Blah, blah, blah.

I am a tad hard up for material these days -- I keep waiting for Brad to get nearly-mugged again, or for one of my neighbors to show me his junk, but it just isn't happening. (Seriously, I haven't seen a stranger's wang in MONTHS! What has happened to my life?)

...So in the meantime, I thought I'd travel back in time to 2 weeks ago, after a difficult few days, when Brad and I escaped the city for a recuperative weekend upstate at my parents’ place.

Why recuperative, you ask? Because there’s nothing that'll make you forget your troubles faster than a couple days of country air, good food, and the guaranteed devolvement of your entire visit into Theatre-of-the-Absurd territory within 12 hours.

For instance.

Saturday, 8:00am
This, presented to Brad during breakfast.

I’m guessing that, in most families, a passing mention of your husband’s job-related frustrations would yield sort of… well, abstract results. A sympathetic reception, maybe, or a word or two of advice.

In mine, however, it gets you the Box of Respect.

Motivational flashcards? Check.
Desk statue in permanent kow-tow position? Yep.
Mother’s record of locating pitch-perfect gifts for totally bizarre situations? Undefeated.

Saturday, 11:00am…
With Brad’s self-image restored, Mom and I leave the men alone and set off for a day of bargain-hunting at Local Flea Markets Numbers 1 & 2. Purchased:

A casserole dish.

A necklace.


A belted dress with pockets, circa 1940.
For 2 dollars.

(Of note, and on display here: Vintage dresses include some sort of magic tailoring that, how you say, biggens your boobies. Seriously, look at those things!)

Not purchased: the 1930s Santa Claus costume which we found hanging creepily from a rafter in Flea Market #2. Apparently, generations past demanded that their Santa impersonators go the extra mile in dressing the part, eschewing the simple faux beards preferred by today’s Father Christmases in favor of a full-face Santa MASK – which was stuffed into a plastic bag and attached to the suit.

It was, frankly, terrifying.



I can’t help wondering when in history it was that social norms dictated the transition from “Santa With Hideous Plastic Mask” to “Grandfatherly Santa Whose Face Is Actually Made of Flesh.” (My guess: shortly after the tenth child in a row was put on Plastic Santa’s cushy red lap and started screaming uncontrollably.)

Saturday, 4:00pm…
With several hours of shopping out of the way and the scent of old furniture clinging to our clothes, we return home armed with our antique-y purchases, plus: three bags of potato chips, a pound of burger meat, and a large amount of beer – which my mother and I immediately start drinking. The men, not to be outdone, follow suit. I didn’t take any pictures of this. Fortunately.

Saturday, 8:00pm…
Brad and I are incoherently debating the existence of openly gay professional male athletes; my mother is busy searching for said athletes “on the Google” (Brad: "Did your mom just call it 'the Google'?!"); my father is gleefully shouting at no one in particular that he is not drunk because he could still stand up if he wanted to; and it seems like I might as well go to bed because we've all hit rock bottom.

One second later:
Mom: (looking up from laptop) Hey you guys? What’s a merkin?

...and scene.


I'm not sure how to wrap up today's post, except to say that if you're ever looking for an explanation as to why I am the way I am, this might be a good place to start.


Obligatory fact-disclosure:
Per my mother: “God damnit you two, I do not call it ‘the Google’! I just said it that ONE TIME!”