It would be wrong to make a drinking game out of driving by demolished road signs, right?
Mom and Dad are traveling the U.S. again in their trailer. And they like to keep in touch via email. I prefer that too, so that I know they haven’t gotten themselves in trouble thus far.
Like the time they drove into Sturgess on the first day of the biker rally (had no idea, totally coincidental) and set up camp in between a lot of naked, drunk people. They had a great time cooking lunch and dinner for anyone drunk enough to listen to Dad explain the science behind brining a chicken.
At work today, about 11.30 my time, and 1.30 theirs, I got an email from my mom about the local food choices:
"Everything is fried, including me after a chocolate martinie."
They must be in bat country. And her mispelling of only the word martini may as well be an attached snap of them streaking through their campground.
This was my view as my friends’ 4 year old kid belted out Taylor Swift’s ‘we are never getting back together’ at me. And she had the emphasis in all the right places.
Then she hugged me and fell asleep in my lap.
Her parents say she’s normally shy. It was the best breakup I’ve ever had.
Eating a blue snow cone and watching some of the most batshit antics by suburban kid seat filled van driving members of Orange County. Oh god, here comes Footloose.
The neighbors who hit the gas line earlier this week came over and sheepishly presented an HOA Approval Form, asking me to sign off on it because they need three signatures to get permission from the HOA to START building the fence they are 75% and a fire department call finished building.
I’ve never seen a more intense meatspace demonstration of the term “sheepishly,” and I just wanted to hug them as fellow goof-ups.