What a great vacation. Lots of beach time, swimming, drinking, hanging out.

For our group's Fourth of July BBQ, I whipped up some Hamburger Helper. I've never had it before, but I think that little hand in the commercials is so cute, so I decided to put it to the test.

And really, you have to whip something a little white trash for Fourth of July. Isn't that the point, to celebrate the day that Europe's poor and misfit, won the battle against the rich and established the concept that is now widely known as the American Dream? A country that celebrates the misfortunes of its destitute and despicable on daytime talk TV, and offers these everyday citizens fame and fortune via death seeking reality TV shows?

So in the spirit of Roseanne and Kid Rock, I paid tribute with Hamburger Helper. A slice of Americana, without the double wide.

It was goooooodd.

We watched the fireworks at the beach, as friends' children went from one to the other of us, asking to be lifted up to get a better view of the fire exploding with booms and sizzles in the night sky.

For the most part of the week I was on good behavior, following a Sangria debacle on Wednesday night when unbeknownst to me, my brother continued to fill my glass repeatedly, tricking me to think I had not finished a glass. By the end of it, I found myself near puking in my bathroom, drenched in sangria that never made it to my lips but adorned my T-shirt, as my guests sat out on my deck. I later knocked over some change in a glass on my kitchen counter, spilling my water as I bent down to retrieve it and throwing all decorum to the wind, slammed the kitchen door to the guests outside and allegedly threw the glass of water at the guests laughing at me in my kitchen.

Just another night among friends.

Saturday night brought a lengthy night of drinking to celebrate two birthday's. When I finally retired past 5AM, I promptly realized how drunk I was and had to stay up and drink about 32 ounces of water to sober up.

I woke up around 11:30, drunk but shaking, and started to think about the money I spent the night before that I did not have.

Sick, from being hungover and more sick at the realization of what I was going to have to do, I deliberated on my back on my couch, staring at the ceiling fan for 10 minutes.

I then forced myself to sit up, and called my parents.

"Hi," I said to my Dad. "Hi," he replied warmly. "Yeah, I'm going to come over, I need to borrow some money. I am really broke," I choked out. "Ok," he said.

I dressed and slowly walked down my stairs, to unlock my bike, holding onto both railings on the suspicion that my legs were about to give in to the heat and the vodka fighting it's way out of my pores. I tried to breathe and nearly choked at the cloud of cinders and smoke that filled the air, a cloud that I later heard had traveled from a forest fire in Quebec.

Damn Canadians.

I reached my bike and realized that my cousin and her friend had left their bikes at my place the night before, wedging my bike into a tight spot. Fighting a wave of exhaustion at the thought of manuvering my bike free, and riding a wave of nausea, bent over the bike and laid my head on its seat.

It was in this position, that my cousin and her friend found me a few seconds later, and like nothing was going on, came around me and said, "Not feeling so good, huh," as they got down to the business of unlocking their bikes.

I grunted in response.

Drawing the courage to continue when I wanted to bend over in my shrubs and vomit, I mounted my bike and set off on my 6 block trek to my parents.

Two blocks into it, a car passed and honks hysterically at me, it's Mr. Destiny, who I give a weak salute to as my legs continue to go through the motion of pedaling.

One more block and a voice from a porch calls out, "Hey PG!" I look over to see my friend M. and croak out, "Can't stop...going to parents." Two blocks down and I pass my cousin and her friend pulled over talking to a Jeep filled with people, "Hey PG!" they all yell in unison. "Yeah, yeah," I mutter as I flop up my arm in an effort to acknowledge the group of friends.

I reach my parents, not sweating from dehydration, and begin the three flight climb to their house.

I walk in, look at them, and mutter, "not feeling so good," and walk directly through the living room, through the dining room, to the kitchen and take a diet coke out of the refrigerator.

I take a gulp and come back to sit at the living room table.

"I am not well," I announce, looking from one to the other.

"What's wrong, what doesn't feel good," my mother asks, a mere formality, as she knows that my organs are shriveling and shaking internally and that my stomach is leading a revolt, with the thudding in my head seeking to be second in command.

"It's all not good," I stand up and start to the bathroom, and then think better of it and decide to fight the nausea. "Do you think you are going to throw up," my mom asks, as my dad stares at me and muses over the situation. "It's a possibility," I respond, sitting my shaking hands.

We sit there for a bit in uncomfortable silence as they wait for me to formally request a sum. I feel sicker at having to bring it up.

Me, 29, hungover and destitute. Borrowing money from my parents. It's so pathetic, even now it makes me cringe at the memory.

"Ok, I have to go," I say breaking the ice. "How much do you need," my dad asks. "$200," I reply, "to cover checks I have outstanding."

"Can I give you a check," he asks.

"That would be great," I reply.

Suddenly my mother chimes in. "You can't give her a check, she needs cash, those checks may come in tomorrow and an out of state check will take days to clear," she points out. "Do you have the cash," she asks my Dad.

He goes to his wallet to check and she disappears again, he comes back and slips me a check for $456. "Here," he says. "What's this," I ask, seeing the odd amount. "It's the money I owe you," he says, looking me dead in the eye. "You don't owe me any money," I reply baffeled. "Yes, I do," he says giving me this strange look. "Huh?" I say, staring at the check and then back at him. And then it dawns on me. By writing a check for such a strange amount of money, it will show up on their joint checking statement and will obviously appear to my mother, to be reimbursement for a specific purchase.

"Oh, riiiiiiiiiight," I say, " the money you *owe* me. Thanks!" We both smile.

Then he tells me that he doesn't have the cash in his wallet, so he will wire it into my account Monday morning. Thanks, I say.

Do you need cash to get back, he asks. I tell him that have $10, so I should be okay. He hands me a $20. Thanks, I say, staring at the ground in shame at this point for being the most pathetic person I know.

He walks me out to the sidewalk and we stand talking at the curb for a few moments. All of the neighbors are outside doing lawn work and reading the Sunday paper.

My mother comes out onto the porch and yells down, "L. did you have enough cash to give PG?"

I quickly yell up "yes" to end this conversation before the neighbors learn my entire pathetic situation, but my father then yells up, "I'm going to wire money into her account tomorrow," as my mother descends the stairs asking if I have any cash to get home.

I groan and look at my Dad, "Well now all the neighbors know that I am 29 and destitute. Perfect." He tells me I am being ridiculous, but I squwinch up my eyes real tight and suspect that the lips of that nasty old lady across the street are already flapping to her crotchety husband and saying smugly, "Look at that, the Partygirls put that daughter of theirs through that fancy college and she has some big job up in NYC but she can't even support herself. Why, she's almost 30!! That girl should have gotten herself a husband years ago instead of running around at those bars down here."

Mind your Polident, bizatch.

Gathering the last shreds of diginity I have left (READ: None), I say my goodbyes and mount my bike to ride home.

I internally preach to myself how I have reached a new low. Hungover and broke at 29, borrowing money from my parents.

This is an afterschool special waiting to happen.