I am done

Shit, it’s been a long week.

I recently completed a 48 hour school workathon, which is the only type of marathon you will ever find me participating in.

I can assure you, it was just as much of a bitch as the real thing.

Seriously, I think I’m applicable for the Guinness Book of World Records or something.

By the time I hit the last submit button, I was almost awash in tears of relief.

I am DONE DONE DONE with school for now.  And I am ready for a vacation.

That’s why The View Through the Window is going to Florida!

Our vacations are usually on the shorter side.  We take four day treks to a city within a few hours drive and get back home in just enough time to say mother eff, tomorrow’s Monday!

But this year we decided that a good vacation is a very important part of life.  Everyone needs to exit the traffic circle of work, school, home, repeat once in a while.

And what can be a better destination than the happiest place on earth?

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After that bitch school workathon, I needed to find a happy place.

I still have my concerns, though.  The drive from Chicago to Florida is around 18 hours long.  Add my kids to it and we might as well hire a donkey cart for our mode of transportation.

We’d probably get there just as fast.

Flying is completely out of the question.  I swore I would never board an airplane with my boys again after my last plane ride, one of the many highlights of which was my very concerned son, a first time flier, asking things like why there were so many cops at the airport, was something wrong with the plane, would it crash and would we all die?

Loud and clear enough for everyone on board to hear.  He apparently inherited my flying apprehensions.

This was me.

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Everyone knows you don’t say crash when you’re on a plane, especially if you’re a Muslim.  I couldn’t believe it, but most people just laughed when they heard him voice his concerns.

Me? I almost threw up all over my friendly fellow passenger from the stress, combined with plenty of air sickness.

I’d rather drive to and back from Florida ten times than go through that again.  Any humiliation we experience will be confined to the privacy of our van.

I tried to persuade my husband to postpone the trip until our kids were older, but he was adamant that they were at just the right age to experience the magic that is Disney.

And because he’s paying for everything, I felt I should agree.

And when I did, he was all

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So we are going.  Suitcases have been packed, Florida relatives have been notified, and neighbors have been asked to keep an eye on our place for us until we return.

Wish us luck!  I am sure one hour into the drive I will want to shoot myself, but I believe in living in the moment.  And in miracles.

Last week was also my birthday.  I am now 31 26 years old.

Here are some birthday dinner pictures.

My mom refused to eat the restaurant’s prized steaks because “they bleed when you slice into them”, so she ordered that enormous vegetable tagine instead.

Here comes the best part about birthdays.

It pays to be old.

Before I die

So my sisters had this idea.

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Because sharing the same gene pool just isn’t enough.  You need a tattoo to solidify the bonds of sisterhood.

My sisters are the more adventurous of the bunch and I’m slightly more cautious.

Okay, so I’m a worry wart.

They do stuff with abandon and I crawl after them, metaphorically of course, worrying about any and every repercussion.

I also was not very excited about the idea of any of my limbs being the canvas for permanent art work.

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But I must admit, my interest was piqued.  We started to discuss what kind of inking we would get.  It had to be something all three of us would like, so we thought why not just get the word ‘sister’ tattooed in some fancy looking arabesque calligraphy?

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Kuthi means bitch in Urdu and Hindi.  We passed on that one.

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Meaning there is no way in hell you are getting that on me.

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By this time, we had shot down quite a few ideas and Sister 2 was getting frustrated.

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To which Sister 1 was not very sympathetic.

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We managed to get past that little snafu and decided on some sort of sisterly symbol instead of the word itself.

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That made me sound like someone’s deranged stalker.

Then we hit another road block.

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That idea was then also scrapped.

I’ve decided that if I am to get a tattoo, it will be for and around my next birthday.  I’ve narrowed my choices down to two that I like.

Now to get my sisters to agree.  You’ve already seen how easy that is.

I’m not crazy about permanent inkage and I absolutely hate needles.  As a child, I once ran out of the room during a doctor appointment during which I was to get vaccinated.  I would’ve made it out of the building, too, if the nurse hadn’t dragged me back.

But the idea of just one, really cool looking, bad ass tattoo is tantalizing.  I’ve never been bad ass before.

According to my younger brother, with whom I have regular back and forth sessions of what I like to call insultathons, I have been a fat ass, a lazy ass, and a dumb ass at various points in my life.

It’s like a mini Comedy Central roast every time we meet up.

But I have never been bad ass.  And who doesn’t want to be bad ass?

I do.  I really do.  Especially since I have always been told I have a sweet little baby face and I remind them of Winnie the Pooh. 😐

I’d love to whip out my tattoo, and with a crazy look in my eyes, ask the commenter Would Winnie the Pooh DO THIS?  Would he?! 😈

I’m just kidding.  I’m not that nuts and I really don’t mind the comparison.

But I would like to cross get a tattoo off my things I want to do before I die list.

Smoke a cigar and try hookah were taken off said list last year, on my last birthday, which was an important, milestone birthday.  I wanted to try something crazy, something I had never done before.  I figured Why the hell not?  Everyone does it.  

Bad idea, boys and girls.  To all you impressionable young people out there, don’t even.   

Both the cigar and the hookah tasted like shit.  Like dirty ass crack shit.  I couldn’t even stop coughing long enough to inhale or enjoy the stuff.  The smell of tobacco smoke clung to my hair and my clothes, mingling with my perfume.

The end result of it all was that I got home at 3 AM, looking like a zombie and smelling like a cheap hooker.