Learn to fly again

We’re headed out to Joshua Tree National Park today to do some hiking, and I think we’re most excited about the drive to and from because we finally discovered the 80′s station on the satellite radio in the car. Last night on the drive home after dinner we rolled down the windows and sang along to every word of “Little Red Corvette,” and just as we pulled into the parking lot that Mr. Mister song “Broken Wings” came on, and she looked at me, and I looked at her, and in unison we both yelled WE ARE NEVER LEAVING THIS CAR AGAIN. Think about it. We could order pizza and have it delivered right to the passenger-side window. And then occasionally wipe our underarms with the baby wipes I have stashed in my purse.

Later she convinced me to put on one of her swimsuits so that we could jump in the hot tub, and I begrudgingly agreed even though I hadn’t packed my butt inserts. So I wrapped a towel around my waist and told her I’d spare her the horror of my Flat Ass, and she said it couldn’t be that bad, so I turned around, dropped the towel, and she fell over dead. I called her husband and said sorry, but I killed your wife, and the Palm Springs police are booking me right now for assault with a deadly pancake buttock.

This trip has been totally rejuvenating, especially I think for Carol who found out on Saturday that she does not have a job to go back to in the fall. She works as a guidance counselor at a local high school, and not fifteen minutes before her daughter’s sixth birthday party she received a certified letter than said YOU NO LONGER HAVE A JOB. Not a perfect way to spend an afternoon, you know? But she’s getting tons of advice from friends and friends of those friends, and when we come back to the hotel I just rub her head and pour rum into her mouth. I think the best thing I can do right now is shut up and listen and assure her that if Chuck were here right now he’d have his head tucked right under her chin.

And because she doesn’t like the smell of dogs she’d say THIS ISN’T HELPING.