2001-07-31 :: 5:08 p.m.
Let me just say that I can't believe I threw up outside of the Rocket show at Maxwell's the night before My Boy and I left for Florida. That was so out of character and bizarre and scary. I've never thrown up in public. Ever. My Boy kind of freaked out because at first he thought I was pulling some kind of stunt similar to those of his ex-girlfriend, but promptly realized I was not being a big lame baby when he heard the sound come up from deep inside my gut and propel the bile onto the sidewalk. This after two drinks. I am seriously losing my touch here.
Anyway, after waking up an hour late and scrambling into the car still feeling vomit-licious, it was off to Newark Airport and onto a flight to Mr. and Mrs. My Boy's house.
Florida rocked in a way that only a vacation jam packed with unecessary parental activities can rock. I got my beach time, my peeling back is thanking me, I saw some gators, made out with My Boy in club house swimming pools under cheesy chlorinated waterfalls, and slept in the delicious comfort of AC and southern breezes. I ate mahi. I ate a bevy of seafood sandwiches. Rode his parents' awesome bikes around their development onto the golf course, all the way around, miles and miles.
He and I played in the water like little kids and took after-beach naps on cold sheets holding hands. It was a blast. And his parents toasted to our "romance" on our last night there and said "we can see how very much in love you are," and you know what? I got that prickly feeling in my throat. Because they may be crazy but it was still sweet.
Why Mrs. My Boy decided to stock our carry-on luggage with lunch meat and donuts is another story. But whatever. The lady is a firecracker.
My Boy squeezed my hand on the flight back when it got too bouncy and I got too nervous (over nothing) and said "I'm still not sick of you," when we reviewed the past three days' events.
Didn't even bother to really document the trip on video, partly because I was too lazy, and we did pretty much the same thing we did there last summer, and partly because I think I won't need to relive it with him; there's so much more ahead.
The bug bites the size of silver dollars are decorating this tan right now. But nothing a little cortisone won't fix.
Tonight, My Boy and I finish Six String Samurai and tomorrow, I catch up on the retardation of "Sex and the City" and the fascination of "Six Feet Under."
I'm home, kids.
Where my girls at?