Road Trip

The other day I was standing in my kitchen, chopping onions and “SNAP!”

It was my neck. It felt as if a giant ape had pulled one my veins taught like a rubber band and then quickly let go. I screamed and immediately thought I was having a Brett Michaels moment. No, not a sexy open mouth kiss with a skanky stripper in a tube top with giant inflatable boobs, and sparkly nail polish, all while on a velvet lined tour bus. The other thing…

BRAIN HEMORRHAGE.

I know. My neck isn’t in my brain but they’re pretty damn close to one another. I thought a giant clot was about to make its way up and BAM. Dead.

I was still alive so I called my husband to tell him what had happened and he asked if I felt weird. “Well, yes. Something just snapped in my neck, and my underwear, I think they’re a bit too tight.” He assured me I would be fine, I mean, really, he’s clearly qualified to make a diagnosis. He’s a payroll analyst.

I was freaked out and did what every human being does after staring death in the eye (does death have eyes?)

I planned a road trip.

On Tuesday I’ll speed 800 miles into the desert. Yes, I drive fast and I’ve never been to the desert so I’ve stocked up on rattlesnake repellent and axe murderer detector kits. Turns out they’re one in the same: screwdriver, a mirror, one gallon of vodka and some scotch tape.

Strapped inside the car with me will be my two heavily sedated children, one mother (mine) a niece, and Willem Dafoe (don’t ask). The back of the car will be loaded down with various pieces of luggage, beer, a ping pong table, shrubbery (don’t ask) and most importantly, the shiteously written Belinda Carlisle autobiography “Lips Unsealed” which I bought last week at JFK because I was three hours early for my flight. It was either that or a “How to repair your Maytag dishwasher model #72BFyou manual.” Thanks Supershuttle.

Did I mention where we’re going?

Palm Springs.

We’re going to Palm Springs in AUGUST. I thought it sounded like fun when my mom mentioned she knew of this hip, cool hotel because, well, we’re just an incredibly hip, cool family (aside from the fact that we all wear tan orthopedic shoes, are hard of hearing and fart uncontrollably) This is the hotel.

Now that all 12 of you who read this blog know when I’ll be gone and where I’ll be staying, don’t try to rob my house. My scruffy husband, who is quite often mistaken for the infamous crazy naked peeing, gun wielding Yeti man of San Francisco will be home with our attack dog Mango, ready for any intruders that may darken our door. In reality they’ll probably be curled up on the beanbag chair watching The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants and sharing a bottle of Pino Grigio.

Here is the weather forecast for Palm Springs next week:

Wednesday : Pleasantly mild with a high of 112°

Thursday: Cooling trend. 111°

Friday: Grab your blankets, it’s going to be cold one! 109°

But it’s a dry heat, right?

I’m hoping we’ll have loads of fun, nobody ends up in the burn unit and that pesky brain hemorrhage stays far, far away from me.

Wish me luck.