Hammer Time

MDH and I returned from Florida less than 24 hours ago, and it's been so long since I last posted on my blog that I'd be quite shocked if anyone out there missed me.

Some (one or two) of you may be wondering, as I was, just what the fuck were you doing in Florida in the middle of June crazyface?

Central Florida is hotter than Hades in mid-June and judging (and I am indeed, very judgemental) from the snippets of overheard conversations between my fellow airline passengers, only mouth breathing degenerates and their screaming heathen progeny fly to Central Florida in mid-June.

Or people who already live in oven hot climates.

And us.

Seriously, the mental capacity of some my fellow travelers seemed pretty limited. Case in point: The young man and his "gran-maw", sitting behind us, who I'm pretty sure were both making their debuts outside the holler, had never seen a magazine and spent most of the runway taxi time and flight to 10,000 feet, (at which point the flight attendant said we could use portable electronic devices and I praised god's glory in heaven and giddily jammed my earbuds into my listening holes and was able to block these morons out), pointing in amazement at the "pitchurs" in a glossy men's magazine that I can only assume someone had left behind in the gate area, and reciting aloud the prices of each and every item of clothing in the fashion spreads and wondering who would spend $225 for a pair of jeans and the like.

When reading fashion magazines I often wonder the same thing. In the privacy of my own head. But then I quickly get over it. This guy hammered it all out in a twangy monotone. Item by detestable item.

Lookit this Gran-maw - it sez here this guys jacket costed 23 hunnert dollers. Can you believe that shit? Damn! That's a whole years wortha child support!

I've got nothing against rednecks. I've got no room to talk as I myself come from a long line of the finest Kentucky redneck stock, but when your conversational skills are that loud, that limited and I am forced to listen to your stupid ass bullshit it endangers my health. My eyes were rolling up and all around in my head, it's lucky I didn't sprain them.

Well I guess that's what you get for booking at the last minute on Squalor Airlines.

Anyhoo... back to my original question that I imagined you gave enough of a shit to care about or ask me - we went to Florida in the middle of June because we had to reschedule our original, more reasonably timed December visit to my parental units due to my mother's broken pelvis. Understandably, she wanted no visitors during her extremely painful and lengthy recovery. No problem-o. Then I had the brilliant idea to come down in June for her birthday.

It seems extreme, but I'm finding it increasingly necessary to pad visits with my parents with buffer periods both before and after our time with them. This year our 4.5 day visit with my folks was preceded with 3 days at the beach and concluded with 2 days at Disneyworld.

Let me give you some facts about how things go down at my parents house these days:

1. They keep the air conditioning set at 80 degrees.

2. 80 Fucking Degrees.

3. That is hotter than shit.

4. It is not possible to sleep when the air conditioning is set to 80.

5. My mother makes the weakest coffee known to man.

6. My mother is even more passive aggressive than I am.

7. One morning I volunteered to make the coffee and snuck in a couple of extra scoops.

8. She said it was a tad strong for her taste, but cheerfully decided that she could temper hers by adding a little water.

9. When she added the water to her cup she said that it made it too cool and she has this thing where she refuses to heat up coffee in the microwave - so she decided, rather loudly, that she just wouldn't drink coffee that day. "It's just one day. When I was in the hospital recovering from MY BROKEN PELVIS I went for almost a whole week without coffee. Can you imagine that?"

10. It was so over the top she could've won a Tony.

11. It took every ounce of strength left in my sweaty, exhausted, coffee depleted body to restrain myself from suggesting that she leave her cup in the guest room for a minute or two to heat it up.

12. On a brighter note the house rum is 92 proof, flows freely after 11am (new summer hours apparently as previously noon was considered appropriate) and is conveniently located next to the fridge (with built in ice maker) between the cocktail napkins and a bowl of limes.

Other News

So I just finished writing the post below (kinda boring, but what-ev) and I called my best friend Amy who tells me about a huge drug bust back home. I went to a website of a local Columbus news station to read about it and got distracted because I saw this first:

I really miss living in Central Ohio just for bizarre headlines and news bips. People in Michigan just aren't weird enough.

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells

Ahh... Sunday morning. I found myself awakened this Sunday morning, as I am on most Sunday mornings, at 9:15 to the glorious tintinnabulation of the bells from the Colonial looking church around the corner, calling the flock to gather for worship, or whatever it is Presbyterians flock together to do. At least I assume it involves worshiping the lord and then eventually exchanging stock tips, talking about golf and eating Waldorf salad.

Normally I find this a pretty nice way to wake up. I'm not a church goer myself, as it would be a little deranged since I'm a devout Agnostic, but church bells are OK in my book. It's a hell of a lot better than the ten thousand decibel rhythmic bleating of my alarm clock anyway.

But today I found the bells more like a death knoll.

Fuck. Shut up already.

Slightly befuddled, I also found myself in the guest room.

Slowly it started to come back to me. Last night's outing with Rachel and E to a night club and the two very large, house special cocktails I enjoyed. The server described the drink and the ingredients list of sugary booze was too long to keep track of when I ordered them as a sober person, let alone remember the day after.

I'm hung over (is that one word or two - I'm seeing double)?

I thought that I had downed enough water and waited a reasonable period of time before driving home. I felt fine. Not drunk at all. The only physical sign of ailment from the evenings events was throbbing feet from the bronze patent peep toe slingbacks I had decided to wear. I even stayed up a little bit when I got home and called MDH who is away in Indianapolis this weekend on a corporate Boondoggle for some big deal college basketball thingy, to let him know I was home safe and to whisper lovey-dovey goodnights into the phone.

Next thing I know I'm wrapped up in a polyester comforter on the sheet less bed in the guestroom cursing the goddamn Presbyterians and their goddamn fucking bells. The floor is strewn with my now wrinkled outfit. The shiny slingback resting next to my throbbing head causes me to notice that my feet are still throbbing with tiny blisters on each pinkie toe.

As a side note, the polyester comforter was a wedding present from my mother who never checks fabric content labels. It looks like gorgeous green and gold wide striped silk with gold braided trim, but it itches like a son of a bitch. I have a mark from the braiding embedded on my temple.

Why the guest room? Well, it's not uncommon for me to sleep in there when MDH is away. It's warmer in there as it's smaller than our cavernous master bedroom and for some reason the bed doesn't seem so empty.

Anyhoo... I'm not normally a drinker of giant cocktails containing shot samplings from then entire Bacardi flavors collection served in pint sized glasses. Certainly, I wouldn't normally drink two. I'm more likely to sip one martini, or a glass of red wine with a meal. On special occasions, like when it's blazing hot outside I may, if I'm feeling nutty or on the verge of profuse schwitzing , chug an ice cold beer or two. Who am I kidding? I never finish the second beer.

So hang overs are not commonplace. I probably haven't had one for... shit I don't even remember. I do however remember a time when I could drink half of a $5 bucket of beer all night (they used to serve Milwaukee's Best tap beer, literally in gallon mop buckets at a place I frequented called Mustard's. Come to think of it, it's where I met Dan and Nature Boy) and wake up fine. In fact I could get up, go to work all day and go out drinking all night all over again. I don't remember this head pain or feeling like my ears are numb and my eyes all fuzzy and made of cotton balls.

I'm too old for this. I need a drink.