My husband just left for a 4-day trip to Florida with 10 guys to golf and deep-sea fish and celebrate his friend’s pending nuptials. While he was packing his 12 pair of underwear for this 4-day trip, he mentioned that this was going to be his “own personal Vietnam.”*
He apparently is the only guy who goes to bed early (at 2:30 a.m.), the only one who eats breakfast before 11:00 a.m. (and then needs to eat again in 2-4 hours), and doesn’t like communal sleeping, bathing or eating. Although this is no Daytona ’87, I’m sure it is by far the most intense and difficult battle he has ever waged. So far he has eaten a whole box of granola bars in the last 24 hours just to stay alive.
Hang in there, soldier, the chopper’s on its way.
* Disclaimer – the mention of Vietnam is in no way making light of what is no doubt a very serious event in many people’s lives. I was simply riffing on some terms that might be inappropriately funny. Any hurtful or unlawful commentary is completely unintended and purely for entertainment purposes.
I got tired of creating new posts for every thought I scribbled down. So here are two random items.
- Nothing like gearing up for swimsuit season right about the same time that the 1,400 Girl Scout cookies I ordered arrive at my door. I find myself fishing through my underwear drawer for the mediums. Good times.
- I am someone who is pleased by little things. I got my driver’s license renewed a couple of days ago and was positively gleeful over my picture. I mean, isn’t that the old joke? Everyone complains about their driver’s license pics looking like a death march. Mine made me look tan and shiny (in a good way), my hair was decent, I wore black – how much better could it be? Then I looked at my new expiration date and was thrilled to see that I was going to be locked into that awesome photo for SIX whole years.
Then I made the slow realization that I would be 44 when that time came. A lot can happen in six years, people can die, get divorced, have babies, get fat, stay fat, lose loved ones, change jobs. That’s six whole Christmases, six shitty winters and six blistering summers in St. Louis, two elections, six embarrassing full-body mole checks, countless hangovers, approximately three changes of my 6-disc CD player in my car. The list goes on. Needless to say, I was a bit deflated when I got back to the office.
While driving down the road today, I saw a kid on a bike. Maybe 10 or 11 years old. He was steering with one hand and almost wrecked because HE WAS TALKING ON A CELL PHONE WHILE BIKING. You deserve every bit of gravel in your chin for that, you little turd.
Furthermore, your parents should be stripped of their blackberries, flat screen tvs, ipods, laptops, cable tv, satellite radio, and Starbucks. Make them connect with actual humans in an uncaffienated state in an actual world, devoid of information about Scott Baio’s fear of commitment and Bret Michaels’ fear of cutting his hair.
At 7:00 a.m. while in the shower on Christmas Day, my holiday mantra was “The holidays aren’t something you have to ‘get through,’ they are a time to enjoy family and friends and bask in the love of giving and receiving.” By 3:00 p.m. it was “The holidays are all about ‘taking the hit.'”