THE SON: "Here Mom, catch!"
(throws ball at me - I miss it)
THE SON: "Um...try again!"
(throws ball at me - I miss it again)
THE SON: "One more time!"
(Ditto - but this time I pick it up and try to drill it at his head, but instead I drill it directly into the ground two feet in front of me.)
THE SON: (Cackling laughter) "Wow Mom, that was awesome! Let's try a little higher!"
ME: "CH! The Son is making fun of how I throw!"
CH: "Oh, your mom is a great thrower - you should see how far she can throw a golf ball down the fairway when she's mad."
THE SON: "Did you do that Mom? Was it the same time you peed your pants on the golf course?"
ME: "Oh, I'm sorry CH, did I disturb your iPad time in bed? Is it time for you to be rolled?"
And for the record, YES, it was the time I peed my pants on the golf course. But that was because I was incontinent from successfully completing my third labor with CH's bowling-ball headed babies and my golf club sort of missed the ball and hit the ground really hard. I also threw my golf ball down the fairway in front of a group of people after actually missing the ball three times at the tee box. At least I kept things moving.
Last Thursday, I went to work for a few hours (MISTAKE!) and then boarded a plane for Austin, TX to see my women. This was around noon, and I celebrated with some "Alone/Contemplation Time" at the airport bar.
Just me, George Washington, and some Blue Moon.
But then they announced boarding and I had to slam it.
And then I realized a neighbor was sitting behind me
and watched me slam a beer by myself in the bar,
and then boarded the plane with me.
All class, all the time, People.
Away we went to Dallas, and then to another flight in Austin. I don't mind takeoffs, but I just cringe at every landing. I hate that moment when the tires hit the runway, because I always picture them breaking off and then I'm in a fiery crash and I'm trying to grab my purse to exit the plane, because even in a fiery crash I'm probably going to take my purse. Do you know what a pain it is to get a new driver's license?
(By the way, I KNOW this text is all caddywompus, and I'm trying to get Blogger to change it and it won't, and I'm very tired and I'm not going to even bother pursuing the left-alignment any more. Please make a note of it.)
I found my girls.
Soon, an obliging bar table looked like this.
Our friend Liz arrived, late because her car broke down on the way to her flight in Denver, so she missed it, and got a later flight because she cried at the counter. Then she met a fellow on the plane, "Jim", who made sure she got to our bar okay. Hello Liz. Goodbye Jim. Better luck next flight.
Our next order of business was to get to a grocery store to stock up on food and liquor for the weekend. Instead, we ended up making faces and posing in the store, and went home with little food.
But a good start on the liquor.
We rent houses because we would get kicked out of hotels. We were lucky that our friend Paige has a colleague with a $3 million dollar house that he only uses a couple of months out of the year in Austin, so here was Home Sweet Home, RENT FREE no less, for the next few days:
We spent LOTS of time in that little hot tub on the pool.
Since the house only has three bedrooms, one person was bed-free. I would have taken the couch or one of the reclining chairs in the theater, but Dee had the short straw that night and she CHOSE to sleep on the floor, which is fun when you're 13 and a real pain in the ass when you are over 40. But when you're a little tipsy, anything will do. Here is what Dee's Princess Bed was made of, no shit:
- A "Congrats Wendy" graduation blanket
- A slightly stained quilt that said "To Robert Love Dad"
- An inflatable alligator
You've got a purdy mouth, Alligator.
Keep in mind that Dee ended up with Bacon Cat at the spa when we were in Scottsdale, so there is a history of her getting short-shafted with animal products. She might want to reconsider her friend circles. We all know she's too polite to say anything.
The next morning, we discovered the house was attractive to these:
Actual dead scorpion on the floor.
I killed one with a rubber squeegee in the garage.
We also discovered that in the light, you could see into the stone entryway, and that in said entryway there was a little Casita, which in Spanish translates to "You bitches made your friend sleep on the floor with Wendy's blanket and the homoerotic alligator when she could have been in the nicest bed with a private bath in the house".
But then again, my Spanish is a little rusty.
The Casita is on the right. Oops.
Tomorrow: Bikinis, Booze, and Probiotics.