I know. I’ve been conspicuously absent. There are good reasons to fall off the radar. Like superfuckinawesome vacations, and getting kids back to school, so I can reoccupy my brain. There are also shitty reasons for virtual radio silence. Reasons like, people in my family losing their fucking minds… or misplacing it in non-productive parts of the body. Like dark places. Or jiggly places. I’m certain some folks just need a good, firm punch in the forehead to bring ’em back around.
I’ve had all of these reasons for my absence. The latter of which has nearly put me in the grave. Thank (name your deity) for xanax, and for my supportive, most awesome husband and kids. Not necessarily in that order… or maybe totally in that order. Cuz lets face it, xanax IS pretty fuckin awesome, y’all. And they didn’t pay me to say that. But if they want to send me free samples, I’ll keep shouting its praises. *wink wink, nudge nudge*
In all honesty, we spent two of the most amazing weeks in Ireland. The four of us, with all our crap squeezed into our wee-little*** Nissan crossover rental car, and managed to see most of that stunningly gorgeous island in two weeks. And that, my friends was one hellava a LOT of work.
*** I learned to speak Irish.
We were constantly on the move and exhausted. But I was nearly always entranced in amazement at the beauty… and/or the amount of alcohol consumed. Don’t judge. It’s tough, and somewhat humbling to be in an environment where even the eight year olds can drink me under the table. Kidding. Well… sort of. There’s a reason Guinness is called “mother’s milk” in Ireland. I’m just sayin.’
We’ve dragged our kids all over the place, since a very early age. My daughter hiked to the top of the pyramid at Xunantunich with us when she was three. And yes, in retrospect, that freaks me the fuck out. The photo (right) is my two in celebration, after not dying on their pyramid hike. But honestly, in the midst of it all, it seemed perfectly normal, and outside the realm of catastrophe. I’m convinced my children have made it to adolescence in spite of us. And for this, they’ll be strong, kickass adults. Or neurotic little pussy bitches. But what can you do? I choose to believe that a lack of coddling will benefit them in the long run. *crosses fingers*
So, in our roaming, it’s generally not our point to partake in the overly touristy garbage. We were all born and raised in the shadow of the Matterhorn. Not the supercool Swiss Matterhorn. But the Tinkerbell flies from the top, and Mickey sends cease and desist orders from it Matterhorn. So for this reason—the lifetime of overexposure to sweating, drooling tourist crowds—as a rule, I avoid anything resembling a tourist trap.
I like crowds like I enjoy a good, itchy rash on my ass. This was why I found myself wondering why, when we were vacationing, we opted to do the most touristy thing possible—possibly the most touristy thing in the whole of Europe. Ok, maybe not as bad as visiting the Eiffel Tower. But, as a side note, if you visit the Eiffel Tower and get stuck on the top floor for an hour and a half, try to make sure you’re stuck with several members of the band, Ratt, and a handful of their roadies. Because I can tell you from experience, that the contact high from those boys’ residual pre-Eiffel Tower bongload was enough to make the experience totally bearable.
Anyway, I digress. Obviously we’re not above a lapse of judgement or two. So driving past the Blarney Castle, rather than becoming entangled in the trap of tourism that is the Blarney Stone, was out of our hands. The kids found it to be the highlight of the trip. There’s something exciting about climbing dark, cobwebbed, medieval steps to bend over backwards, ninety feet above the ground to acquire the gift of gab. Or herpes.
So ya, I did it. I kissed the Herpes Stone. So look out, y’all. I’ve got the gift of gab. I don’t feel any different. But we know all that shit’s true—just like leprechauns and unicorns. So when you can’t get me to shut the fuck up, blame the Blarney Stone.
I’ve also noted that I’ve got an extra-pottyish potty mouth since coming home. I’m thinking maybe it’s the Herpes? But I’ve been assured that the likelihood of me having contracted a disease from that rock is as likely as winning the lottery. And I prefer the lottery choice, thankyouverymuch. So I have to think that my gutter mouth is either because:
a. “The gift of gab” actually means a prodigious ability to swear like a sailor.
b. The fact that I was with my kids for two+ weeks, holding in all my swearing. Ya, ok, my husband will call me out on this. I said trying not to swear. I may have slipped on occasion. Ok, I slipped a lot. But I was totally trying to hold back. So maybe I have two weeks worth of pent-up potty mouth.
c. I stepped off the plane when I got home, into the biggest pile of family crap that anyone should ever have to deal with. Ever. Ever. Ever. And my subsequent frustration with the family shitstorm has taken an adverse toll on my vocabulary.
d. Or… fuck it. See all of the above.
I’m doing my best to claw my way back to a level of motivation conducive to writing. I’m a little whiny, due to my family mind-fuck. So I’m trying to spare y’all from that. I can’t even stand to be around myself at times. Seriously. But look for me to crawl out of my cave soon. Have you ever known someone to come back from vacation without a story to tell? I’ll have something for you soon. I just prefer not to offer it up with such a whinyass pottymouth voice right now.
I need someone to kick me in the ass. Or write me a prescription for medical marijuana. If it’s all the same to you, I’d kind of prefer the latter at this point.
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Wouldya couldya throw a girl a vote?