Covered in honey, showered in beer.

Last night I met up with a cousin (second cousin, actually) I haven’t seen in, as near as we can figure, at least ten years. She’s one of those people with whom, for whatever reason, I’ve always had an inexplicable bond, and who I can go long periods of time without seeing, but know that when we do see each other we’ll have a great time. Definitely not the case with all (or even most) members of my extended family.

We have similar outlooks, and even more similar senses of humor. What can I say. The girl absolutely slays me. And that’s more true now than ever. She’s Brooklyn to the core, born and raised in a tiny four-room apartment in, I don’t know, Flatbush or some shit, and in many ways lives up to many of the stereotypes that that bit of information might conjure. Growing up, one of my favorite things about her was her friendly, in-your-face attitude, coupled with her heavy Brooklyn accent. Oy. That accent. I can still hear it.

But here’s the thing. In 1993, she moved to Atlanta and settled there, where she’s lived ever since with her handsome Hotlantan husband and their adorable, growing family. So now, when you talk to her, you’re immediately presented with this very strange, endlessly endearing (and entertaining) mixture of Brooklynese and Hotlantan drawl. It’s absolutely hilarious. “Yo, this is my cousin P/O, y’all. We’re fixin’ to go have a beer. Fuhgeddaboutit.” Shit.

So she came to town for some fun with her husband (the kids stayed home with the grandparents) and two of their friends—a young, attractive, Atlantan couple who were also a lot of fun. We met at a bar downtown, slammed back four beers a piece (well, my cousin had two chocolate martinis) and proceeded to get a little raucous. Much hilarity ensued, and we managed to strategically avoid topics that had the potential to become uncomfortable, like say, the war in Iraq, “President” Bush, gay rights... It was clear that there were some differing viewpoints on those issues on different sides of the table (i.e. the Yankee side and the Dixie side).

So as we’re leaving the bar, feeling happy and boisterous, I was telling my cousin how jealous my parents were going to be that I got to see her, since it’s been so long since they’ve all seen each other. I said how my mom was going to want to know everything we talked about, and I was thinking how much I’d have to filter out and how different our little reunion probably would have been if my parents had been there.

“Yeah, well just tell her I have a dyke haircut,” she exclaimed, inexplicably.

“Hey, my mom has one too!” I replied, laughing as I strolled down the street, headed toward the subway and a friend’s wine-fueled birthday dinner celebration.