Anyway, this kid and I got along really well when I was younger. We were always the ones hiding in the den at the family get-togethers, plotting our overturn of whoever was monitoring the dessert tray. Then on our annual summer vacations to Nag's Head, we were the two relatives that viewed such an occasion for bleaching our hair in the bathroom and blaring that awsome! new! band! Local H! The beach was so...bourgeois. (Or, you know, I thought I was fat and couldn't bear to put on a bathing suit.)
And actually, that year, the year we'd used some kind of purple concoction to turn our hair from brown to orange to some shade of yellow-ish-white-gonna-fall-out-if-you-brush-it, we all went jet-skiing in the Atlantic. I was probably about 16 or so, and he was maybe 14? Or maybe 17 and 15? Whatever. The point is that we loaded ourselves on the jet-ski sans parents and took off into the ocean. Because I was trustworthy or something?
Right. Clearly my parents are not so great with assessing maturity levels, and I'll be sure to prevent my boys from doing anything even remotely as fun, EVER. You know why? Because that day, I embraced my freedom like any insane teenager would--with reckless, bleached-headed abandon. I was going too fast maybe, or turned too sharp maybe, and we were both tossed into the water, giggling so hard and chanting AHHHHSSUUUMMM! so loud, that we choked half to death on the salt water. Which, naturally, made it even AHHHHSSUUUMMM-er.
I learned later that our respective parents could tell that we'd wiped out and were starting to frantically turn to the dude we'd rented the skis from (yeah, like HE'S gonna be helpful, MOM). Then, at the last moment, before the guy could say "UHHHH," someone shouted that they saw our little white heads bobbing in the water. They're fine!
Sure, we may have been bobbing there UNCONSCIOUS, but whatever.
I vaguely remember this part of the event. Bouying there in the ocean by a life-vest, and trying to stop laughing long enough to climb back up onto the damn machine. And THEN, once I got my (awesome, perfect) teenaged ass up there, having to pull my cousin back on as well. I suppose there were some other skiers around us at that time, so it's not like we were in danger of getting executed by pirates or something. Though, with our folks watching us from ashore, if we HAD been, they'd probably be all, DON'T WORRY! I SEE THEM! THEY'RE PLAYING WATER GUNS WITH NEW DARK-HAIRED FRIENDS!
And I realize this pirate-death joke is wholly insensitive, and--more importantly--about a month beyond being current, but I just didn't have any tsunami or earthquake-related stories to prolong my relevance.
And, now, I'm not really even sure why I told you that story, other than maybe to be that annoying girl at a party who always draws the conversation back to herself.
What's that? You were attacked by pirates?! I just had a DREAM about pirates?! What's that? You barely survived a tsunami caused by destructive forces of cruel, indiscriminate nature? I've always wanted to TRY THAT! WHAT'S THAT?! YOU HAVE TESTICULAR CANCER?! OHMYGOD, MEEE TOOOOO!
Because really, I signed on because I had a few housekeeping notes to share:
1. I've recently become a contributor at Buy Her, so look for my reviews over there. Want to send me free stuff to review? Email me! (Hey, it seems to work for OTHER people, right? I'm just hoping there's a market for immature, grammatically psychotic, adult-ish motherly types. I hear they're called MOMMYBLOGGERS.)
2. Have you guys been getting my replies to your comments? I've been emailing some of you on occasion (the cools ones, that is. JUST KIDDING! You're all cool. In varying degrees. SEE?! I DID IT AGAIN!), but I'm not sure if I'm replying to an unattended mailbox or something. More than likely the case here.
3. I forget the third thing because I was too busy telling that long dumb story. I'll get back to you.
(Also, I KNOW the title makes no sense, but it was the lovechild of a brilliant joke that my writing and talent is unable to capture, so couldn't bring myself to change it. As punishment. Let the whippings commence.)