So, Maybe Showing Them Jaws, Two Days After Announcing The Family Cruise, Was A Bad Idea

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For those of you that remember this conversation I had with my sons a few days ago…  Their most recent objection to our vacation plans, is that there are sharks in the ocean.

At my parent’s house for family dinner…

 

Grandma: “So, I did some research about Bermuda today.”

Liam: “Did you find out that we’re going to disappear in a Sharknado?”

Grandma: “No, but you two should know there hasn’t been a shark attack in Bermuda since 1939.  What do you have to say about that?”

Liam: “So…they’re due, then.”

So Much For Good News

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Me: “Hey, guys!  Grandma and Grandpa booked a big trip for all of us this summer!  Guess where we’re going!?

Boys: “Where!?”

Me: “BERMUDA!”

Boys: “Like the TRIANGLE!?”

Me: …

Xavier: “Is that even safe?”

Me: “Are you kidding me right now?”

Liam: “Seriously, is it safe?”

Me: “Would I ever take you someplace that wasn’t safe?”

Liam: “Did you even SEE Scooby Doo!?”

Me: (throws up hands)

 

Welcome To Arizona! Come For The Weather, Stay For The Xenophobia!

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Okay, so for those of you who watch ANY news whatsoever, it should come as no shock that my beloved Arizona has gotten a reputation as being…shall we say…flamingly racist.  While I understand why it looks like we’re all a bunch of backwoods hillbilly cretins most of the time, I feel I must defend my state’s honor.

To begin, it is a fact that almost no one over the age of 30 is actually FROM Arizona, and we are almost entirely populated by transplants from colder states, who came here for the weather, and promptly started complaining because our golf courses were too close to Mexico.  You know how everyone has that ONE embarrassing racist uncle, who screams about immigrants and thinks that Obama was born in Kenya?  Well, that guy got sick of Wisconsin winters or shoveling snow in Michigan, and moved his ass to Phoenix.  So the problem isn’t actually Arizonans, per se…it’s that we have a HUGE population of older, conservative transplants, who unfortunately vote religiously, and who are magnetically attracted to the candidate wearing the fanciest tinfoil hat.

Now, recently, we’ve gotten some attention, AGAIN, for yet another idiot who has taken to leading armed (and I’m talking automatic weapons, here) protests against Muslims at local mosques while wearing (and selling, because we can’t miss a sales opportunity) t-shirts that say things that I won’t repeat, but involve expletives that aren’t, shall we say, neighborly.  Once again, we get bad press, but what the national news doesn’t mention, is that he JUST moved here from California, so once again we get credit for a village idiot who wandered off from another state.  I do not want to give this asshole any MORE attention by mentioning his name, but Ryan and I call him, ‘The Ritz’.

Shockingly, as it turns out, pissing off one of Earth’s largest religions has consequences.  First it means that you will get thoroughly spanked, on national TV, by both Anderson Cooper and Philip Mudd, a former senior official with the FBI and CIA. Secondly, it means your family will have to go into hiding until things cool down.

Well, as it turns out, this idiot lives down the street from Ryan’s sister, Susan, so her entire block was curiously populated with a lot of unmarked paneled vans and dark windowed American sedans.  Because we’re naturally fascinated by this insanity, we have Susan sending us daily updates.

**And, yes, this conversation took place BEFORE Donald Trump’s asinine remarks about McCain.

 

Ryan: She just texted. The Ritz’ wife came back!  SHE ACTUALLY CAME BACK!

Me: There is no way she did that of her own volition. He must be blackmailing her.  She must have killed a drifter or a United States Senator, or something.

Ryan: Has anyone actually seen John McCain lately?

Me: Real McCain?  Or amazingly lifelike, animatronic McCain?

Ryan: I’m pretty sure The Ritz is keeping that McCain in his garage.

Me: What’s he doing with it!?

Ryan: Well, you know how lonely he must have been when he was in hiding with his wife gone…robot McCain was his only comfort.

Me: I wonder what robot McCain’s O-Face looks like.

Ryan: …

Me: What?

Ryan: That’s the sound of me becoming impotent.

Smart Idea: Try And Lure Journalist Boyfriend Out Of The Country WITHOUT Pulling Out A Boob

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Me: We’re in Nassau.  I just snagged beach access at one of the hotels. Which is a bigger asshole American move: Starbucks or a Piña Colada in a coconut shell?

Ryan: Piña Colada. Very ’50’s Mad Men kind of thing. Everyone does Starbucks.

Me: Good call. I’m moving here. Please come.11301435_10206404349643273_1533162408_n (1)

Ryan: Sure, there are newspapers there. I can add ‘Mon’ to a lot of my stories.

Me: Headline: Water Too Clear

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Ryan: Sharks protest clear water, say interferes with theme song terror.

Me: No one gives a shit when they see us, Turtles cry.

Ryan: Turtles demand theme song to give swimmers night terrors.

Me: Turtle King demands unionization.

Ryan: Koch brother’s destroy unionization of turtles, and then take away their healthcare and access to education.

Me: Fuck, that’s scary.  I need another drink.

Ryan: Drunk Americans…Are They Ruining Nassau?

Only In Phoenix, Do You Go To The Bahamas For Cooler Weather.

