Papa and co came for a birthday/Father’s day visit.
We laughed. We cried. We went out to dinner and Papa didn’t trust that where I told him to park the car was safe so he moved it half way through the meal.
Only a few short days after Papa flew back up to VAB Brother, his friend Spencer Pratt* (SP) and I hopped in Brother’s sensible Volvo sedan and drove the long 10 hours (it was 11 hours for us because Brother loves to stop a lot) up to join him. The next day the 3 of us and Papa jumped in his equally sensible, but slightly more masculine Rover and drove up to DC to pick up Westchester and take in a Mets v Nats game.
The Mets won. We were happy. We were tired.
The next 2 days (which included the 4th) were spent getting too much sun on the beach with the neighborhood families.
I think everyone of Sister’s posse got (or pretended to get) stung by a jellyfish. While this was going on the parents were drinking coconut rum.
It was a good day.
Brother and SP drove home the next day while Westchester and I did some shopping and entertained LilBro** and a friend of his in our hotel room. By entertained I mean drank a handle of Sailor, no sexual favors included.
Westchester left a couple of days later and I made my way down to the Boro.
Just like last time I invaded the Minimalist’s castle (which is the same borrowed castle as last time), but without any of the silly fears. And once again we spent (probably) far too much time laying in bed watching Deadliest Warrior. And once again, we were quite happy with that.
Once difference from last time is that this weekend was full of belated birthday celebrations. The Minimalist’s 21st birthday was the 5th so in honor of the momentous day I gave him a nice bottle of whiskey. And in honor of my less momentous birthday he swallowed his masculine pride and walked in Victoria’s Secret to buy me a gift card (because he knows I love undies but also knows that if he had bought me any it would have been a tad creepy [and probably the wrong size]). After that he also swallowed some fake chicken at Boba House, my favorite vegetarian restaurant. He swore he would never go there, even refusing when ManLove wanted to go.
I was grinning like a fool, to say the least.
I returned to the Dirty Dirty Monday after 12 days away.
And that night was spent hanging out on Adult’s porch listening to Grill Master teach ChiChi’s Frenchie*** incorrect English. Or just say outrageous things to here. My favorite:
GM: “If you hang out here too much you’ll shoot your friends and bury them in the backyard.”
F: looks confused
GM: “Why am I like this? Maybe because when I was younger my father put dimes in a sock and beat me with them. But don’t worry, I got used to the bruises and learned to hide in the closets.”
Why that’s not exactly something to joke about it was ridiculously funny because all Frenchie understood was “dimes,” “father,” and “hide in the closest,” leading her to believe Grill Master was Looney Toons because his father hid his money in the closet.
I think you just had to be there.
This all seems like fun, but not terribly noteworthy summer fun, right?
If this was the whole story it sure would have been, but there’s more.
About a month ago I went for my yearly physical, which revealed that I had abnormal cells on my cervix. This find lead to another test, which turned into a biopsy, the day before leaving for Vagina Bitch. I was supposed to get my results the 7th, but that date has come and gone and I’m still waiting. And I’m still nervous.
I probably shouldn’t be (I’m young, healthy with no known family history of cervical cancer), but I am. I can’t help it.
So during all this family, friendly, sunny fun I’ve had this little gnawing thought at the back of my mind. Not fun.
But really more than nervous I’m just ready to know. Once I know I can get out of this horrid limbo situation I’ve been living in. And we all know how I feel about limbo…
*Spencer Pratt-I call him this not because he shares any of SP’s qualities, but because they once both sported flesh-colored beards.
**LilBro-a fellow GuilCo sophomore-to-be who reminds me unbelievably of Brother, especially when drunk
***Frenchie-ChiChi’s mother is the definition of Francophile and somehow managed to find a teenage French girl to stay with them for a month a few years ago. Well, the girl has come back for another month-long visit.