It's one a.m. and I'm on my honeymoon and writing to my unborn child. That's my problem in a nutshell.
The plan was to spend this trip making a child not gestating one. In truth, I'm not sure I would have been so ready to put the emphasis so much on procreation, but I guess that's neither here nor there since your mom's hurling grape leaves and humus all over our Greek bathroom. That's not entirely true. I mean, she's throwing up, just not grape leaves or humus.
We're at some hotel in a barren part of nowhere island. I think it was supposed to be nice, authentic, and private, but there's a huge difference between feeling secluded and marooned. Anyway, there's only one place to eat here, a little restaurant that this guy runs out of his house. He wakes up everyday and goes fishing in his little boat, then comes home and lovingly chops the heads off his catch and cooks them for the few guests who somehow get sent to this part of nowhere.
Your mom asked him to make her a cheeseburger. In her defense, you're working her insides over like a washing machine, so she was desperate for something familiar and comfortable rather than something scaly and headless. Sadly, he couldn't really understand what she was requesting. Then, the only other customer in the joint stepped in and politely suggested that since we'd come all the way to his country perhaps she should try eating something that didn't come from McDonald's (I had a Greek salad which I think just got me in under the wire). Then, in Greek, he explained cheeseburgers and a bunch of other stuff about Ugly Americans to the proprietor and your mom and I wanted in the silence of the damned while he prepared her one. I've never seen someone sit on the edge of tears for so long without actually losing one. They hung all around the edges of her eyes, but just when one looked like it was going to break loose, she'd somehow to gather it in and hold it tight. Either your mom's not really a crier or she was so dehydrated from the constant barfing that she just couldn't spare a drop.
Either way none of this has been very sexy. There are no drinks with little umbrellas by beach. No sun beating down on rows of comfortable lounge chairs. No one fanning me with a giant feather. Let this be a lesson to you: when you go on vacation, don't assume. Make sure they have the feather people in advance.
Hurling and cheeseburgers.
Things are not going according to plan.
The plan was to spend this trip making a child not gestating one. In truth, I'm not sure I would have been so ready to put the emphasis so much on procreation, but I guess that's neither here nor there since your mom's hurling grape leaves and humus all over our Greek bathroom. That's not entirely true. I mean, she's throwing up, just not grape leaves or humus.
We're at some hotel in a barren part of nowhere island. I think it was supposed to be nice, authentic, and private, but there's a huge difference between feeling secluded and marooned. Anyway, there's only one place to eat here, a little restaurant that this guy runs out of his house. He wakes up everyday and goes fishing in his little boat, then comes home and lovingly chops the heads off his catch and cooks them for the few guests who somehow get sent to this part of nowhere.
Your mom asked him to make her a cheeseburger. In her defense, you're working her insides over like a washing machine, so she was desperate for something familiar and comfortable rather than something scaly and headless. Sadly, he couldn't really understand what she was requesting. Then, the only other customer in the joint stepped in and politely suggested that since we'd come all the way to his country perhaps she should try eating something that didn't come from McDonald's (I had a Greek salad which I think just got me in under the wire). Then, in Greek, he explained cheeseburgers and a bunch of other stuff about Ugly Americans to the proprietor and your mom and I wanted in the silence of the damned while he prepared her one. I've never seen someone sit on the edge of tears for so long without actually losing one. They hung all around the edges of her eyes, but just when one looked like it was going to break loose, she'd somehow to gather it in and hold it tight. Either your mom's not really a crier or she was so dehydrated from the constant barfing that she just couldn't spare a drop.
Either way none of this has been very sexy. There are no drinks with little umbrellas by beach. No sun beating down on rows of comfortable lounge chairs. No one fanning me with a giant feather. Let this be a lesson to you: when you go on vacation, don't assume. Make sure they have the feather people in advance.
Hurling and cheeseburgers.
Things are not going according to plan.
No comments:
Post a Comment