It's Hard Work, But Somebody's Gotta Do It

I took tomorrow off work, hopped on the New York to Providence bus (four hours of undiluted joy, let me tell you) and am staying at my parents' for the weekend. My favorite aunt and uncle are celebrating their 50th anniversary on Saturday, and it was a must-attend event. By which I mean both I really wanted to be there, and my mother ordered me to. I thought that once I was in my 30s and living hundreds of miles away, my mother couldn't tell me what to do anymore. Shows what I know. In her defense, however, when I don't want to come home for a family party, I'll ask her about it, in hopes that she'll tell me I don't have to come, effectively giving me a guilt-free get out of jail card. I think this was her way of nipping that shit in the bud just in case I was looking for a pass.

I know that in theory 50th anniversaries are this one-of-a-kind, special happening. But since we've been celebrating one a year for three years now, starting with my parents, they've become pretty commonplace in my family. What? Not everyone stays together for half a century? Mostly, it’s just an excuse for a really fun party.

I also invited myself over to hang out with Sarah (or as I like to call her, my godbaby mama) for the weekend. I think my exact words were, “I’ll be that girl by your pool all day Friday and Saturday.” She, of course, obliged by stocking up on liquor. She conveniently keeps ice and a blender in the kitchen out back, for easy access. My plans for the next few days basically look like this:

Swim. Drink. Play with the kids. Repeat.

It’s hard work, but somebody’s gotta do it.