The Couple That Acts Like Assholes Together Stays Together

We had some moments during our vacation that made me realize, once again, that J is the only man could I have ever married.

The best of those happened the night we went on a dinner cruise. Several of my friends mentioned that while luaus are fun, the dinner cruises are much more mellow and intimate. The dinner cruise serves prime rib and luaus don't so the choice was actually very simple. You would think that I am about to write about holding hands while watching the sunset, or dancing on the boat or looking deeply into each other's eyes. But that would be a different blog, from a different woman who is married to a very different man.

No, the moment I thanked my lucky stars that I met this man and married him despite all logic to the contrary happened before we got on the boat. We were waiting in the sun with all the other couples and J starting laughing to himself. He was almost embarassed to tell me but he should have remembered that this is AB LastName he is talking to and I am a retched retched soul. So he admits that he is picking out all the newlyweds in the crowd. And trying to figure out which ones will be divorced in the first three years.

You can easily pick out the newlyweds in a crowd like that. The men look all mellow but deeply cowed from early marital nagging but lots of sex, the women look smug and have french manicures (I am deeply distrutful of women with french manicures--especially the ones with the damn rhinestones in the center but I understand them for weddings). We spent forty five minutes picking out couples and laying bets. I wish there was a way to figure out if we chose correctly. We totally did though--that girl was orange and looked like she was going to cheat on him on their honeymoon.

Marry a man who shares your interests--even if your interests are being a catty catty bitch.

Especially if your interests are being a catty catty bitch.

His Argument Is That People Can Throw It Away BUT DAMN STOP SENDING IT ARGH ** NOW EDITED

The first day back at work after a time away is always the worst. So many emails and pissy phone calls that are trying to kill the post-vacation buzz. I still want to write about my vacation and ART from Everclear (that concert was ages ago--I shouldn't even write about except to say he is delicious and the concert rocked and I want to lick him--there no entry needed) but dude.


***Y'all I bitched J out for telling (an admittedly much more detailed version with my name and all) of this story to people at his work (very paranoid about being fired) so even though I never had the details posted here it is hard to have the moral high ground when you have told the internet the (highly edited) version of the story.

For those late to the party. I hate people.

Vacation Over

We got back Saturday. That fucking trip takes ages. Especially since we had to detour through Honolulu. At his core, J is a loner. He is a very extroverted personality, but dude prefers to be either in a big group or alone (in our sixth year of marriage I have finally figured out that when he invites other people on our romantic dinners alone it is not because he hates me) and I did wonder how that was going to work on a trip with us alone. I prefer small groups, just the two of us works great for me but I think he was tired of me pretty fast.

I surprised myself by being pretty social on this trip. I was downright friendly. I met people on the plane, I was friendly in the pool, at meals, on our evening cruise. I was practically a social butterfly. That being said J was just OVER being with people all the time.

On our flight home there were half a dozen infants. Two of which were screaming behind us for most of the first hour. This is when I figured out that I am just more patient than J with babies and such. He just thought it was unreasonable that these people had the babies on the flight in the first place. I just think that by bitching about that you are just guaranteeing that we will have a screaming brat of a child who will embarrass us on a flight somewhere. I don't think I would ever take my kid on such a long flight but damn I don't know that. There are circumstances where I might. And besides I know that whatever kid I end up with will have their fucking moments.

We got home early Sunday morning (like 1 am) and I spent most of Sunday sick as a dog. Today we just laid around like vegetables and slacked off. I had crazy dreams about missing school exams and having bronchitis. I think my body is missing vacation. But who wouldn't miss that view.

Peeling

My parents didn't really believe in sunscreen. I am sure that they put it on us at some point in my childhood but I don't remember. And I know they never reapplied. I am fairly certain my dad has never worn it and my mom only became a believer after a particular trip to Florida where we all looked like we'd been dipped in cherry flavoring. My sister had a red front that flaked painfully and a white back after a nap by the pool.



When I was a kid we just gradually tanned and occasionally burned. Noxema smells like summer to me because I would absolutely be coated in the shit (plus aloe gel) from May to September. I wore t-shirts in pools. I took piping hot showers after long days in the sun to take the heat out of my skin.

Of course none of this explains how I still got scalded this week enough that I am now fucking peeling.

