My boss set us free early this afternoon so we could get a jump on the long holiday weekend. I rushed home to take Junior to the beach.
Which entailed putting on a bathing suit.
Me: "Gawd. I look horrible."
Chuck: "We live in Connecticut. Comparatively, you look great."
Me: "What's that supposed to mean?"
Chuck: "Er, nothing."
Me: "No really. Do you mean that amidst the mass of pasty, jiggly Connecticut people, I look like an eight instead of a four?"
Chuck [holding my shoulders like we're in a scene from the Young and the Restless]: "I think we both know that if we lived in California we'd be screwed."
And he wonders why I don't take my clothes off—at the beach (gawd you guys are gutter dwellers).
If you're looking for a place to visit this summer, I bet the Connecticut tourism department neglected to mention that if you come here, you'll look like a rock star compared to all us white fatties. Now what could be better than that?
(Chuck wants everyone to know that this conversation was taken out of context. As soon as he starts his own blog he can explain exactly how.)
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.