Sunday, July 02, 2006

Vacation After Vacation

My vacation after my vacation was wonderful and much-needed, thank you for asking. We went to the beach. I met the Mother. Always a festive occasion. The Mother and I were wearing identical shoes and therefore she liked me and gave me lots of ice cream and wanted to show me middle school yearbooks and the like. Lady (who does not, in fact, have a name outside of 'Lady') and I bought a kite and a balsa wood airplane and a football and Lady said, "I bought this football, but I didn't know if you could catch it. Or throw it." The assumption being, I think, that she does not think I can catch objects thrown at me at relatively mild speeds, or throw them. Or do anything mildly athletic.

The kite flew beautifully for five minutes, and then it fell. It ripped in half, because it cost 69 cents.

We swam in the ocean. We played games. The stand-on-my-shoulders-and-I'll-throw-you-high-up-in-the-air-over-a-big-wave game. We played the I-swear-to-God-I-just-saw-a-fish game. We played the I-just-swallowed-a-shit-ton-of-salt-water game.

The balsa wood airplane was not much of a success. Granted, I was standing on top of Lady's car, in front of her Mother's house, at like 9:30 at night, drowsy on barbituates and wine, winding the rubber propeller thing up and telling them both - Mother and Lady - how far it was surely going to fly when obviously it's just going to dive violently to the right and almost hit Mother on the head and then the tail fin is going to snap in half. Granted, that is what happened. But I'm still glad I paid $2.99 for it.

We did not throw the football. But now we have one.

On the way home, getting gas, as we were in the station putting cream in coffee and deciding on candy bars, a woman runs in to the station and says, "HOLYFUCKINGSHITTHERE'SGASEVERYWHEREBYNUMBERSEVENCALLFUCKING911!!!" and I turn to Lady and say, "I'll bet that's from your car" and sure enough, the tank had overflowed about $80 worth of unleaded all over the parking lot and everybody was freaking out and they called the fire department and sirens blazed. Understandably, we got the fuck out of there, although we did have to pay for the gas.

On the way home we played Twenty Questions and I won.

8 Comments:

Blogger Stanley said...

Lady (who does not, in fact, have a name outside of 'Lady')

Ryan's the Tramp!

3/7/06 11:46 AM  
Blogger Sebastian said...

isn't lady=bff=gf???

i'm confused. but maybe that's cause i'm drunk at work, again (it doesn't matter, only three of us came to work today). and i ate some more of those delicious double fudge chunk cookies made with special butter.

mmm, special butter. i discovered the true meaning of "green eggs and ham" over the weekend. don't ask, cause i won't tell.

3/7/06 1:45 PM  
Blogger Stanley said...

Sebastian!

You are correct. Lady=BFF=GF, which also means that Lady/BFF=1 and that GF cannot be divided by zero.

3/7/06 1:51 PM  
Blogger Sebastian said...

nothing can be divided by zero.

say that over and over in your head for 20 minutes every morning and after 37 years you will attain enlightenment.

3/7/06 2:37 PM  
Blogger t(h)om said...

i would have told that gas station manager to take his 80$ of spilled gas and shove it right up his ass [quite a trick!]. those thingies are supposed to have automatic shut-off thingies. there's, like, a law or some thingie about that.

or, i would have just thrown a lit match out of the window as i sped off, watching with glee as the pumps exploded one-by-fricking-one, a little early independance day celebration like in one of those john wu movies.

3/7/06 3:37 PM  
Blogger Stanley said...

t(h)om: although there remains a formidable glass ceiling in the petroleum industry, not all gas station managers are men.

Also this: I recently met a male nursing student, who spoke of a "glass escalator" effect for male nurses. I had never heard that phrase before nor thought of the (perceived or actual) desirability of male nurses (vs. female nurses).

3/7/06 3:51 PM  
Blogger t(h)om said...

i encountered a similar phenom known as the glass teeter-totter when i applied to be a teacher's assistant at a montesori school.

3/7/06 4:57 PM  
Blogger Stanley said...

It's just like those wackjobs at a Montessori school to make a teeter-totter out of glass.

Fucking hippies...

3/7/06 5:07 PM  

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