If you’ll remember, I mentioned we’re trying to get our rudder back on our “boat” here at chez Califmom in our post-chemo world. Thanks to our rock star family, things worked out Saturday for my man and me to sneak away for a night at the coast. We finally got to spend our night in Half Moon Bay together, the night we should have been able to be together for my 40th birthday back in July.
We rolled into town around dinner time. It was foggy, and cool, and absolute perfection. The weather inland has been allergy-inducing for both of us. This was just what the doctor ordered.
After checking into the sweet-ass digs The Artist Formerly Known As Chemo Boy booked for us (henceforth known as the Charmed Life Suite), we hauled ass (hey, when your man’s hungry, you haul ass) over to the Chowder House where we ate mountains of seafood (oysters the size of babies, not gonna lie) and drank cocktails (Don Julio Añejo and Ketel One Citroen for all you connoisseurs) in the fresh sea air. (Okay, we also had to briefly endure the Saturday night musical stylings of a craptastic “classic rock” cover band whose songs even the Shazam app on my iPhone was unable to identify. But love, sourdough, and good vodka get my man through most anything. We endured, baby. We endured.)
As we lubed ourselves up with good food, good booze, and good company, we were able to talk about the “stuff” that needed talkin’ about. After over twenty years together, a relationship still requires effort folks. Still needs both parties to pitch in. Still needs reminders that AT&T wireless is not a reliable partner in this process. Sometimes the best thing we can do for each other is to sit together. Be together. Remember each other. Rediscover each other.
Also, sex. Sex is good.
WARNING LABEL: Due to recent events in the comments on this blog, I feel it is my obligation to disclose that this blog USES HUMOR. Therefore, certain liberties are taken with the content, such as POETIC LICENSE, EMBELLISHMENT, EXAGGERATION, and SARCASM. (Still working on how to get slapstick to translate into the written word. Shakespeare really has me trumped there.) If, for some reason, you were born without a sense of humor, or have lost yours along the way, you should click here. Jenny is a qualified professional, trained in addressing this condition. I am merely a layperson. Mostly laying. Or lying. Sometimes both.
Oh, I also swear like a mother fuckin’ truck driver. If you don’t like it, don’t read my shit. Or write your own goddamn blog. Someone might even read it. And if you’re an asshole to me in my comments, I’ll deal with it. If you attack my readers, I’ll block you. Learn to play nice with others or find another playground. It’s a big ol’ internet. Get your own damn hobby. This one’s mine. I don’t care if you are related to my husband. I’ve smelled your shit. It stinks like everybody else’s.