Thursday, May 22, 2008


We are going to Florida for Memorial Day Weekend.

We are driving from Ft. Lauderdale to Ft. Myers.

I am worried about breaking down in the middle of the wang-y part,

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where there is a vast expanse of fucking nothing and getting raped by crazy swampbillies (attractive when they are really trust fund kids who are seeing The Cramps and have impressive pompadours, not so much when they're single-toothed and into raping you) or eaten by a python or something.

I have bought cheap beach wear. In my mind, I will look like this but in reality I always end up looking more like this. The one consolation is that the folks depicted in the second picture look like they're more up for piña coladas. The other one probably drinks half a glass of sparkling wine and proclaims to the nearest bro how totally wasted she is, and how she hasn't been this drunk since she was taking her gap year in Uzbekistan. I hate you, bitch.

I might have my period while I'm in Florida, so if I don't ever update again, it's because I got eaten by a shark.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

The Pool

We are failures at upper middle class suburbanites. We do not have a personal pool (which is a lot like a personal quesadilla in that jumping wholeheartedly into either the morning after a bout of heavy drinking is a surefire way to cure a hangover, but one has significantly less cholesterol than the other). No, we have to avail ourselves of the "semi-public" pool at the Klub, which is convenient for the fact that we can proceed to get ourselves hammered while being brought drinks by undermotivated high schoolers, and inconvenient for the fact that we have to be around a bunch of assholes the entire time. Please note: we are not discussing the irony of me discussing the assholes at the country club pool when my husband and I, for all intents and purposes, appear to be one of them. This isn't supposed to be some sort of self-realization or any crap like that wherein your intrepid author realizes she is no better than the people she has willingly associated herself with, knocking herself off her ledge of smug faded-hipstery self-satisfaction into the murky depths of "oh my god, I'm one of them."

Some of your typical asshole varieties at the country club pool:
  • Wasted golfers - these are the guys who've been out knocking around balls all day (ha ha ha, it's a double entendre, stupid golfters) and getting plowed in the sun. You can easily recognize them by their fratty attitudes, blatant slurring, domination of the main pool to throw a football back and forth while calling each other derogatory slurs questioning the others' sexual orientation. These are the guys you hated in high school, and bad news, they all have lots of money and are still totally self-entitled and douchey.
  • Mommy cliques - I think these are less of a country club mainstay and more of a Mainstay of Suburbia, but at the country club, they're even more horrible. There's always the One Super Tan One, who is hellbent on acheiving the texture and color of a perfectly ripe date, and she tends to be friends with the Trophy Wife Trio who have, as their accoutrements, Chanel sunglasses and horribly behaved children (I'm looking at you, kid who stole our frisbee for like, two hours until I had to come get it back from you all while being glared at the one person who wears heels to the damn pool)
  • Creepy older daughters of former trophy wives who are giving all of us the creeps, thank you very much - these girls usually land in around about 16/17, and they are only visible during the summer. They are prone to sharing iPod headphones with their best friends, wearing incredibly skanky white bikinis, and sitting on the laps of friends of their fathers and flirting like 35-year-old women. Am I jealous of their figures? Yes. Am I jealous of the clear emotional problems these girls are setting themselves up for? Not so much.
  • The occasional freak - this is us and the occasional other person, like that lady who's got an entire thigh tattoo (rock on, ugly tattoo lady, let's get falafel or something). We go to the pool to get wasted and goof off. Not only do we have this incredible knack for being the best cocktail viral marketers at the pool (my husband orders a Bloody Mary or I decide to get a daquiri, there's a run on them. Damn, do those trophy wives love their liquor through a straw), but we also make up really lame games. There is one that we've got that is pretty sweet - get a couple of the kickboards that the swim team uses, and stack 3 of them on top of each other. Sit on the kickboards, in the deep end, and the goal is to get the other person off the kickboards without losing your own. It's not easy, okay? We're the goofy ones who coordinated an ad hoc synchronized swimming routine with our niece and nephew the last time they were down, in the middle of the pool. Conventions be damned, I say. I'm not paying $7 for a margarita to just sit there and slowly get cancer. For god's sake, I can't even smoke.

The pool opens this weekend. Lo! Summer begins.

Friday, May 9, 2008

The Creepy Little Pyromaniac and His Mother

When we moved into this house, we were visited by our neighbor down the street, who proceeded to grill us on whether or not we were in the market for a church(no), or if I was interested in joining one of those "Suburban Women Get Hammered On Sugary Drinks and Gamble" deals (no), whose car was whose, etc. etc.

I was, at the time, hung over and tired and grimy as shit because I was moving. This was not exactly the most desirable experience for introductions to the neighbors. Especially being that we're creepy on the first hand since we're younger than everyone else and don't have any kids.

She's got this kid, right? And this kid, for lack of a better word, is a total weirdo. Awkward, strange, trick or treats alone and dressed as weird, adult-Halloween-Party-topical-esoteric costumes, when he is probably around 11. Nice kid, weird kid. Weird family.

She doesn't stop talking, ever. Ever. Evasion is fruitless - whenever we're outside, smoking or drinking or whatnot, we're always aware. Like partying meerkats, one ear/eye is pricked to the horizon as an avoidance technique.

We have, however, become lax over the recent weeks, combined with a relapse of cigarette smoking - this causes us to be outside more, and since we do not have church or children, we often hang out outside late at night, drinking and smoking on our back porch. We do not get raucous or wild, but we will talk quietly and laugh and other earmarks of "conversation."

So she's started getting weird and passive-aggressive about it. She mentions all the time how she was up at some ungodly hour of the morning and saw that we were awake, and makes comments about "how nice it must be to stay up until past 3 in the morning." We nod enthusiastically, hating her, and then try to extricate ourselves from the conversation.

Finally, we have ammo.

The other night, it was a Saturday at around 10 PM (which in my mind, is just when Saturday nights start getting good), and we were outside, drinking and smoking (so we're not obsessed with variety but what we do we do well). Suddenly, there was this big, deep *FOOM* coming from behind the houses across the street (one of which is said neighbor's house). Now, to clarify, there is a greenbelt behind their houses with an old abandoned house that hasn't been lived in since the 80s - the land was sold, the greenbelt is thick and undeveloped (as of now), and in my mind, the combo of "abandoned house" and "we live 5 blocks from the high school" = naturally, extreme mischief. So whatever, some psycho kid is blowing shit up in the abandoned house. Obviously, we're not completely blasé, since we don't want the greenbelt to go up in flames, but it's been relatively moist, and so, whatever. Nothing to get all het up about.

It was a pretty fucking big explosion, though. We didn't see anything, but we could feel the vibration, and it was loud.

And then we heard something else. The neighbor's voice, keening and high-pitched, screaming at what we can only assume was her weird freako kid. We couldn't make out words so much as tone, but the lady sounded pissed. We thus inferred that no, the explosion didn't come from the abandoned mine shaft, but instead from the back of her house, where Creepy was I don't know, blowing up hairspray cans or something. Later conversations resulted in her claiming not to know there was an abandoned house behind her fence (it's plausible, there's no way to see for the trees), which makes us even more certain that her kid is the perp.

So the next time I get a "oh blah blah blah stop talking in your own yard at 3 AM on a Saturday" I will mention "oh, you know what I heard the other night" and see if that shuts her up.