I Am Magical and Other Things I Learned On My Thanksgiving Vacation

If any of you read the (since deleted) frantic post I wrote the night before my vacation, you already know that before I left, I was both stressed and blinded in one eye. (Note to dipshit: when checking to see if the Windex nozzle works, do not use your pupil as a bullseye.)

I went South for a wedding. Long story short: my Dad is now married to a woman with fake tits and I woke up naked in a hammock.

Somewhere in the middle of that was a slurred toast pilfered from a Meg Ryan movie, a magnum of champagne, a hot tub, and an old vet named Mitch handing me camouflage-printed cans of Miller Lite.

SM: "Why the camouflage, Mitch?"
M: "So my wife don't catch me drinking."
SM: "Do you live in the woods?"
M: "No, I have a green couch."

The wedding was followed by a family honeymoon in Disney. Because what says newly wedded bliss like screaming children, fanny packs, and fat people on scooters?

FYI: I am PMSing.

First stop, Animal Kindgom, where I learned that if I were a bird, I'd be this:

The White-Bellied Go Away Bird, aka Sugar Mama in Animal Kingdom

If I were the White-Bellied Go Away Bird, I'd have a white belly and say "Go Away" a lot. So I'd be exactly like I am now--except I'd fly and poop on the heads of people who suck.

Have I told you I'm PMSing?

Next stop, MGM Disney in the rain, where we waited 1 1/2 hours to go on the Toy Story 3D ride. Only just as we were about to park our cold, soggy butts onto a car, the shit broke.

"THIS RIDE IS CLOSED! HAVE A MAGICAL DAY!" announced a Disney drone with a demented smile from too many shifts at "It's Small World" back in the day.

We were turned away. The herd shuffled on out without complaint. Because, as I've learned, most people are patient. Except for one woman on a scooter who told the Disney worker, "I'm not feel-ing mag-i-cal!" in a sing-songy, I'm-going-to-blow-some-shit-up-in-my-micky-mouse-ears kind of way. And then she ate Buzz Lightyear.*

So we went on to spend my childrens' college funds on Mickey-shaped food and spinning crap that glows in the dark and I vowed to make those frozen chocolate-dipped bananas at home and watch "Food Inc" and introduce myself to leafy things that grow in the ground, but this was all before Hooligan #2 went all Linda Blair on the plane ride home and I started PMSing harder than Ursula on ice.

Vacation was good. Home is better.

Have a magical day!

*I typed this as I scarfed down the last of the Halloween candy. Except the Tootsie Rolls, of course. Even I won't stoop that low.

First Burb Party: Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner

Halloween brings out the freaks. So I was optimistic about finally finding the creeps and kooks hidden in my hood.

It turns out they weren't hiding at all. They paraded down the darkened streets pulling wagons of Coors Lite-filled coolers, as their little pirates and princesses, ninjas and one mailman (that would be mine) scored loot and sugar highs.

But Sugar Mama, you're thinking, Coors Lite? Isn't that water masquarading as beer for non beer drinkers who desperately yearn to be beer drinkers?

Yes. Coors Lite is not beer. It's beer-ish. Maybe Coors Lite was invented for fast drinkers unable to intake real beer at the same clip. Because the biggest Crap Lite fan of all was pounding and toasty and invited the hubs and I back to his house for a party.

In his backyard with ten other die-hards, we enjoyed a fire, more beer, and cigs. Bonus: His wife played non-stop Prince and the Revolution.

Bonus #2: HE KNOWS WHERE THE SHACK IS AND HAS HOOKED ME UP WITH AN IN. (You need an invite to enter the Shack. And a bit of snag: you also need a dick. Only a few women have been allowed in. I can only go if I have mad poker skills. All the more reason to watch my mulleted minx, Scotty Nguyen. I shall get in. Oh yes, I shall!)

So we were whooping at up to Raspberry Beret and drinking the Silver Bullet and smoking cigs and I'm finally, finally feeling the love in the suburbs and dancing with some fella on my hubs' bball team when I decide it would be a good idea for us to perform the Baby-Johhny lift. He agrees that this is the best idea EVER.

So I leave the room . . . and come sprinting back in at full speed . . . with my arms outstretched like Superman . . . to do this--

JOHNNY!



Only I don't get air. I slam into him. Oof. This move is not easy. Especially while wearing heels, post-25 Coors Lites, in front of a china closet.

We tried again.

I survived, the china did not.

Oh, and at some point during the night, I might have said in an Irish whisper that this suburban town was Ira Levin's inspiraton for The Stepford Wives. Which will go over well with the other women, who have already begun labeling me as "the hot mess who thinks she's Jennifer Gray circa 1987 who broke the Smith's china closet."

Yeah, something tells me I won't be invited back to another burb party anytime soon. Hope you beasties enjoyed Halloween, too!