Friday, July 25, 2014

Pool Rules

On day 3 of our extended family vacation, we enjoyed about an hour at the beach before a severe summer thunderstorm began swirling all around us and chased all of the beach-goers, including my entire family and me, away.

But there was no cramping our style; no, we trashies would not be deterred.  We packed up our various coolers, snack bags, and beach toys and headed straight to our hotel pool—where drinking was allowed, as long as it wasn’t out of glass bottles.

When I walked into the pool area, I was immediately met by my younger brother-in-law, who was using the beer in his hand to point at a sign on the wall.  “Shay,” he giggled, “look at the pool rules!”

Everyone gathered around and read them, and we could all agree without a doubt that they were the weirdest and most hilarious pool rules we’d ever read:

First of all, #1 knocked me right out of the water—literally.  Damn that shit I’d taken 8 days ago.
I guessed I’d have to just sit on the sidelines and watch everyone else have fun.  SIGH.
And #3—really?  Because unless you’re dropping a deuce, who the hell actually gets out of the pool to go to the bathroom?
I remember on our honeymoon 9 years ago, the hubs and I had met two other couples at the swim-up pool bar.  We’d all been sitting there, treating each other to all-inclusive shots, sharing stories about our weddings and laughing like old friends, when one of the husbands—Chuck was his name—stopped for a moment.  He was a big guy, all muscles, and he had a thick New York accent.
“Do you guys realize,” he said, “that we’ve all been sitting here drinking for no fewer than 4 hours…and not one of us has gotten up to take a piss?”
None of us even had the decency to look ashamed—we were all way too drunk for that.  Besides, we realized as soon as Chuck said it that we were all doing the exact same thing, so what was the point of acting like you felt bad for it when everyone else was doing it, too?

We were all grossed out, though, as we turned to take in the scene around us.  The pool bar was separated from the main pool, which at least had some movement going on with a little water continuously running through the lazy river.
Our little swim-up pool bar, however, was pretty stagnant.  It consisted of a small area of water where we were all currently sitting, pissing ourselves with drink because we were too lazy to get off of the small, half-underwater stools and walk the 10 feet to the bathroom.
It was gross, you guys.  The water was turning yellow.
Did I learn a lesson from that day on my honeymoon and stop pissing in chlorinated pools?
No.  And I wasn’t about to start now, 9 years later on family vacation.
Damn those pool rules; we were there to par-tay.  I found myself mad that my younger son was finally potty trained, as I couldn’t thumb my nose at rule #8.
But that’s okay, because in defiance of rule numbers 2 and 4, I totally used my left hand—the hand on which I had a paper cut—to pick up a pool noodle and spout water through it at my husband.
I’m such a rebel, you guys.  Authority be damned.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Trashy Shorts: Country Boy

We were driving to the beach on the first day of our family vacation last week, when suddenly, the hubs and I heard a shout from the backseat.

“Hey, look!” my older son exclaimed.  “It’s a bunch of geese!”

He paused for a moment, and then we heard him say, "I wish we had a gun.  Then we could have geese for dinner.  I’ve never had geese.  I wonder if they taste like squirrel.”

I blame his father’s side of the family—particularly Papa and his farm—for this.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Trashy Shorts: Ah, Summer

My kids let me sleep in until 8:20 this morning.

I haven't checked yet, but I'm pretty sure I have bed sores.

Monday, July 21, 2014

Trashy Shorts: Sunburn

My husband has the best peeling skin from the sunburn he got on vacation last week, and he won't let me pick at it. 

I'm a picker, peeps. Give me a nasty, bulbous whitehead--even on someone else's face--some tiny blackheads, or some skin crumbling off of a red, sunburned back, and I'll be happy for hours. 

But he wouldn't let me pick it. 

I found myself screaming down the hallway at him as he ran away from me:  "Sunburns are WASTED on you!!"

Friday, July 18, 2014

Morbidity Complex

I have what I call a Morbidity Complex:  My brain takes a moment to soak in a completely regular or even benign situation,  and then proceeds to jump to the most morbid thought—the worst thing that could ever possibly happen in the whole entire world—and convince me that that’s what’s going to happen.

Once, I was in my best friend’s car as she was backing up.  I was watching her with interest because she wasn’t even looking behind her, really, and yet her foot was on the pedal and she was driving backwards, albeit slowly.

Suddenly, there was a beeping noise and she stopped and put the car back into DRIVE.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s the signal that tells me there’s something behind me and I need to stop backing up.”

My jaw dropped.  “And you trust that thing?  That—that—machine?

“Um…yeaaaah,” she said slowly.

