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I’m back from vacation, and I am sad to report that it was not my best vacation. Or even my 2nd or 3rd or 4th or even 20th best vacation. It was just one flaming shitbag after another. There was the stress and worry about money (my mom sort of strong-armed me onto a vacation that I really couldn’t afford). Add to that my son who is just dripping with almost-nearly-very-close-to-being-a-teen assholery and it makes things worse. Because even though, on the surface, he may seem to understand that we really don’t have a lot of money to spend on this vacation, he really doesn’t. And his mouth gets in the way of his brain and he pushes me. And then I feel bad because I hate putting the burden of worrying about money on a kid, but at the same time I have to because I have a very limited amount of money and if we want to make it for the duration, then we have to watch it. And then I feel shitty.

And while I am feeling shitty, let’s put on a bathing suit and hang out with all the fucking skinny bitches in my family. That’s a fucking barrel of monkeys. Even though I was feeling great about the 6 pounds I lost since I started back up on the weight loss plan, there is nothing that knocks you back down to earth than being surrounded by beautiful, thin women in bikinis. Yay me. And without fail, at least two of them will get into some in-depth conversation about weight and exercise and someone they knew who almost died a thousand horrible deaths because of their rampant fatness. And although I know they aren’t talking about me, it still feels like a goddamn flaming stick in the eye, like could we please, FOR ONCE, talk about the weather or your new shoes, or somebody’s hemorrhoids, and hey - how ‘bout those Pens?

And let’s not forget how being together with people you love can often either bring you together or remind you of the growing chasm between you. That’s always awesome.

I’ll skip the whole kid/parents/babysitting dramas that were the theme of the week, but know that they were awesome.

Then – bright spot in the vacation – PENS WIN THE STANLEY CUP! YAY!!!!!

Then shortly after that, I am forced to leave the comfort of the sweet little pub with the Pens fans and the Burgh band and the people of all ages and get dragged to the thumping hell mecca of the young and thin and beautiful. The one where an old or fat woman can stand RIGHTFUCKINGTHERE in front of the bartenders and not even be seen, which is fucking bullshit, since those bartenders should know by now that the old fat woman will tip much better than the beautiful, young, thin, starving college students and part-time hos looking for sugar daddies.

And then, some fucking asshole Rico Suave dickhead (mind you, this is not the douchebag from the last post) decides to hit on me in the cheesiest ways possible. Which, if he wasn’t a Rico Suave dickhead, might have been flattering, but instead was just annoying. He was skeevy and creepy and I told him to go away and that I was old and married and GO AWAY and he proceeds to go on about how HE is older than he looks and the Army was good to him and I was probably in pampers when he was in high school, like PLEASE he was clearly way younger than me and also? I’m not fucking stupid. And then, to really seal the deal, he backs up and looks me up and down and says, “You can’t be a day over FORTY-SIX!!!” It was then that I asked him if he had an advanced directive. He backpedalled and tried blurting out all kinds of numbers that started with 3, but I was done and simply responded with “go away” to each one. Finally, he begged to know my real age and I said forty and then he just turned around and scurried away. My life, ladies and gentlemen – it rocks.

It was after this happy event that Asshole McFakeTanGelledHairDoucherson made a fucking joke of me and I left the bar and sat on the boardwalk and cried because Really? Could this vacation be any more miserable?

The last day was pretty uneventful, but after the 80 dickpunches I had had already, I just couldn’t really enjoy it that much. Plus, it rained.

And then on the way home, we got caught up in not one, but two bad accidents on I-95, one of which involved flaming cars and choking black smoke and closed highway and death. And then we got home. And then it was Monday.

I’m holding out hope that the August In-Law Booze Beach Extravaganza will be better. Otherwise, I’ll keep telling myself, “Only 16 months until My Happy Place. Only 16 months until My Happy Place. Only 16 months until My Happy Place.”