Monday, August 20, 2007

And the Sky Is a Hazy Shade of August

After an epic dream in which the U.S. government framed me as a terrorist, forcing me to flee the U.S. via the Albanian embassy1 with only a 2.5 tube of zit cream to aid me, I awoke late, sweat-drenched, tangled in the sheets listening to the cries of the hungry cat and for the first time in well over a week, the news, only to discover that people are dying, children are crying, and ding-dong, the witch is dead, or at least retiring, presumably to run a direct-mail campaign for the Bush twin that's getting married.

Wading through the mess of six hundred and seventy-three emails at work, it seems like it was another lifetime ago that I was wading through the bathtub-warm waters of the Outer Banks, where my gravest concern all week was wondering who would win in a one-legged hopping race: the feisty seven-year old girl with a fierce pinch, or the plucky, half-crippled 27 year-old with a heart of gold [tequila, that is]?

While the full report may or may not be forthcoming, I'll share with you a few of the highs and lows of the trip - I leave it up to you to discern which is which:
  • Lost: One Black Diamond "Spot" Headlamp. How lost: In a pagan fireworks disco dancing incident.
  • Won: Several rounds of horseshoes. Points scored by me: 0. Points scored by my awesome 8 year-old partner: All. You can call him the Professor, since he will school you.
  • After slacking most of the week on my physical therapy and frolicking around the sand, my hip and back understandably quit in protest towards the end of the week. While fortunately, the Object is quite the nurturer and took good care of me, unfortunately, the Object's first aid remedies come from watching Major League Soccer. "Your hip is cramping? Do you want me to get some WD-40 and pretend it's Magic Spray? Should I put a tampon up your nose?"
  • I had the sublime opportunity to experience local color in North Carolina: two women tanned to the same deep, leathery brown of the tobacco in the Virginia Slims they were smoking - at the gas station in between a bigass can of gasoline and a propane tank. For the love of all that is good and true in the Gooniverse, why, WHY is there not a Darwin Awards hotline?
  • In a spackling incident gone awry, I'm pretty sure the Object's poor mother is scarred for life. Please people, beware of towel racks; yes, they hold your towels in a pleasing arrangement, but they are also death traps waiting to crash at any moment. Let this be a warning to all of you. How many cocktail parties must be ruined before the madness stops?
  • On the ride down the Object and I made a pact, "No! We can NOT has speaking in LOLspeak fer teh beech trippage." Our efforts not to sound like complete morons were in vain when we learned an even more irresistible lexicon: Maddiespeak, the language of the towheaded adorable two year-old crowd. For your reference, a handy and ever-so-dandy glossary follows:
[singsong]Hello!: Hello!
[singsong]Please!: I don't actually want anything; I am just taking this opportunity to showcase my cuteness through politesse.
[singsong]Tank you!: Are you charmed yet?
Cuppie! (also, sippie): Give me my cup full of milky, not your cup full of Arbor Mist!
Dollies! (also, babies): Look at my twin baby dolls, Barbara and Jenna! I try to play house with them, but they only want to play drinking games.
Uppie!: Lift me up, carry me around, and entertain me in general while I determine how long I am going to be crabby about not being deep in slumber. To be administered upon the first hour after waking, often with a cuppie and/or milky.
Nom nom nom!: I find this string cheese to be a delicately nuanced balance of flavors, which suits my palate.
Booboo ice please: I bumped myself, and while it wasn't serious enough to cause any actual bodily harm, I found the experience jarring and would still like some parental sympathy and nurturing.
My Daddy's cooking for me!: This is because my daddy is truly the greatest man on the face of the earth and I'm not entirely sure why you are not prostrate in worship, you weird lady who shows up at these family events every six months or so. I am now going to give you the most withering look my two-year old eyes can muster unless you acknowledge the inherent awesomeness of my Dada.

1.Where, even in slumberland, it is a very bad idea to remind your would-be helpers of their less-than-stellar human rights record.


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