Hi there. I missed a week because I took a looooong drive to see some pregenate friends. Well, one of them was the impregnator, the other the impregnatee. It was my peace offering, as I won’t be there for the baby shower in another month. Which, if anyone has read my first few posts, you should know I’m totally fine with. Because I am not a social butterfly. I hate parties with strangers. I don’t talk shop, and my flagrant use of sarcasm, dry humor and naturally occurring skepticism does not lend to polite, sterile conversation. And I freeze when it is required. It’s also not a bad thing that I don’t have to play balloon-under-the-shirt baby crap. I still feel relief that I escaped a bridal shower and any toilet paper dress or penis pasta. Actually, the penis pasta I’m fine with. Anyways.
WHY am I missing such a lovely event? Because the only vacation days my husband has (and therefore the only vacation money I have saved) is being spent…at my husband’s parents place! Oh boy! I’m bringing a bathing suit this time, since I’m still scarred from the last fiasco, but besides their hot tub (and it’s the east coast…it’s already too hot for that) they don’t like to do anything. Their idea of hitting the town is going to the mall and spending 5 seconds in each store before they look annoyed and wait with cross arms at the front door, ready to move on. So knowing that I will be spending my slowly saved vacation fund for a trip without a beach, a pool, a pina colada, or a day free of overly loud inlaws has left me less than poetic. It was more like Andrew Dice-Clay meets Richard Prior.
When I was a kid and I cursed, my mom would make me wash my mouth out with soap.
Of course, at the tender age of eight I desensitized myself to the taste of soap by brushing my teeth with it once a day. But after buying those tickets, I’m sure I earned a whole damned day of that bar of soap in my mouth.