The Daily Durvy

It all started this morning at 6:30 and ended hours later, 3 different lines battled. Now I’m posting this from my brand new iPhone.

It was totally worth it.

I think the first blog ever made must have been started by some crazy-ass woman who agreed to cross state lines with her boyfriend to meet up with his entire family, most of whom are from Arlington, Texas.

Or maybe that’s just me.

Back in May, Alex got a call from his mother. After hanging up, he turned to me with a truly pained look on his face. “I have to go to the middle of fucking nowhere with some bitch-ass beezies in July,” he said. (well no, actually, he said “I have to go to Colorado with my parents and grandparents in July” but I cleverly read between the lines.)

What happened next was quite a blur, but I do remember being in the parking lot of the Dollar Tree (we’re classy out here in Davis) and agreeing to spend 5 days in Durango, Colorado. I may or may not have been drunk at the time.

Going anywhere with family is stressful, but going with a family that isn’t yours yet but that you hope one day will be yours is like taking finals while on your period, simultaneously fighting with your mom, boyfriend and cat, all while a rabid bunny snacks on your toes. Needless to say, I’ve been drinking more. Except not here because they drink Franzia and I can’t get the image of “on your knees and slap it like you mean it” out of my head.

However, per usual, I overreacted and Alex’s family is just as wonderful as he is. And they all have the same sense of humor, most of which involves poop and vaginas. I knew I loved this man, but damn. This proved that we’re downright meant to be.

On Thursday night, after Alex’s cousins left with his aunts, his dad ad two brothers retreated to the den for a little man-bonding. Alex and I went to our bedroom to watch some Law and Order and such. Around 11, Alex went to the kitchen to get some water and peeked into the den. His dad and uncles were acting suspicious so he stopped in for a chat. After a little small talk, his Uncle J asked if he and his “lovely lady friend” would like to go on a hike the next day. Before Alex could respond, his dad cut in with “the only hiking he’ll be doing tomorrow is horizontal hiking.” And then before Alex could respond to that his Uncle J chimes in: “hell yeah. Alex, you should grow a beard. It’s a great flavor-saver.”

“During your son’s second session, among other requirements, he must jump into the water fully clothed, undress, except for a swim suit, in the water and inflate his pants to make a flotation device. Proper preparation in the session before hand is absolutely essential.”

Even if you disregard the highly awkward sentence structure, we are still looking at the world’s most awkward sentence. My little brother, who is, by the way 11, had to remove his pants in a pool and inflate them to make a flotation device. I can’t decide if I’m impressed, jealous, or sufficiently weirded out. I think it’s some grotesque mash up of all three.

And people think girl scouts are weird.

“You’ll start to think outside the box when you fill the box up.” -Alex Handy I get so wrapped up in what I think I “should” be doing, that very rarely to do I enjoy what I’m actually doing. I’m obsessed with avoiding cliches and platitudes, which really only serves to stop me from doing what I really want to do. I think my idea is boring or stupid or “already been done.” Well, it doesn’t really fucking matter if it’s already been done if I don’t have the nerve to do it for myself. This all brings me to a question: what constitutes as a “cliche?”

I think I stop blogging because I get out of a groove, then end up not wanting to go back because I’m embarrassed that it took me so long to get back. It’s a horrible cycle.

I’m still not 100% sure that I’m back in the game, so to speak. I’ve got an awful lot to say, but I think I’ll take it slow for now. A quick update now, another one tomorrow, and one the next day. Let’s see if I can get my trust back enough to post big, soul-searching post.

Or maybe just a recipe.

Slow, friends. Real slow.