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(Yes, I’m home, but now I have to finally sit down and write all the shit that happened, so…let’s just pretend that I’m still in the Bahamas, okay?  Who’s with me!?)

A Facebook IM conversation…because I had no cell service AND I LIVED.

Me: I just saw a shark from my balcony!

Ryan: Sweet! Hopefully it was humming its theme song. Even if just to itself. Dun dun. Dun dun.

Me: HA! Add smallish (12-24″) sea turtle. I *may* have accidentally yelled, “TURTLE!” thereby disrupting the entire formal dining room, when I spotted it through the window. In my defense…it was a fucking turtle…in the ocean…just swimming like it belonged there.

Ryan: It’s much more fun to just randomly yell turtle, like on the light rail, or something.

Me: Please don’t give me ideas.

Ryan: But that’s why I’m here, to give you ideas. (And get you thrown off the light rail.)

Me: Awesome…just what I need.

I Heart You, New York. Why? Because, Like New York, My Heartbeat Is Irregular

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Well, there goes today's plan.

Well, there goes today’s plan, Manhattan.

So, friends, I have escaped the confines of a Phoenix summer for a few spare moments, and I’m in my favorite place on Earth.  Now, because we come every couple of years, the kids have already seen the major attractions, and we’re now able to focus on the subtleties of the city.  Unfortunately, that’s how my mother managed to convince me to go to The Whitney Museum.  Now, before you label me a Philistine, let me point out that I love art.  I spent great deal of time in college studying art history, just for pleasure.  That having been said…I fucking hate the modern era.  There are some beautiful contemporary pieces and talented artists, but by my estimation, easily 50% of modern art is complete shit that somebody threw together because they were pissed at their parents.

Case in point…

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Keep staring at this…it doesn’t get more interesting.

I’m not sure what makes me the most angry about this…that someone got away with selling it…that the Whitney is showing it…or that for five minutes, I watched some pretentious asshole telling his female companion about the “genius of the brush strokes”.

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I call this one “My Personal Hell”.

Sooooo….is the art part that you took the effort to hit up some Goodwill stores, or that you can build a lit Lucite box?

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This isn’t art…this is what happens when a mother finally gets tired of all the fucking stuffed animals collecting dust in her house, and snaps.  $20 says that this is what happened after some poor mom in the suburbs had her monthly Bunco night canceled, and she was left alone with three kids, a bottle of vodka, and a whole bunch of rage.

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Please, I can find this in any rough high school in America.

I thought the museum janitor had gotten lazy.  But no.

IMG_0210If the artist has ever seen an actual vagina…then that woman needs to be referred to a health care provider IMMEDIATELY.

 

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I call this one, “Tripping Hazard”.

This is what I want to do to someone, every time that I get invited to one of those fucking Partylite parties.

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And the coup de grace…  Every year, I have my students do an IDENTICAL activity about who they are.  And every year, one kid TRIES to put a dick on his body form, and every year I tell that kid to cut the shit and take it off.  Somewhere in America…this kid’s teacher is shaking her head.

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Now, this…this is art…why? Because a sassy dead rabbit who can protest, speak French, and be slightly existential?  That’s a whole bunch of alright in my book.

 

 

The Happiest Place On Earth Is Now Anywhere With Ibuprofen And Beer

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There is NO INTERPRETIVE DANCE allowed on Thunder Mountain Railroad.

There is NO INTERPRETIVE DANCE allowed on Thunder Mountain Railroad.

In case some of you thought I was dead somewhere (hoping, I daresay), I was merely on Spring Break with my family.  After fooling my kids into thinking they were going to Prescott, AZ with my mother, with the car packed, we revealed the truth…that we were taking them to Disneyland. As exciting as Prescott is, I’m sure you can imagine, they were thrilled at the change in plans.

Because I’m exhausted, have to work today (already!?), and everything hurts…I’ll just share a quick summary of Le Disney.

1. Nothing looks as smug as the faces of people passing you in the Fast Pass line.  Oh, yeah…well, I’ve got a pocket-full of California Screamin’ tickets set to ripen in a 10 minutes…then we’ll see who’s smug.

2. The Indiana Jones ride…has a posted height requirement…but should actually have a support bra requirement.  Seriously, it’s like Girls on Trampolines in there.  The happiest place on Earth?  The security office for that ride, watching the footage.

3. There’s a subtle line between making your children the center of your life, and teaching them that they’re the center of the known universe. Annnnd I saw that line crossed, on the daily.

4. I don’t care how many Mickey-shaped beignets you just ate…  Thou shall not joke about cocaine use at Disneyland.  Apparently, that joke doesn’t go over well in the Magic Kingdom.

5. I’m probably in the vacation photos of a million strangers, but only 4 of my own.  Yes, family from Indiana, that is me, and yes, that was my third churro…don’t fucking judge.

6. My daughter can spot a “famous Vine-r” from 50 paces away, but doesn’t know who Angie Harmon is, when she’s standing 10 feet away.  (She’s lovely by the way, and her daughters are insanely beautiful…shocker.)

7. On every ride this happened…

Cast member: “Have a great ride!”

Caolinn: “You, too!”

*facepalm*

8. You know those cameras, where they snap a picture of you, mid-ride?  After looking like a mental patient in 30 of them, this is what happens.

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Now, back to work.  Grumble, grumble.