Drunken Blogging and I AM AN ASSHOLE

Before we left our friend said to skip the luau and go on a dinner cruise. Good call. Even better was luck to get paired with a fun assed couple. Once they announced that they were 49er fans well the whole boat was ready to kick our asses. They were a delightful couple and we all ate and drank like pigs. AWESOME.

Josh Hancock's father lost my sympathy today. WTF asshole? I know you are grieving. But your son was drunk, high, speeding and on the fucking phone. He plowed into a tow truck and killed himself. You can be sad, you should be sad. That is a fucking waste. What it is not, is anyone's fault but his. Take your lawsuits and shut the fuck up you tool. Seriously.

Since I have also insulted a deaf person this week I am pretty sure I am the worst person in the world. Might as well tell off a grieving father too.

God I love vacation.

Hubris SWEET HUBRIS

Meh. I shouldn't have bragged about my lack of sunburn. Because I got a little toasted yesterday golfing. Like how I slipped that in? How I golfed and finished just over par on a gorgeous course? I didn't actually golf. I just drove the cart (fancy cart with GPS and electronic scoring and maps and shit) and burned the fuck out of my left shoulder.

This sunburn doesn't even make my top ten worst or anything but still. Hubris isn't that sweet when it is me y'all.

Today we have no plans. I am not convinced that J will ever wake up since I have been up for HOURS and he is still snoozing. But he did golf for eighty-seven years yesterday in the heat and I suppose he deserves a little lie-in. Our lack of plans would normally lead to a morning at the beach but given my current skin issues that might be a dumbass thing to do. Which probably means we'll do it anyway. BRILLIANT.

My biggest goal for the day is to not shower three times. That is the minumum I have showered each day since we got here and frankly it is ridiculous. But I do not know how else you are supposed to deal with salt and sand and chlorine and GOD KNOWS WHAT ELSE.

So two showers tops today. Big goals.

No Place to Be

So far the Neutrogena sunscreen spray has rocked my world. I cannot tell you how many people lectured me about sun protection before we left--which shocked me because y'all I have been ghostly fucking white my entire life. I do know about sunscreen. With skin like mine you either use it or burst into flames. So thanks for the lecture folks. I had planned to get a little more tan before arriving--as it is much easier to protect slightly tan skin. But things conspired to keep me out of the tanning coffin and so I am relying on the spray.

I have just the lightest dusting of pink on my shoulder and that is damn good. Especially since I have not seen any pale people since we got here. Locals are clearly not afraid of skin cancer. And tourists are all shades of fuchsia.

I took three showers yesterday as I am a big princess about my hair and have to wash salt and chlorine out immediately. I am fairly certain it will be bleached white when we leave but I am doing my best.

I am also leading the AB Family cribbage tournament of Hawaii. That is all you need to know. Also, J called me a dirty whore. That is what I call winning.

We are terrible tourists. People all around us our signed up for tours and luaus and various activities. We have spent our time on the beach and in the pool and napping. Apparently our priorities are on the lazy scale. Oh and J has a putting range setup in our living room.

We have been friendly. EVEN ME. Talking to strangers. It started on the plane and continued through various meals and even at the pool late last night when we met every stereo type of a New Yorker you have ever heard in the form of a couple from Long Island. Why do people from New York feel compelled to say that "there is no city like it"? That may be true. There is also no city like Seattle. And also, NO ONE CARES NEW YORKERS. It is an exciting city and an amazing city but you are not talking it up at this point. You are just making the rest of us dig in and INSIST that No, New York is exactly like Debuque I don't not care what you say.

J got burned yesterday and is now brown. In other news, I HATE HIM. Are these things related? You decide.

Our lazy ways would deeply upset the Type A me I am at home. We have no plans, no schedule. I would be worried that we were missing opportunities. And maybe we are. But the vacation me is just loving taking things as they come. We needed a break and we're getting it.

I guess I just do not give a fuck if we see the sugar plantations or not.

Don't Hate Me

Oh y'all. This is why people take vacations.

We flew out yesterday and even though there were some minor annoyances (rude flight attendants, a huge delay, rental car lines and then getting lost trying to find our resort) it is just gorgeous here. Worth everything. Every penny. And the annoyance.

Friday night we got to hang out with cousin Billy at a baseball game. We don't see him often and I forget that not only is he a source of a lot of great stories but he is just so nice. Most of J's relatives make me fear for my future's children's DNA but there are a couple (his mother, Billy, an aunt and his non-scary grandmother) that I would like to put in my pocket and carry around forever.

