I’m back, bitches. I’ll give you the highlights of Ocean City next week, but I would be remiss if I didn’t at least try and convey what it’s like to spend hours in the car with my husband and little brother. This basically sums up all the conversations we had…you know, in between Thom plunking away at the ukulele while Rocco blasted Metallica.
Rocco: Is Matt’s mom making Scrapple while we’re there?
Thom: We’re going to play Scrabble?
Me: Sure, Thom. Why not?
Rocco: No using any of the made-up words on Elly’s blog.
Me: But I can use them, right?
Thom: No. They aren’t words.
Me: They’re on the Interwebz! They’re fact now.
Rocco: “Interwebz” is not a word.
Thom: Also, the flibbertyjibbet on a unicorn is always imaginary…and not just because it’s on a unicorn.
Me: You take that back.
Thom: How far away are we?
Me: I’m not sure. Rocco is driving like an old lady.
Thom: And it’s three hours until the party?
Thom: So basically, Rocco’s speed is the deciding factor on how leisurely my afternoon crap will be?
Thom: Well, keep me posted. I have to do some prep work.
Rocco: Prep work?
Thom: Yes, I don’t want it to be all Faulkner-esque.
Thom: All sound and fury, signifying nothing.
…and you people thought I was the weird one.
Thanks again to Kelly and Ryan for babysitting the blog. Mildred is a little sticky and singed, but I’m just going to assume she did that to herself. Also all the wine and liquor seem to have disappeared, my kitchen table is covered with vibrators arranged in homage to the Last Supper, and someone wrote REDRUM all over my bathroom mirror with chocolate sauce. (At least, I hope that’s chocolate sauce.) All in all, the place is much tidier than I left it, so thanks.
Now, I’m off to try and hose the last of the sand out of my taco. There are some parts of the bod that really should never be exfoliated.