The Black Plague Started at a Preschool. True Story.*

My amazing streak of excellent health has some to a screeching, mucusy halt.  I attribute this to spending roughly 60 seconds inside Bubba’s classroom when I picked him up on Friday.  A bunch of kids swarmed me asking me questions and breathing in my direction and now I have a sore throat.  Children are gross.  There.  I said it. 

Funny aside: when I went to collect the Bubs a bunch of kids asked me if I am his mom.  “Nope, I’m his sister,” I replied.  Apparently that sounded shady, because they all verified this information with him. 

“Is that your mom?” 

“No, it’s my sister,” he’d answer, shocked that anyone would mistake me for his mom.  Like, doesn’t your sister have crow’s feet and a few stray gray hairs?

Anyway, the weekend was pretty great.  We were in the Bay Area briefly for Ed’s company holiday party.  It was way less dramatic than last year, and we were all dolled up and cute and shitfaced within an hour due to drinking a gallon of wine each and eating maybe two stuffed mushrooms.  Whoops.  I also don’t think we took a single picture together, which is stupid.  Or a result of all the wine. 

We woke up feeling kind of crappy, and then this happened:

Hi, we're all just casually hanging around the World Series trophy. What up?

My dad initially thought only he could have his photo taken, but was informed that he could bring guests.  He wisely chose the people who will make decisions about pulling plugs and nursing home placement.

To say that Dad was intense about this was a bit of an understatement.  Bubba was sort of impatient about having to wait in line and wanted to go play on the field, but my father was insistent that we be together for the photo and have FUN and create memories, goddamnit, even if it kills us all or someone ends up crying. 

"Ed, get a picture of me pretending to take the call to send Vaughn out to the mound."

Sometimes I confuse real life and movies.  It’s concerning.

The fresh air and excitement helped my hangover. My screeching and running around seemed to make Ed's worse

 

I told him we could play Skeeball if he stood still for a photo. Bribery: it works. Judge all you want.

 

So, how was your weekend?

*Lie.  But it would make sense if it did, right?

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