I was appalled.  “What if stops working, Leigh?  What if the dinger breaks all of a sudden, and you are relying on it one day when there happens to be a kid behind you as you’re backing up?  And then you hit the kid and kill him, ruining the family’s lives—not to mention your own, as you’ll be hauled off to the big house for involuntary manslaughter for the rest of your life!  Have you thought about that, Leigh?”

Of course, it was not enough for my brain to simply place another car back there for my best friend to get into a fender bender with, or even a child who simply gets a fractured leg bone.  No.  In the scenario that my Morbidity Complex gave me, someone had to get killed off.

My best friend stared at me for a moment.  Dear God,” she said.  "Do you always think like a pscycho?”

I nodded.  “Except I just like to call it ‘being overly cautious,’” I said a little bit defensively.

“It must be exhausting,” Leigh said sympathetically.

“It is.”

Once, I was at my older sister’s house and she complained about a swollen gland.

“Oh my gosh,” I said, tears springing to my eyes.  “Should I start planning your funeral?”

My older sister looked at me strangely.  “Um, no, I don’t think so,” she replied.  “The doctor said I have a cold.  It’s just excess drainage.”

Then there was the time that I got really sick and couldn’t even hold down any liquid medicine.  I was 17 years old, and my dad and sister were driving me to the hospital.  I remember lying in the front seat of the car, which was reclined all the way back.  I was so gallant.

“I think…” I whispered, “…I think that God is calling me home.  Could someone call a priest to meet us at the hospital and say my last rites?”

When we got into the hospital room, they didn’t even call a doctor to come and see me.  The nurse on the afternoon shift breezed in cheerfully, hooked a bag of fluid up to a pole next to me, and chirped, “Just a little dehydrated, sweetie.  We’ll just get some fluids in you and you’ll be on your way home.”

It was all a little disappointing, if you ask me.

And then once, I felt a pain on the side of my head.  I was too freaked out to google “symptoms of an aneurysm,” but I did disclose my fears to the doctor when I made an appointment a few days later.

“Ah, no,” he said, swiping my fears away with a quick hand motion.  “It’s just a sinus headache.  A little Benadryl should fix you right up.”

The other day, I was filling up our inflatable pool for my boys when I noticed this:

I felt a kinship to our little pool.  Obviously the poor thing suffers from the same Morbidity Complex as I do.  I’m thinking of getting it some pills or something. 

I’d be on them myself, in fact, if I hadn’t heard that you aren’t supposed to drink while taking them.

Why does my best friend have to be all knowledgeable about that kind of shit, anyway?  If it weren’t for her, my little pool and I would be chasing prescription anxiety pills with gulps of Riesling, blissfully unaware of our surroundings—including anything dangerous, scary, or morbid. 

You know what?  I’m still mad at my best friend for getting her version of our stupid matchingcollegiate tattoos re-done without me, anyway. 

I’m totally breaking up with her.

Monday, July 14, 2014

Trashy Shorts: Family Vacation

Up bright and early to head to the annual extended family vacation, sponsored by my dad.

I really hope it’s as awesome as the one two years ago, when my youngest brother got drunk and got into a screaming match with my mom that could be heard all the way at the other end of the hotel.  My sisters and I know because we requested rooms at the opposite end of the hotel from my brother and my mom, and that’s where we first heard all the racket.

I tell you what, peeps:  Nothing says white trash more loudly than a mother and her drunken son screaming back and forth about who actually sprung for the bill at the pool bar.

The whole thing made Mom so mad that she swore she’d never come on another family vacation again, to which my dad responded, “Good.  I’m sick of paying for your room, anyway.  It’s about time we start acting like the divorced couple we are.”

Yes. As if separate rooms could keep those perverts apart when they’re lonely and needing some action.  But we all pretend to believe them, because otherwise we’ll puke.

Ah, family vacations...aren’t they the loveliest?

Wish me luck.

Sunday, July 13, 2014

Trashy Shorts: Family Reunion

I was at a family reunion yesterday, and the auctioneer was so aggressive that I was afraid to scratch my nose.

Then I remembered that just before the auction (to raise funds to rent the hall and buy the food for next year’s reunion) had started, I’d asked my dad how much money he’d brought in case I needed to supplement my bids.  Of course, I had reassured him, “I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

He’d shrugged and opened his wallet, where I got a glimpse of $60. 

After I’d claimed my prize for $16 and given him the change from the $20 he had handed me, I looked at him and blinked.  “You know I wasn’t really planning on paying you back, right?”

My dad rolled his eyes.  “Of course I knew that, Shay.  That’s why I smacked your hand when you tried to bid on the second necklace.”