8 Dec 2009
5:58 pm
It's official, I'm going home to visit my parents for Christmas. I
know, I know, you were hoping I'd jet off somewhere balmy with Bloke.
Me too. But you know, I haven't been home in forever and I could really
use a dose of good old-fashioned mid-western values. I need to stand in
the middle of a third tier mall with my sister (you know, the kind that
still has Orange Julius?) and count the burger bangs.* I need to let my
Mom show me all of the cheesy Hallmark angel ornaments that she bought
this year, and listen to my Dad's mind numbing tips on which gas
station sells regular for three whole cents less a gallon. I need a nap
and some heart attack style meals involving red meat. Know what I'm
sayin' New York? I mean, City— I love you like the dickens City, but
City, you wear my ass out. Anyway, my parents were so jazzed to hear
I'd decided to come, that they suggested I invite Bloke. I know! But
I'm not sure I want to. It's not that I don't want them to meet. It's
just that the whole idea sounds... well, stressful. I'd rather catchup
with Bloke in some random hotel room the week after, so we can stay in
bed all day and gobble each other up. Plus I was really looking forward
to dressing like complete crap at my parents for maximum relaxation
(hello fleece and sweat pants—Oh I've missed you.). But I'd better
decide soon. Ticket prices are completely out of hand.
* The burger bang is comprised of three tight curls at the
forehead (one curled forward, two back). Occasionally, the curls are picked out and
feathered, but more often left untouched—so that each holds the shape of the iron that birthed it.
1 - tight curl under = bun
2 - tight curl back = meat
3- second tight curl going back = bun
End result – delicious!
