[Note: In a recent poll, more Americans said they would want to share a vacation rental home with Kelly Ripa than any other famous person, including the Obamas.]
I put my suitcase in my room and headed out to the deck to look out at the ocean/woods/mountains/pool. This was the good life! I went to the fridge and got a bottle of beer and opened the bottle of beer and took it back out to the deck and sat in what is called a “chaise lounge chair” and I drank the bottle of beer out there under the sunshine because vacation and summertime is the best.
Kelly Ripa would show up later that afternoon, and we would cook dinner together and toast to a wonderful shared vacation in our shared vacation home, and eat out on the deck in lawn furniture under the stars and catch up on all of the things that are new, which is all of them, because we don’t know each other. The next day, I guess, her husband, Mark Consuelos, and their kids would show up? We didn’t really plan it out much. Her assistant said that she would call me back but she never did. Probably that’s how it would work. Surely Kelly Ripa would be very interested in spending a little quality time with me, since we are sharing a vacation house together, without the distraction of her family, whom she sees every day. Her assistant’s name is Phoebe, and apparently she is a liar!
Around 8PM I started to get hungry, and I tried calling Kelly on all four of the Blackberry numbers that her publicist gave me, but she didn’t answer. I snacked on some cheese from a Ziplock baggie that whoever had rented the house before us had left behind. There was a little bit of mold on the rind, but I cut that off and it tasted OK. I was on my eighth beer when I sat down to see what was on the satellite TV (the house has satellite TV!) and woke up on that couch the next morning, because I have this weird thing where a ton of alcohol and no food makes me sleepy. The doctors don’t know what the problem is. Kelly Ripa still wasn’t there. I made some eggs, but I’m not used to cooking on an electric stove, and mostly they stuck to the pan, and then the yolks broke and got cooked. I ate my gross eggs out on the deck, even though it was cloudy. Twice I thought I felt rain drops, but I didn’t go inside until I was done. Unfortunately, none of the previous renters had left any coffee, but there were a couple of bags of black tea in the cupboard. I hate tea. But I drank tea.
By lunch I was drunk again. Kelly Ripa still had not shown up. I left a voicemail for her on three of her Blackberries, and was going to leave a message on the fourth Blackberry but halfway through dialing I just lost my motivation.
Beep. Hey, Kelly Ripa, it’s Gabe Delahaye. From the internet. I’m sitting here at this vacation house that we were supposed to be sharing and just kind of wondering where you are. I thought you were going to get in last night, but, um, you didn’t, and I’m running out of beer and I think the eggs that were left here were actually left here a long time ago, because I just barfed and I kind of can’t stop barfing. I’m going to go to the store to get some more beer and probably some eggs that don’t give me diarrhea and also some fucking coffee because all they have here is black tea and if I wanted to drink hot water with a little bit of dirt flavor in it I would go to jail. So, um, I guess just give me a call back when you have a chance.
I spent the rest of the day driving my Chevy Cobalt around the town/village/countryside/seaside resort. I had some [insert popular local meal] at a mom and pop place, and when I told the homely waitress with the casual familiarity that I was sharing a summer vacation rental home with Kelly Ripa she lost her shit. “I know her!” she said. “She’s on TV!”
“Totally,” I said. “She totally is.”
“I would love to share a vacation rental home with her,” the girl said.
“We all would,” I said.
That night I grilled some hamburgers and hot dogs out on the deck. I made enough for Kelly Ripa and her family in case they showed up. Later, I went inside and passed out in front of a rerun of The Nanny, and in the morning I found out that I’d forgotten the extra meat on the grill and it had all been eaten by squirrels/bears/seagulls/mountain wolves/mountain goats, and they’d shit all over the deck, and now I had to clean that up, and I spent the day cleaning that up and got a sunburn on my fucking back because I wasn’t going to wear a t-shirt out in this heat, but Kelly Ripa wasn’t there to help me put on sunscreen. Her husband, Mark Consuelos, wasn’t even there to help me put on sunscreen. I was all alone.
Three days later Kelly Ripa’s manager called me to let me know that Kelly Ripa would not be joining me at our shared vacation rental home. Ever. “Obviously,” she said, “she’s a famous celebrity.” And then Kelly Ripa’s manager told me I was an idiot. “Well if I’m an idiot, then America is an idiot,” I said. She hung up. “Fuck you, Kelly Ripa,” I said to the ocean/golf course/mountains/private beach/swimming pool/wooded glen. The vacation rental home suddenly felt very empty. I went inside and got another beer.