And then we flew to Hawaii. It's been a great weekend.

Our resort has the tackiest decor ever and who the fuck cares. We have a great balcony to stage cribbage battle royales. There is an incredible beach here and pools and . . .

Don't hate me ya'll.

Quick Update

Oh ya'll. So much has happened. I am fucking lost without my computer. There has been a concert (with the sex god ART, and J told ART an embarrassing story about me and then I died. THE END). Cousin Billy is showing up sometime tomorrow (women all over Seattle just flung their panties in celebration).

Most alarmingly, I got my first bikini wax.

I am not a hairy girl (well except on my head we have discussed my hair being enough for forty-seven people and also their seeing eye dogs). But we are going to Hawaii (SATURDAY!) and I didn't want to be broken in the bikini line because I was having to shave every day. I get ingrown hairs like you would not believe because even though the hair is light and there isn't SO much of it, it is thick like a sequoia tree trunk and dayam.

So I cheaped out. Which is a big mistake with waxing. I went to a place that had done my eyebrows before and did a fine job. And it was cheaper than the spa so I thought I would try them.

There is something very disconcerting about being naked with a woman you do not know, trying to explain how much pubic hair you want ripped off and realizing she does not speak English at ALL. I have nothing against non-English speakers but this is an act that needs to be accompanied by CONSTANT communication.

She missed spots. So I mainly look like I am balding. And my cooter broke out in a horrific rash. Which, HI, was why I was waxing to begin with. Thankfully, Bikini Zone tells no lies and cleared that up admirably. Important information: Bikini Zone contains lidocaine. Wash your hands carefully after use. Do not accidentally eat chips afterwards and numb your entire fucking face.

Not that I did that.

Pathetic Pickup

My computer crashed this week. Well, not crashed. The power source is just going and it's not under warranty anymore. So I will be blogging intermittently for a while until we can get that sorted out.

I was the recipient of kind of a sad pickup today. Driving down the road, since it's warm out everyone has their windows rolled down. And this older guy in a minivan pulls up next to me, he's blasting Blondie's Call Me and he leans towards me and shouts, "Hey BLONDIE, call me!"

J thinks this is awesome.

It must be summer.

But VERY RARELY So Shut Up

Secret to getting a buttload of compliments on your hair:

Step one: wake up with greasy fucking hair with nasty roots and stare in mirror.
Step two: glare at reflection
Step three: give the fuck up because damn girl your hair be ugly
Step four: throw in some baking powder to soak up some of the oil slick
Step five: back brush the fuck out of the top--showing total disregard to good haircare (hasn't that ship sailed) and damage
Step six: pin top into a sort of bastard mohawk-beehive-pompadour thingy
Step seven: wonder loudly if you look awesome or insane
Step eight: wear into world
Step nine: get many many compliments while silently wondering if people are making fun of you

Who knew?

Also, I do not know why I cheated on Kiehl's lip balm. But when I lost my last tub two months ago I tried Burt's Bees (which is crap. Minty. Irritating. Fucking useless crap at that) and then some Body Shop lip butters (which taste and smell so delicious but don't actually uh MOISTURIZE the lips). I finally caved and bought another tub of Kiehl's and lo the angels sang and I shall never cheat again because oh my lips aren't flaky and dry anymore. They just look soft and smooth and slightly glossy. HMMMM. Lip they have been properly moisturized.

Sometimes I am a dumbass.

Summer Thoughts

It warm and sunny and clear here today--the kind of weather that sells houses by the acre-full in Seattle. It also makes people break out the shorts and flip flops even though it isn't but seventy degrees.

I bought half a dozen tank tops and a pair of shorts today (that scream you just heard was my friend L squealing in ecstasy because I have been whining about what I was going to do about shorts for approximately eighty-seven years) so I am all set for Hawaii. Those who have been reading my blog for a while know that I have two major body issues: my big giant head and my fat weird knees. These shorts just cover up the knees without bringing out the stump in my short legs. I wouldn't go so far as to say they look good but they didn't make me cry so VICTORY it is. I found them at Old Navy, which bless their hearts but WTF is up with the sizing in that place. I tried these shorts on in seven different sizes and none of them made a damn bit of sense. The 10's were mysteriously larger than the 12's but the 14's were a size that would accommodate two of me. I kept on trying sizes on to see if I could figure out a pattern. There wasn't one, honestly just take the whole rack with you and good luck. I wouldn't have been surprised to have a size six fit me (and I haven't been a six since the seventh grade) and I wouldn't have been surprised to have an eighteen fit me (which is a size that would normally give me the vapors). What the hell Old Navy? Sizing is irrelevant much?

