Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Trashy Shorts: Hot as Balls

I don’t know if it was sweat or tears running down my face during my quick 3-mile jog in the 99-degree heat over the weekend.  What I do know, however, is that I actually tucked my tank top into the bottom of my sports bra in a feeble attempt to cool off.

The few of you who know who is behind this blog and have had the privilege of being present at parties or other special events where, as my favorite party trick, I’ve whipped out my gut, will understand what a sight this was to behold.

Luckily there was no one around to behold it.

Oh, and in other news:  Sometimes undiagnosed OCD can make an otherwise somewhat intelligent person kinda stupid.  I thought I was going to pass out 3 times along the way (maybe once per mile?), but I figured no biggie, I was running on my in-laws’ farm and, because of the dangers of the heat, I had told my sister-in-law to come find me if I wasn’t back in about 30 minutes.

When I did return to my in-laws’ house, dripping sweat and almost choking on my own breath, I found my sister-in-law in her childhood bedroom, spraying perfume on her wrists.  I noticed that her feet were bare.

“Um, that was cutting it kind of close,” I said.  “Actually, with the stretching I did at the end, it’s probably been about 40 minutes since I left.  Were you just getting ready to put your shoes on and come and check on me?”

She looked at me and blinked.  “Shay!” she said.  “I’d forgotten you were here.”

Ah, well.  The workout got done, and even though my sister-in-law apparently wouldn’t have cared if I’d died of heat stroke—well, I didn’t.  #victory

Monday, July 28, 2014

Trashy Shorts: Sweat

On Saturday, otherwise known as the hottest fcking day of the year, my older sister insisted that we get family pictures taken…at a park…outside.  She’d already called her friend, who is an amateur photographer working to build her portfolio, and who was going to give us a good deal.

"No way,” I said defiantly, as if I had a choice.  My older sister always says that she still can—and will—kick my ass even though we’re well into our 30’s.  I’m not going to test it, and we all know that.  Still, I like to act like I’m going to assert myself, even though we all also know that I’ll do whatever she tells me.  “It’s going to be hot as balls outside.”

“Sorry, Shay,” she said, and she actually sounded like she meant it.  “But The Golden Child is in town, and we have to take advantage of that.  We never know when he’s going to be able to make it back.”

She was talking about our younger brother, who is in the Air Force and has been stationed out of country for the past few years.

“Like I give a shit,” I said.  “GC is the douchiest one of all of us.  Who cares if he’s in the family pictures or not?”

My older sister sighed on the other end of the line. 

“Alright,” I conceded.  “We’ll be there.  But the pictures are going to suck.  I’ll be all wilty and soggy, and I know you guys are going to post these on Facebook and tag me, and then all kinds of my ex-boyfriends—several for whom I’m still carrying torches—will see them.”

I saw my husband, at the kitchen counter making a sandwich, roll his eyes.

“Like I said, I’m sorry, Shay,” my older sister replied.  “But be here at 3.”

"Fine.  But you know how I sweat.  Be prepared for pit stains and the eff word coming out of my face in all of the pictures.  In fact, when the photographer tells us to say cheese, I’m just going to say ‘fuck’ and call it a candid photo.”

"We wouldn’t expect anything less, Shay.  Love you,” my sister said before hanging up. 
 
WHATEVER.

It seems that the older of my two younger brothers, simply by being the lovable douche that he is, has given me even more material than I remembered.  For more on The Golden Child, click here, here, here, or here

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.