Today’s topic: Random Acts of Whoreness
Hello Mom and her two non-English speaking co-workers who actually read this blog. I've missed the three of you. Well actually, I haven't, because I've been with you in Nebraska all week, Mom. (Juanita and Lupe, you are on your own.) This is why I can't breathe and am having the second-hand smoke tar scraped out of my lungs tomorrow. But I know you crack the kitchen window open because you love me, Mom.
Not Whoreticulturey, but adorable, no?
OD and George the Superpet, ready for takeoff!
Last week, my mom flew from Padre Island to her summer home in Elkhorn, Nebraska, because who doesn't dream of a summer home in Nebraska? This trip has been planned since March. Mom arrived on Wednesday. On Saturday night, Dad showed up somewhat unexpectedly, but not TOTALLY unexpectedly, because this is how he operates. He makes a last minute decision and then drives 20 hours straight to "surprise" everyone. We all know that he pees in a bottle when he makes these trips, but we have a "don't ask, don't tell" policy about it in our family.
True Story: One time he traded in his pickup for a new one when he arrived in town and forgot to take the bottle out. The great part is that he wasn't mortified that the service guys found a jug of his urine; he was mad because mom got that one from the hospital for him. It was custom. I think this goes a LONG way toward explaining why I turned out this way. Sorry Gaga. I wasn't born this way. I was purposely molded into the dysfunctional person I am today.
This is a recap of my week in Nebraska, with random appropriate bits for Whoreticulture Friday. You could say this week is the ADHD version.
Three hours into the trip on Interstate 80, fourth Hummer truck:
Current Husband: "You ever think about driving that big rig?"
Me: "I'm pretty sure that truck can drive itself."
CH: "But I bet it would be fun...."
Me: "Step on it and I'll see if the driver is interested in giving you a spin."
Dear Grocery Store: Do not put bright pink signs on your produce that say, "NICE MELONS" and not expect me to pick them up and fondle them. Or put the sign on myself. Or make my teenage daughter take the picture. Or not pull my shirt down so as to hide the jelly rolls I'm sporting. It's businesses such as yours that force me to be immature. The melons, by the way, are real, and they are SPECTACULAR.
Speaking of melons....
This is Paige the OB-GYN, my high school friend who terrifies me with her stories about uteruses (uteri??) falling out of people who don't do Kegels (let's all do one together...clench...and...RELEASE). We got together at our friend Meem's house in Omaha on the 4th, and Paige brought her Tit Coozie. But apparently she skipped kindergarten, because she didn't bring enough for everyone. Do you know me AT ALL, Paige? I get to see my high school posse in November in Austin, Texas, and I expect a gyno-swag-bag.
(Running off to trademark that name.)
The trip ended with CH and I attending The Black Keys concert in Council Bluffs, Iowa. CH and I arrived at the concert area to find that it was:
- An outdoor venue.
- With no seating.
- And it had been raining all day.
How do these two dorky-looking white dudes
from Ohio make such big, fat-ass blues? How?
Then we went to the slot machines (big, big mistake) and then I made CH walk me to the band bus to see if I could snag a Key to get in a blog picture. But it wasn't meant to be, because my Dad was there to pick us up, smoking and honking in his Buick Enclave in the casino valet driveway. Did I mention that I'm 42, and I had my Dad drive me and my boyfriend to a concert, and then pick us up at midnight? I felt like it was 1984 and I was seeing Def Leppard when the drummer had both arms. THAT old school, baby.
And thus concludes this episode of "What I Did on My Nebraska Vacation". I hope you all had a fantastic Fourth of July, and none of you had the firework I have re-named "The Dancing Grandchildren" due to it's sudden and unexpected shooting of fireballs straight out 50 feet in all directions toward the screaming and terrified children. No grandchildren, grandparents, or animals were harmed in the lighting of said firework.
One more bit of randomness, not necessarily whorish in nature? I have a whole new respect for Olivia Wilde, actress and apparent Honey Badger fan:
In case you missed it, I found this little gem of joy through The Bloggess, and it deserves a second viewing. It just brings a smile to my face. Honey Badger don't care, Honey Badger don't give a shit! I need this t-shirt.
Happy Whoreticulture Friday Wifers, and have a great weekend!
UPDATE FRIDAY 3 p.m. - Many of my friends eschew the comments section, which never works and is impossible, and e-mail their comments to me. This one, from a college friend who came home with me one Easter, was impossible for me not to post. This is Hand To God true:
"You kill me! I choked on my pretzel laughing about your dad and his "custom jug!" I totally remember going to church with you, and your dad had a beer t-shirt on under his jacket!"
Seriously people. You can't make this shit up.