I just ate some of that leftover fried chicken and some pineapple for dinner. God that chicken is good. My goal for the summer was to perfect my fried chicken and if I have done it by May what will I do all summer except lounge around?

Overheard over the wall at work: "Well we don't really like to go at it quite so hard so far from home but we were just caught up in the moment. . . "

Turns out he was talking about hiking which would be a damn shame except I would prefer to think that this gentleman doesn't know a thing about any other "going at it" pursuits.

My hair has reached the crisis explosive stage where it is huge and crazy and threatening looking. I wore a barrette today. BE ALARMED. Tomorrow may bring a beehive because what else can be done with this er volume?

Reason #912 to Hate Being a Woman--Baby Showers

Yesterday I went to yet another fucking baby shower. Though J and possibly everyone else feels that I should be more over my miscarriage than I am but I still struggle with it a bit. And my friend and I found out we were pregnant at roughly the same time. Now she is just a few weeks from delivering and having showers and I . . .am not.

I wanted to go and celebrate this time with her and I am glad I did. But I don't think it is wrong that it was bittersweet for me. Her daughter is going to be gorgeous and I am so excited for her and her husband. But you know. I cried ok? I am not proud of it. But I made it through, and no one really noticed. It was the best I could do.

Other than that, I made some really fucking delicious fried chicken. And had a migraine for both days so I just took to my bed and ate fried chicken and ice cream sandwiches. Which isn't a bad weekend at all.

And We Still Got Home Late And Y'all Know I Hate That

When I was eighteen I lived with a man that I would like to forget. He was not good to me, not a particularly good person and had a belly that threatened to smother me during uh intimate moments (moments that I did a lot to avoid because UGH). The reasons I was in this relationship are lost in history and sometimes I just want to go back in time and smack the holy shit out of myself.

He was also a pot smoker, like a lot of people my age. The drugs didn't make him more pleasant, I mean weed doesn't make you mean. It just makes you thoughtless and shitty and just kind of a fucktard. Or at least it did him. And he mixed it with various other WHATEVER and whatnot and dude became a tool of the worst order.

At any rate I can't be around drugs. Beyond the illegal nature of that shit I just can't handle it. And the smell of weed brings about a physical reaction that I am sure is at least three parts psychological. I get migraines and I vomit. Fun huh?

So we went to a Kings of Leon concert last night and after enduring a fairly shitty opening band (note to the bassist, you are not the female Flea and you were not rocking so quit acting like you did something) the show started. It was awesome. They were great live and we were having a good time (except assholes were standing at a seated concert goddamn I am a hundred years old). And then some dick starts smoking out behind us.

Around what had to be the third bowl I had a headache (excellent at a loud ass concert) and I started to feel sick.

I had to fucking puke before we left. So embarrassing and I felt so bad ruining our night. But what could I do?

Damn you pesky kids and your damn enjoyment of recreational drugs!

And We Still Got Home Late And Y'all Know I Hate That

When I was eighteen I lived with a man that I would like to forget. He was not good to me, not a particularly good person and had a belly that threatened to smother me during uh intimate moments (moments that I did a lot to avoid because UGH). The reasons I was in this relationship are lost in history and sometimes I just want to go back in time and smack the holy shit out of myself.

He was also a pot smoker, like a lot of people my age. The drugs didn't make him more pleasant, I mean weed doesn't make you mean. It just makes you thoughtless and shitty and just kind of a fucktard. Or at least it did him. And he mixed it with various other WHATEVER and whatnot and dude became a tool of the worst order.

At any rate I can't be around drugs. Beyond the illegal nature of that shit I just can't handle it. And the smell of weed brings about a physical reaction that I am sure is at least three parts psychological. I get migraines and I vomit. Fun huh?

So we went to a Kings of Leon concert last night and after enduring a fairly shitty opening band (note to the bassist, you are not the female Flea and you were not rocking so quit acting like you did something) the show started. It was awesome. They were great live and we were having a good time (except assholes were standing at a seated concert goddamn I am a hundred years old). And then some dick starts smoking out behind us.

