damn mascot, I dare you) and while I got embarrassingly starstruck, my second wind officially set (or blew?) in.
On Sundays, this is the point in the day that separates the men from the boys, the warriors from the wussies, the bad bitches from the basic bitches. If you’ve been boozing all day and can hang at North Beach until the sun has gone down, you’re a pro. If you have to go home and nap, you’re an amateur.
After a pitstop at the hotel, we were starving, but instead of going straight to dinner, we went back to North Beach for the stunning Dewey sunset and more drinks.
Looking back, I should have just stayed in the bed, but we went to dinner and bar-hopped some more. Rob, being the smart one of the two of us, went home around 11 p.m., but I stayed out until last call and have a vague memory of ripping shots at 1 a.m. because I am literally the dumbest person on Earth.
When I was awakened at 9 a.m. the next morning, tangled in the 35-thread-count sheets at the Best Western, I was still semi-drunk, which meant the hangover hadn’t even set it yet, which meant the 3+ hour drive to New York City was going to be a real hootenanny. I will go on record as saying that was one of the worst hangovers of my life. A note to humankind: Don’t drink for 12 hours, then in the final hour, slam Fireball shots. Please take my word for it, for the love of God, your liver, and your dignity.
I think I was able to form a total of four sentences the entire ride to NYC, and by the time we actually got there, I finally had enough energy for an Instagram post (thank God).
We dropped Rob’s stuff at his baller apartment, I had dinner with a couple friends, and finally started to feel normal again…well, normal enough to (be forced to) stay out until 3 a.m. and get late-night pizza because New York City.
As I lay in bed that night, full of new experiences (and pepperoni), I thought about what an incredible ride it had been, how I wanted to do it again (on the West Coast, perhaps?) only with a little more Miley and a little less Fireball, and thankful Rob didn’t kick me out of the car and put me on a plane back in Raleigh.
And that alone is, well, pretty epic.
Top image of Dewey Beach sunset from flickr