Motherfucking International
In one week Janie and I will be on a plane from Los Angeles to Melbourne, Australia! We’re going to spend 15.5 hours sitting next to one another and doing our best not to talk about our feelings because when we talk about our feelings we end up in a fight and the last thing we need is to be arrested for rolling around the aisles of the jet punching and kicking one another in a fit of divorce-rage.
We’ll spend two weeks in and around Melbourne including a weekend road trip along the Great Ocean Road that Monica told me is a terrible, terrible idea this time of year because IN AUSTRALIA IT IS NOT SUMMER. It’s winter and rainy and bullshitty.
WINTER.
I know, right? What IS UP with that? I have no idea.
We’ll finally meet Monica and Donna which will be super fun even though we’ve been fighting like crazy – which is a bit of an understatement but WHATEVER. I feel pretty certain the moment I walk out of customs I’m going to get the shit kicked out of me and I’ll spend the rest of the two weeks in the hospital while the three of them enjoy themselves and make jokes at my expense and eat pizza and candy. The whores.
Did you see when I pushed her down? DID YOU HEAR THE NOISES SHE WAS MAKING? What a bitchy little girl.
I can’t even begin to tell you how fucking weird it is to be making this trip after everything that’s gone down in the last several months. It’s just completely retarded crazy that Janie and I are in a space positive enough to be doing this together. I can’t quite wrap my mind around it. It’s been such a whirlwind of chaos here - trying to get the condo ready for listing (which happens on Monday – OH MY GOD SHIT FUCK!) and dealing with an intense wave of emotional shit from this divorce that the only plans made are hotel reservations and a car rental for the world’s most ill-advised road trip. Janie bought a guide book but I can’t even remember what is in it. I have no idea what exactly we’re going to do, which is pretty nuts considering I usually tend to have a strict Excel spreadsheet of plans made well in advance. You probably do not recall that when I started this blog Janie and I were on a road trip to California. We strayed from the spreadsheet near Pismo Beach and I COULD NOT HANDLE IT. I lost my mind and cried in the parking lot of a strip mall while on the phone with my sister as Janie and her friend Shaelah ate sushi and wondered why I was so retarded. Well, this is a new me! This is me in therapy! This is me on herbal anti-anxiety medications! This is the new me smoking cigarettes to cope with the crippling pain of losing my wife and best friend in the span of several months! THIS IS THE NEW ME WHO CAN DO ANYTHING BECAUSE IT CANNOT POSSIBLY BE WORSE THAN MY LIFE HAS BEEN SINCE MAY. I can plan or not. Sure thing. Do I want to go to the park? I don’t know and it’s okay because three months ago Janie told me I was a terrible person* and it can’t feel worse than that!
(* She didn’t exactly call me a terrible person but it felt the same)
I’ll blog several updates while we’re away so you’ll know how things are going in that strange land I know relatively nothing about except that there are obscenely large spiders all over the place, some dingo ate Meryl Streep’s baby and they have a shit ton of crazy delicious candies the likes of which I have never seen and I plan to eat them all. I’ll also blog about my thoughts and feelings about life and love and divorce and how to travel like a badass mofo. Maybe there will be photos: Photos of Janie ignoring me BECAUSE SHE CAN now that we’re divorced. Photos of Janie and I drunk enough to do karaoke to the tune of Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5 (we’ve agreed on the song ahead of time, yes.) Photos of me with a hangover, puking and peeing my pants uncontrollably (yes, hot ladies of Australia, I AM SINGLE.) Photos of Monica and Donna beating me into a coma. Photos of me in a coma crying why why why but only on the inside where no one can hear my silent wails of pain on account of the paralysis and traumatic brain injury caused by enraged Australians and Janie who just had to get one good kick in. Photos of Janie with her top on. Photos of Monica calling me a fucking asshole idiot cunt whore. Photos of me trying to drive on the wrong side of everything and dying in a fiery car crash. GOOD TIMES, EVERYONE. Good time ahead.
I promised Carrie I’d bring her a Bindi Irwin. Who else wants a present from Australia?
TOO BAD. We’re broke, son
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A Bindi, and don’t forget my wallaby. Or to answer my cries for help before SPD takes me in on a 51/50.
.-= E’s Mom´s last blog ..Epic Fail! =-.
Does this wallaby need to be alive? Because it’s easier to fold up and fit into my suitcase if you don’t have a preference.
Can you bring me back a dingo? A real one? The reason I ask is because I seem to have one as a pet. Everywhere we go people ask me “Is that a dingo?” The thing is, he just might be.
About a year ago, I was reading the pets section of craigslist and someone was selling a 2 week old puppy for $40. They said they were selling him b/c he refused to drink the cow’s milk they were serving him (wtf! He’s not a baby cow!) I panicked and decided he MUST be rescued.
So I called my girlfriend at work and dispatched her to a really bad neighborhood with $40. She returned with a 3.5 pound mutt in a cardboard box. He was so cute! We decided he was a chihuahua mix and named him Tank cuz we thought that was cute and ironic. But then he grew and grew and grew. He is now 30 pounds with unbelievably long legs and his name is really stupid. He has a very pronounced underbite and is bright red with Farrah Fawcett hair on his back legs.
So, anyway, if you could bring me back a real dingo that’d be great.
I’m gonna need to see a photo of this dog, Elaine! Sounds AWESOME.
I’ll do my best to find dingo. If it takes my baby, however, I’m gonna blame you.
Holy mother of god. But you know what? If there’s any place on earth where a situation like this will totally be normal, it’s Australia. I think you’re going to get all healthy and rugged while you’re there. And it’s going to be fun and happy and relaxing (that’s my curse on you). Send me a postcard that looks just like the one I sent you from Paris.
.-= XUP´s last blog ..How to be a Good Customer =-.
Don’t forget to wipe your clacker in the dunny.
My sister married an Aussie and lives in Melbourne…so I know that means to wipe your ass in the bathroom.
I just want you to bring me Nemo.
umm. picture of elaine’s dog, please and now!!!
Not to get too off-topic here, but um, I have a dingo as well. At least that’s what the pound told me us: “Dingo/Terrier Mix” was on her profile. People ask us all the time what kind of dog she is. We can’t figure it out so we stick with telling folks she’s a dingo. But you can’t have her, sorry.
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please don’t steal
Copyright 2007-2011
All of it. Even that thing I wrote that time.
Even this: poop. poop. poop.
That's mine. I wrote it.
When you steal, a kitten breaks its leg. True story.
Thank you.
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