Don't get me wrong - mine wasn't bad. No, I wouldn't call it that. It was more like...well, let me put it this way:
When I was little, we had an annual carnival at my elementary school and one of the game prizes was called The Grab Bag. It was a pillow case, basically, and you could slink an arm down in there and pick your prize without seeing it. There was something about the mystery of not knowing what I'd pull out of that bag that made this prize my favorite.
(Do I still love being surprised by mysterious items in pillow cases? Not so much.)
Anyway, I'm still recovering from what I'd call a Grab Bag weekend, with each day presenting a fresh opportunity for me to plunge a twitching limb into the pillowcase of life and haul out a fresh, steaming experience to cherish forever...or at least until I can squeegee it off the windshield of my mind.
Friday: I Accidentally Eat A Flower
Friday night we're out to dinner for the first time with new family friends - lovely, civilized people on whom we hope to make a decent impression. Everything is going just fine until I take a bite of pasta and, when I start chewing, realize there's something floating around in my mouth that's not a member of the pasta family of foods.
Very suave-like, I glance down at my plate and see that, while there were formerly three little ornamental garnish flowers nestled against my ravioli, the head count now has dropped to two.
Play it cool, I tell myself. I can do this. I smile and nod along with the conversation as my molars clamp down on the intrepid daisy and it releases a stream of bitter flower venom in retaliation.
"Sounds like you've got a great vacation planned," I gasp at our friends and silently wonder if I can nonchalantly slip under the table on all fours, arch my back a couple dozen times and hork the blossom up without jeopardizing future dinner invitations.
Because, see, the thing about those little garnish flowers is this: on the plate they look all innocent and dainty like this...
But in your mouth, they are more like, um, this:
Saturday: I Am Traumatized By The Mail
I love getting the mail. It's just so...exciting. After all, "You may already be a winner!" Right?
Not this weekend.
Here's what I find when I skip down the steps with my little silver mailbox key:
What? Has my independence been confiscated? Am I going to have to somehow buy it back now, one compulsory orthopedic footwear purchase at a time?
I'm still reeling from this discovery when this falls out onto the driveway with a slap:
What the Buddy Ebsen is going on here? Wait a second, I know what this is! It's one of those catalogs that appears to be full of harmless sweaters, but actually contains jars of eye ointments with names like "Bag-Lift" and sexual aids marketed not by porn stars but by doctors.
What dark forces have conspired to rub my nose in my
Sunday: A Trip And Fall Down Memory Lane
I pull out an old photo album to find a particular shot and end up flipping through all the pages with Morticia (not my daughter's real name).
Which is when she finds this photo (a Friday night in So Cal, circa early 80s) and dissolves into snorts of laughter:
(Granted, the uniform looks a lot more bad ass when I'm brandishing my clarinet. I love that blouse, though. Ironically, that's what I'm wearing when I eat the hateful flower at dinner Friday night. Funny how life works, huh?)
They say comedy = tragedy + time. Perhaps I should have given this photo a couple more years...?
Thank you to Tessa at An Aerial Armadillo for listing me as the person who makes her laugh until she's weak. What an amazing compliment from an amazing person! Thank you.
Thank you to Francies Fancies for the huge shout-out and link! Wow!
Thank you to Fragrant Liar for the Zombie Chicken Award! Get the cluck outta here!
And a huge thank you to everyone who's gone to the trouble to vote for our BlogHer Conference panel entitled "Dying is Easy, Comedy is Hard!" I'll let you know as soon as we find out whether we've made it on to the agenda. (Voting closes May 1.) We appreciate your support!