Against my basic instinct and better judgment, this weekend we packed up and headed back to Planet Ozark for a few days with some of Nick’s college buddies and their wives. Of the seven couples there, I was the only one who did not attend the same university.
Much to my relief their confederate college experience was a thing of the past and nobody was interested in reliving the good ‘ole days.
Oh, except for that one time when we first walked into the house on Friday night and everyone was gathered catatonically around the TV watching a 4-hour DVD showcasing every detail of their senior trip to Mazatlan. Which we watched twice because some people arrived late and were not able to view it in its mind-numbing entirety.
And, my other hesitation – that I wouldn’t have any fun because everyone would be too drunk to have a conversation with – was a silly little fear that went unrealized as well.
Oh, except for that one time after, mercifully, the DVD was finished and the person I was having a conversation with suddenly whipped around and picked a fight with an invisible person in the chair next to him, didn’t like what he had to say, tried to punch the invisible person, missed, and knocked over the chair. Then moments later passed out mid-stride while walking across the living room onto the back of the chair I was sitting in, sending me flying across the room where I landed on all fours with the chair on my back in a pool of O’Doul’s.
He was dragged to his bedroom by another equally intoxicated man’s fish hook, but 20 minutes later staggered out like a wounded caribou that refused to die. Thinking it would be a good idea to hit the hot tub, he would have surely drowned had it not been for the cat like reflexes of yet another equally intoxicated man who forced his lips upon him and shouted repeatedly, “Hold still so I can help you!” in an effort to provide basic life saving skills.
He finally went down when yet ANOTHER equally intoxicated man sat on his chest and thumped his brain against the linoleum.
The next day we all piled into the boat and after tooling around for a while, decided to “cove out.” A term which is WAY under appreciated and that Nick and I have decided to incorporate into our everyday discourse:
“Hey, can you bring me some chicken?”
“Go screw yourself – I’m coving out.”
Thank god my friend E was also pregnant, alleviating my fears that I would be the only fat whale on the boat.
Oh, except for that one time when she whipped out her string bikini and revealed that pregnancy actually makes her even hotter than everyone on the trip, as demonstrated by the five passing boats which crashed into one another.
The water temperature was a balmy 65 degrees, and after about 20 minutes I pried Nick’s blue and rigid fingers off my raft, whispered “I’ll never let go” as I let go and pushed him to the bottom of the lake and made a break for the USS Carphathia that had finally come to our rescue.
I realized five hours on a speedboat on one of the busiest lakes in the United States may not have been the wisest idea as I laid in bed that night squeezing Nick’s hand through contractions screaming “I can’t have an Ozark baby! Anything but an Ozark baby!”
As our friend Matt pointed out the next morning, Ozark babies are born with the only four teeth they’ll ever be lucky enough to have in their lives, a mullet and a full mustache. And the boys are even uglier.
The silver lining of this weekend is that it officially marked the end of swimsuit season, and the last time I’ll need to involve a mirror and a forklift to shave. I can finally let my winter coat grow in.