Chelsea Handler. She's a goddess. A down right, comedic goddess built of half-Jewish pure awesomeness. I'm putting her on my list of people to aspire to be like. Not just for her blunt honesty, her fabulous humor or her ability to gain sex appeal through brutal hilarity directed at others' expenses but because I like that she can make people believe anything. I just finished reading "Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang" and think I'll invest in "Dear Vodka, It's Me Chelsea".
I'm not in Virginia at the moment, by the way. I'm in one of the guest rooms on the only floor of my grandparent's house down at Lake Wateree, South Carolina. My mother is across the hall sleeping off her antibiotics while I grapple with the new found knowledge that egg custard was not meant to be mixed with B&J Strawberry Daiquiris (which taste like strawberry jello) or their Fuzzy Navels (Which taste like orange and peach juice mixed with fun). Of course, mixing two alcoholic beverages, even of the effeminate variety, with my anti-anxiety meds isn't really on the list of things I should be doing in the first place. However, given that it powered me to finish the book, gain blackmail on my mother and be last the person awake in the house, I consider this a great management of my time and resources.
I discovered through a roundabout conversation involving taking my biological father to court over back due child support to the worth of 73 thousand dollars that not only do I inherit some of my facial features from my American-Indian ancestors from both sides of the family, but that my distaste for vodka and its hatred for my stomach lining is hereditary. My grandmother can't drink that swill either without losing her cookies, so it was nice to know I wasn't just slowly dissolving into a whiny thirteen year old girl. I just can't drink fermented potato alcohol, which is a fact of life I'm willing to accommodate.
This trip has been utterly spontaneous and worth the adventure so far. My mother nearly ran over a peacock last night. It was apparently crossing the road and she nearly swerved into a ditch avoiding the damn thing. I, upon initial hearing of the story, accused her of using LSD and not even offering to let me sell it for extra cash. Eventually we discovered somewhere along Rolling Hills Road hides a farm of several hundred peacocks owned by a man who has an obviously unhealthy love for the birds. I learned that not only is DJ, the small child of my heart, still a big admirer of mine but that he has a healthy fear of me I've worked years to instill. He told his mother that when I came to visit I could sleep in his bed with him. When she directed him to clean his room he responded with "Yeah, I know. Because if I don't Cynthia will beat me up!". I'm proud of the little guy. He learns pretty quick.
I've been put to work as a short order cook as well. My grandfather owns a restaurant at an equestrian park a mile passed I-20 down Cleveland School Road off of Black River called Mane Street. He has the best bar-be-que in the world and this is from a woman with legit soul-food cooking black women friends. Well, two of their workers cut out and I pitched in. I'm now trained to make a chicken quesadilla, cheese and double cheeseburgers, french fries, grilled cheeses, grilled peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, BBQ sandwiches, and eat free homemade carrot cake. It was worth learning and spending a few hours working for free to eat that damn cake too. I also discovered that rich people are still jerks, and it doesn't matter where you are. I wish I would be here for when the Westerners came over, because these Yankee riders are obnoxious and unfriendly.
Not too shady for a single day's adventure. We almost ran over some overly large buzzards in the Tiburan because, obviously, that's the only thing to do when you're bored. Mom and I opted to replace my grandfather's Router for the simple fact we can't live without functioning wifi if we don't have to. I should say now that my grandaddy who has the restaurant is not the same one whose house I'm crashing in unannounced this weekend. Mom, JenJen (Who I call Grandma simply because I'm the only one who was trained to), and myself stayed up telling ridiculous stories about Buttersnakes, my brother, myself and my mother.
I've decided that my life is too hilarious sometimes to keep to myself and am contemplating exploiting the people I love by making a book of us at our most ridiculous and unsavory. There will be skewed details, there will be exaggerations, and there will be hilarity. At least in my opinion.
As a parting note, I'd simply like to state for the record that not only did my mom endorse naming my first child Bacon, she now has recruited other family members to expect this from me. I've agreed to allowing for it to be a suitable nickname, and my child will be raised to respond to it solely.
I bid you farewell, kind readers, for I will return who knows when and in God knows what condition next.
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