All the Sweet Green Icing Flowing DownWell, hello there, honey bees! My goodness, has it really been two weeks since I last threw a bag of inane rambling at your poor, unsuspecting faces? Still taking a break from regular posting, but I miss you, wanted to touch base…
Hope your weekend was lovely -- mine was. Regardless of the 9,000% humidity and the constant showers that broke out between episodes of blazing hot sun (the combination created an atmosphere not unlike that of being trapped in an elephant‘s ass), I enjoyed myself immensely. I even scored myself a farmer’s tan, which, as you all know, is unbelievably attractive. Nothing says “sex” like scarlet forearms and sun damaged décolletage. Man, when I rock my wife beater, all milk-white shoulders and blood-red evening gloves, I feel glorious. I’m totally hot.
How did I achieve this alluring summer look? Easy. Wear a T-shirt, sleeves rolled approximately one inch above your biceps, making sure that the T-shirt’s neck has been cut (or ripped, depending on how edgy you are) five inches exactly, allowing the sun clear access to the area between your throat and sternum. Next, sit in the wet-hot sun sans sunblock from 7:30 a.m. until 1:00 p.m. on the most uncomfortable fold-up chair you can find, and make sure you scowl and complain as much a possible.
Seriously, the end result is worth every miserable second. I swear, never have I received so many wolf whistles from baseball cap-wearing yokels as I have lately.
My middle daughter’s lacrosse team did well at the state tournament, however -- won one game, lost the other by only two points. Or something like that. I’m very proud.
I’m also proud of my oldest daughter, whose last string orchestra concert was a huge success. I can’t believe how good these kids are. Scary good. Even more importantly, she looked gorgeous, all dolled up in her black strapless summer dress and high heeled sandals (her first pair). She wore my crystal cross, had her hair done in a messy updo, and she looked like a slightly bored princess up there on the stage. I wanted to cry, but didn’t due to the fact I was sitting in the front row next to her boyfriend. I’m sure his red Mohawk would’ve wilted at my weeping, so I held my tears -- but lordy, you should’ve seen me applaud. I actually have a bruise on my right pinkie from clapping so hard. Oh, and I yelled “beautiful, beautiful!” and “wow!” and “brava!” after each piece, which, as you can imagine, totally embarrassed my daughter’s boyfriend. He didn’t say as much, but I could tell he was appalled by the way the razor blade was poised over his wrist.
Yesterday was fun, too. Lar had his fortieth birthday, and we celebrated by planting flowers, constructing a robot costume for my youngest daughter's school play, drinking Corona with lime, and eating barbeque chicken. I, of course, baked him a cake, but it melted despite the air conditioning. No matter. Lar was so intoxicated by the riot of color in our gardens, the Coronas, and my farmer’s tan, the watery cake was all but forgotten. Well, until eleven o'clock that night when Lar and I, both drunk off our asses, decided to “eat” some cake through a straw. It was the best cake ever.