Swimmin' With Count Dooku

I'm gonna tell y'all something, and it's going to surprise you.

There's shit I DON'T tell you.

Some of it's good. In fact, some of it's totally amazing and I wish I could tell you. Conversely, some of it totally fucking sucks and I wish I could tell you that too. I have so much to let out, and I can't. I just can't. Sorry. Nuthin' personal.

My sack'a rocks is realllllly heavy right now.

That said, I deperately need to vent. There's some shit I CAN tell you, and will.

Remember how great our vacation was? Me kissing the concrete at the Riverwalk? Fondling unpackaged undies at the General Store? Luckenbach? Pie climbing halfway to heaven? Apes splashing in the icy-cold waves while I get Pink Sock sunburn? Meeting JD Byars on the beach? Catching crabs from a bikini, all that?

R's parents don't know anything about any of it.
Not a syllable. They haven't asked. Here's why.

We got home at 10:30 pm Easter Sunday. R figured they'd rather he didn't call that late, so he called his parents at 8:30 the next morning to tell him all about our trip. But it wasn't good enough.

They were pissed we didn't call on Easter.

His dad screamed at him. SCREAMED. Accused him of deliberately trying to hurt them. Deliberately.

Now, y'all know good and goddamn well that if I were going to do something deliberately to hurt FIL, you'd have fuckin heard about it on the news. TRUST ME.

We knew we wouldn't be there on Easter, so we made a special trip out there the Friday before. Not good enough.

We were in three different airports over the course of nine hours on Easter. We were travelling. With children. We were exhausted. We were a little preoccupied.

But we're selfish. And inconsiderate. Thoughtless. Heartless.

Yup, that's us.

FIL fucking SCREAMED at my husband. His son. SCREAMED. For a good 20 minutes. At least. Then I all but calmly walked out of the room (screaming YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!!! inside my head) and called my mom sobbing at the injustice of it all.

I couldn't stand listening to R apologizing to him. Again and again. In different words. Yes, Dad, you're right, I'm a horrible, ungrateful son. I'm sorry... You're right, Dad. Yes, Dad. I'm sorry, I apologize....

OVER AND OVER.

R was so upset, I ached for him. I don't know how I didn't rip the phone out of R's hand and tell FIL to FRO.

FUCK.
RIGHT.
OFF.

If I didn't know with 100% certainty that whatever I said to FIL, he would take out on R in one way or another, like "Can't you control your wife??? I knew you should never have married her..", so help me, I'd tell him right to his fucking face exactly what an arrogant, self-righteous dick he is. What's he gonna do to me? Tell us we're not welcome in his house? Oooooooh... promise?

God, I hate that man. I hope I can outlive him just so I can show up drunk at his funeral in a red sequined dress.


So this morning, when Pie told me that Tito had thrown Pie's Count Dooku doll - oh, sorry, ACTION FIGURE - in the toilet, I thought to myself...

I know exactly how Count Dooku feels.

Hanging out, living the life of an Action Figure, minding his own bidniss, and suddenly, some hand out of the sky reaches down and plops him right in the fuckin shitter.

Dooku was a bad guy. I'm not. I don't deserve this.