Probably not, but I wanted to say thank you to everyone for dropping whatever they were doing to visit my website. I really appreciate it, along with all the nice comments you made that I’ll be sure to share with the designer. What I do not appreciate however is getting mail like this:
what the hell kind of web site is this…write something…you’re supposed to be a writer…why did i put you in my favorites…?
This is from my dad.
Yes, I know, I’ve been lax about updates but I was in DC until yesterday at 8:25 AM working at the American Library Association (ALA.) There was no time! I plan on recapping that event mostly because no one believes A. 26,000 librarians really travel to an annual convention B. There are 26,000 librarians or C. You could possibly have a good time with 26,000 librarians. Really it’s my favorite show. Soon you’ll see why.
So fine, I’ll write something. For those of you who have something better to do like water a plant or watch some grass grow, go forth and do it. You won’t be missing anything. This will not be an astounding work of literary genius but rather a breadcrumb for the angry mallard that is plaguing my mailbox with hate mail.
I’m writing to you from Binghamton, NY where I’m relaxing on vacation with the family. Poor mommy just had back surgery (which she rallied through like a champ) and was worried that I would have a sucky vacation because she’s not supposed to do anything more than move from the bedroom to the living room and back to the bedroom again. Sadly, she said I’d be resigned to reading lots of books, watching lots of HGTV and falling into a narcoleptic stupor every thirty-six minutes. And that’s bad why?
I arrived at the airport to find my dad at Subway, sitting at his favorite table in front of the window. You can sit here and watch passengers who have just gotten off the plane, which is what he does only while pretending not to see me. Today he was deeply immersed in a Golf Digest. We stared at each other through the window for a few minutes, feigning surprise and half-recognition while my fellow passengers marveled at the uncanniness of a man who decided to take an early lunch at the airport Subway and looked up from his Golf Digest just as a woman (who looks remarkably like him) that he happens to know was just getting off a plane from Washington, DC. Weird.
Although they were happy to see me, my parents were sad because they wanted to surprise me with a swimming pool. That’s right. A swimming pool. In our backyard. It was supposed to be done by the time I got home but alas, the date got pushed back and they haven’t broken ground yet. This is weird, right? Don’t most parents surprise their visiting offspring with things like reservations at their favorite restaurant or painting the guest room or a divorce? But a swimming pool? I will most likely not get to enjoy the new pool, as I’ll be heading back to Seattle before it’s birth but I will get to see a big, dirt hole in the ground reenact that scene Poltergeist when JoBeth Williams mud wrestles with the skeletons in the empty pit of a pool. Finally!
Today I woke up at 9:00 AM, which pissed me off. I am on vacation after all. I made my way downstairs to mom’s bedroom to continue my slumber. She was reading the newspaper and watching the Food Network. After a quick nap, we decided to do something productive so we rented Dream Girls from On Demand. After the movie we forced ourselves to get up. Mommy made a pie while I ran on the treadmill. Then we fell asleep while watching Paula Deen.
Now I’m hanging out in the kitchen waiting for the couscous to cook. Mom just yelled in from the living room making sure I had the gas on low. “Really, really low. Are you sure?” I would have responded with something snarky like “It’s couscous, not a kidney transplant” but the poor woman is trying to Saran wrap her back so she can take a shower. The least I can do is keep my bitchiness on my hard drive. I’m trying desperately not to fall asleep again.
I would love to stay and chat but I need to tend to my couscous, which at this very moment is foaming like a rabid raccoon and spilling over the sides of Mommy’s Farberware pot. Oops. Good thing I didn’t make that snarky comment after all.
