Alternate title: The Longest Post EVER So Get Yourself a Drink and Settle in for a Detailed Account of How I Spent My Weekend, Y’all.
People, I am DONE with driving long distances and Big Scary Freeways for awhile, at least. Yes, I spent most of my childhood and adolescence on the Dumbarton Bridge and am nonplussed by more than two lanes of traffic but holy mother of swear words and cars and drive-thrus…I am staying put for the forseeable future.
WARNING: If you are one of my dads or I ever lived in your uterus, you might want to skip the first part of Friday because you will lose your shit. No offense guys, but you’re kinda wimpy when it comes to the thought of me almost dying. Just move along to the parts where I am drunk because you have all seen that.
Friday: Day started out on a pretty normal note. Got some last minute laundry done, packed my bag for my crazy-busy weekend and headed out of Chico in my recently tuned-up truck. My old, but lovingly cared for, well-maintained (OK, yes, it does need a good washing but other than that, just shut up, alright?) truck. The first half of the drive goes by with zero incident and I’m bopping along and decide to pull off of I-80 in Fairfield for a coffee. As I make my way over to the right lane I hear a huge BANG, the truck pulls sharply to the left and the next few moments are a blur as I spin out and almost hit the wall before managing to get the car pointed in the right direction over on the shoulder. I call 911 because I can see chunks of my tire in the road and know that the CHP office is at the next exit. (Seriously, I do this drive all the damn time and know every bathroom, every Peet’s coffee location, whatever.) Another car pulls over to check on me as I’m half hyperventilating-recounting the story of OHMYGODIJUSTSPUNOUTWHATTHEFUCK? to the dispatcher. The people in the other car inform me my driver’s side rear tire appears to be shredded and I relay this to the dispatcher, who is asking me all kinds of questions that I am having trouble answering (like, my name) but I manage to give her my location. In the meantime, one of the three Good Samaritans seems really put off by the fact that I am devoting more attention to the 911 dispatch than to him, and mistakes my reluctance to fully exit the vehicle as a fear that he will rob me, rather than a fear of being mowed down by one of the hundreds of cars flying past us. He proceeds to inform me that I clearly hate black people, FSP shows up and a highway patrol officer rolls up to check on me too. I try to explain to the dude that I am not racist, just freaking the fuck out and maybe I have forgotten my manners but I AM HAVING A BIT OF A CRISIS HERE and would appreciate if he could wait a moment while I get shit done and then I will be happy to chat with him and inspect the tire while practically standing in the freeway. The FSP dude manages to get the tire situation under control while the officers block traffic and run out onto the freeway to retrieve tire chunks. If you had to slow down on I-80 last Friday afternoon, SORRY! AAA shows up too, makes sure things are cool and I’m sent on my way. Although the car is deemed totally safe to drive, I am still a little flipped out but manage to get myself to my dad’s house in one piece.
Upon arrival in Pacifica, I give the fam a quick rundown of the situation and my uncle offers to drive me to my dinner party in the city. I politely decline, so he offers to make me a drink instead. Sold!
I love that my uncle and I speak the same language: Bushmills.
The dinner with B&G, D&K and E was fabulous as always. B looked at me and said, “It feels right having you at my table” and I gotta say, it feels right to me too. Talking about leaving my heart in San Francisco.
D&K, adorable as ever.
The gourmets: G cooked up a five-star meal and K spoiled us with homemade tiramisu.
Saturday: Up at dawn to road trip to Fresno (aka The ‘No) for my Great-Aunt Peggy’s memorial service. She passed away last month and is terribly missed by our family. A beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, the lady liked to have fun and her children and grandchildren put on a wonderful party that honored her memory. I always forget that this side of the family is the Unapologetic Day Drinking side, and realized I need to visit more. We saw a ton of relatives we hadn’t seen in years and I discovered that the penchant for sick jokes and a “That’s What She Said!” sense of humor is genetic.