Around what had to be the third bowl I had a headache (excellent at a loud ass concert) and I started to feel sick.

I had to fucking puke before we left. So embarrassing and I felt so bad ruining our night. But what could I do?

Damn you pesky kids and your damn enjoyment of recreational drugs!

I'm Much Too Young To Feel This Damn Old

I did take enough science to know that Mammoths don't exist anymore (of course kids in a lot of states don't learn about that anymore) but this guy looked real enough to me. Not real enough to scare me but real enough to make me think about all those commercials for Night at the Museum. And then the lights flashed and thunder music played and I squealed like a little girl.

I even did the Joey Lawrence "Whoa."

I'm not proud y'all.

J and I spent the morning Saturday and the Royal Museum and then goofed off around the city. We bought legal narcotics at the pharmacy and took a nap. And then we met our friends for the evening.

It started out nicely enough, a fun dinner at an Irish pub, a couple of vodka gimlets. Then J had to take care of something for work so we decided to wait for him at this trashy bar in our hotel. It's deliberately trashy but fun in a goofy way and once the bartender figured out the gimlet (gimlet count at this point four) we were good to go. Until a guy named Kevin plunked his ass down next to me.

Kevin was trashed (and we were headed that way) and despite my protests that I was married (he was married too and showed me his ring eagerly--they always do that and then they try to grab your tits) settled in. But things weren't going his way so he decided to call us all war mongers and baby killers. A DELIGHT THAT KEVIN.

So we skipped out once J arrived. That bar wasn't that fun that night anyway and who needs to be called a baby killer by a smell Canadian in a hillbilly bar? Not me.

We ended up at this other bar and it was fabulous. We had a cute waitress who was so nice, kept the gimlets coming and convinced the DJ to play cheesy eighties music for the old people.

This is where it gets fuzzy. I know that somehow our friends convinced the DJ to play Def Leopard and Journey. That the entire bar sang along to Journey but somehow the dance floor cleared during Kiss. Except for us. I know that I spent a lot of time talking to our waitress (after she was off) about massage therapy (she is studying) and what to do when a client gets a boner (happens a LOT). I know that I had to do a lot of fast talking when J tried to take a call in the ladies room (the bouncer was not amused). And I know it was a bitching time. We even drunk dialed DelSelva who apparently couldn't hear a damn thing. Which is too damn bad because we had the waitress squealing "I WANT ON HIM" into the phone. We even got her replacement (nicknamed Sparkly Whitney) to do it.

When I say we I mean me. I charm the ladies apparently.

We were all a little out of control. J and I had done Jaeger shots (I am not officially a frat boy and yes I FEEL SHAMED) and one of our pals was doing Goldschlauger. Nothing good comes from Goldschlauger. So we were headed back to the hotel. They were at a different one so we split up.

We get back to our room and we having shall we say . . . marital moments (and oh lord, are hotel is such the hookup hotel, five bars in the building the rooms are cheap and most feature a whole lot of mirrors you know what I mean) and one of our friends calls J. Repeatedly. Seems his girlfriend and him had an argument on how to get back to the hotel and she bolted on him in the wrong direction and now he can't find her.

Glad it wasn't me getting my pants back on to go look for her.

By the time he got back we were even more trashed, I am not sure how that happened since we hadn't drunk anymore so we . . uh ended the evening? and passed out.

Only to be awoke at four in the fucking morning by fire alarms.

SHIT. Must find clothes. Must find birth certificate (note to those thinking bitches should bolt the door wasn't hot it was just smokey). Must evacuate.

We trudge down the stairs onto the street and stand out in the cold and NOTHING.

The fire department is already there but no one is talking to the guests, it's all old ladies and foreigners in the cold out there. Finally J asks if we can go back in and is told it's safe so go ahead. So we go back inside to sleep in smokey rooms (which are excellent for those of us with sinus issues).

I found out later (when I called to bitch yesterday) that the fire was out and a guest pulled the smoke alarm when the smoke came up the elevator shaft. We probably didn't need to evacuate in the first place. GOOD INFORMATION TO PASS ON TO THOSE STANDING ON THE STREETS ASSHOLES.

See. This is why we don't go out and party. I am too old to handle Mammoths and fires and Journey all in one damn night.