I’m sorry, campers. I know I’ve been a bad blogger. I actually have a legitimate excuse, though. I was in the throes of moving 4 humans, 3 dogs, 1 stupid cat, and a megalomaniacal rubber chicken to Corpus Christi, Texas. It’s about a 15 hour drive from BumFuck, Kansas to Corpus, and I made the jaunt in a 1999 Ford Mercury Marquis with a 14 year old girl (who just got her first boyfriend — “My boyfriend says…my boyfriend thinks…I told my boyfriend” WE KNOW YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND!) and two of the hounds. 166lb Farley farted pretty much the entire way. It was like driving in an air conditioned stink box with a “my boyfriend” soundtrack on a loop. We made it, though, without too many notable events.
However, I will offer you this warning: if you chug two five hour energy drinks, you will go crazy. It’s impossible not to. I was suffering from hellacious exhaustion brought on by a bout of insomnia that began three days prior to us leaving. By day two of the road trip, I was pretty punchy. Fort Werth is a blur of “family flip offs.” This is a phrase coined by my Dadster. He screams “family flip off” and everyone in the car, regardless of age, has to shoot an offending driver the bird. This probably fails at being appropriate road etiquette, but the expression on the face of an 83 year old woman confronted by a toddler in a car seat dropping double barreled f-bombs on her IS rather priceless. Anyway, by the time we got through the city, I was white knuckled and hanging on to sanity by the skin of my teeth. Dad stopped the UHaul (population one old dude and tiny Corgi dog) to get gas, and I purchased the above noted twin anathemas — and power slammed them. I knew I was in trouble about 2 miles down the road when I started going, “P-puh-p-puh-puh-puh-p-p-p-puh-PUPPY!” at the dogs. “Fuck,” I thought, “This could be really bad.” We made it into Waco (where we had agreed to stop for the night), and Dad passed every exit. I thought he wasn’t going to let the gulag rest, so I started bawling. Not the pretty, Julia Roberts movie bawling. No, this was the sobbing, snot dripping down into your mouth, occasionally honking, kind of crying. It was awesome and embarrassing at the same time. FINALLY, Dad found some horrible off road Super 8. I crawled into that hole and slept for 13 solid hours. I guess I screamed at the family in my sleep. I wish I knew what I said, because (whatever it was) it made them fuck right off. I probably said, “Fuck right off, fuckers!” because I’m totally creative like that.
Anyway, we’ve been unpacking and etc. for days. Also, I’ve had to go on massive shopping orgies with the Rev wherein we spend hours debating the relative merits of bath towels. Yesterday, I took the boyfriend-laden niece and my 5 year old nephew to the beach for the first time. It was wonderful — until it wasn’t. We played in the waves for hours, jumping and screaming, “Whee!!!” and “Whoo-Hoo!” like dorks. Other families walked past my brother’s beautiful progeny, and looked at us with envy. Then they glared at their crappy families as if to say, “Why the fuck do you fucksocks suck so much?” It was great! I swelled up like a toad with pride. Then the illusion was shattered by the image of our 5 year old, walking up the beach, bawling, screaming, and dragging his little red life vest by one strap. It was good for a minute. I will also note here my incredible discovery of 6/7/2012: Orange Fanta CURES lots of kid ills. Just sayin’.
Anyway, I’m here. We’re relocated (finally), and we’re getting back on track. Stay tuned for more crazy shit. We know you missed us!