Timothy Evan and Evan William partying it up.
The evening is a bit of a blur… I know I went on a liquor run with my dad, got back to the house, downed the rest of my wine and got my uncle to hook his favorite niece up with some cocktails. Our cousins Terri and Mark are pig farmers and have a gorgeous property with lots of cute baby pigs. I felt a little guilty enjoying my bacon and cilantro wrapped shrimp, but got over it pretty fast because sweet baby Jesus, that stuff is SO GOOD. I explained that as a city girl, I prefer not to make friends with my meals and they agreed they would only serve me food I hadn’t met. Seems fair. Ridiculous and fairly graphic explanations of inseminating pigs for breeding ensued and at one point I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. Eventually the crowd dispersed and I passed out in my cousin’s room.
Bubba shows off his monkey bollock (blanket) and monkey jammers.
Mark, please do not explain to him how baby pigs are made, nor where the bacon came from.
Thumbs up all-around for Terri, the coolest cousin!
Sunday: Woke up with the slightest headache, but after tallying the drinks (3 beers, 2 glasses of wine and a shit ton of whiskey and soda) I was not in horrid shape. After some breakfast, coffee and a shower I was handed a mimosa. I use the term “mimosa” lightly because those are supposed to have orange juice in them, which I guess mine did technically, but really, who are we kidding? Again with the day drinking and damn if my head didn’t feel absolutely marvelous instantly. Dad and Judy came by with Evan and apparenly Bubba was up half the night with a fever.
Some snippets of conversation:
Terri: “My girlfriends and I used to have a pool going when we’d go out and whoever got asked to dance by the ugliest guy got the money.”
Judy: “I want in on that. You’re talking my game! Also, lesbians love me. We start talking softball and next thing I know…”
Me: “If the rules were the oldest dude asking you to dance I’d beat all of you hands down. Old guys love me. And I want extra credit if they are wearing chains!”
Dad: “Will someone please take the champagne away from them?”
Have you ever been drunk in the car with your drunk stepmom, sober dad and three year-old brother? Because here’s what you can expect: making up songs that heavily feature the word “poop” with the three year-old, begging your dad to pull over for Jack-in-the-Box because, “Dude, we are drunk hungry! I need food noooooowwwww” and passing out next to the aforementioned toddler. A toddler who will try to wake you by throwing toys at your head and playing a pretend trumpet. Interweb, that is the closest I’ve ever come to hitting a child. I wonder when he’ll realize “Sissy is tired” means “Sissy is hammered” and “Sissy needs to sleep” means “Sissy passed out and will likely attack if woken?” Hopefully not for another year or so. I woke from my car nap covered in my own drool and still feeling buzzed. My dad is exceptionally proud of me.
Show of hands: who is concerned that Evan was able to take this photo because I was too drunk/lazy/oblivious to wrestle my camera away from a person who weighs 30 lbs?
Monday: After another fitful, feverish night with Evan the entire family trekked to Kaiser for an appointment with Dr. Ami, the best pediatrician since my childhood doctor. The kid has some weird ass preschool disease like foot and mouth, only the sores are only in his mouth. I wasn’t so much disgusted as concerned, but still – ew!
While putting the little diseased kid down for his nap and saying goodbye he warmed my cold, dead heart with this little gem:
“I’m so glad you’re my potty talk friend!”
For reals. I cannot begin to express how completely awesome this kid is. You just need to experience him to fully understand the wacky charm that is Bubba.
The drive home was uneventful, but I stopped every five minutes to check my tires and hyperventilate and imagine that the car was going to careen off the road. Good times. After spending roughly three hours in the car Friday-Monday I am so grateful my daily commute is 40 minutes round trip. CKD needs a break, yo.
So, um, there you go. My weekend in approximately 7,000 words, give or take. If you’ll excuse me now I need to collapse and maybe pour myself a drink. Haven’t had one of those in about 18 hours and we wouldn’t want my liver tissue to regenerate, now would we?