The words are reverberating loudly: “Two weeks inpatient.”

Out of sensitivity for my extended family I’m not comfortable writing much about this, but it’s something that’s weighing on all of us, immediate and extended family alike.  What I think I can say is it’s a young girl with problems a girl this young shouldn’t be having.  And I don’t know if there’s anything we can do about it from this distance.  And even if we were geographically closer, our hands might still be tied.

I’ve heard it said that you should not judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes. My hearing has never been that good, because I often enjoy a good judgment every now and then.

I used to hate it when I’d visit one of my favorite blogs and find the author trying to leverage my loyalty by asking me to go somewhere else and read some other thing that author wrote. Like they were trying to squeeze me for every bit of traffic data they could, in the hopes they could parlay that into fame and fortune. Dirty sneaks.

Please allow me to present to you my new walking shoes. They’re only good for about a mile, but they helped me to understand the other side of the extrasite click request. As it turns out, that author of one of my favorite blogs probably put a lot of effort into that post somewhere else. So much so that the author probably didn’t have the time or energy to scratch together something interesting on their own blog. So instead of putting out garbage (though, hello? Don’t confuse that author with me - I put out garbage all the time), they point you to a link where there’s a post they wrote that you just might like.

So without further ado, please stop over to The Cheek of God, where I made a guest post for Brian who is currently without computer. I posted about how Some Call Me The Macgyver of Love. It’s probably garbage, but it’s the finest garbage a tall kitchen bag can hope to hold. It’s the kind of quality refuse you’ve come to expect from Family Clay.

By the way, the haircut? (gotta click over to see it)  I guess I’d wanted my hair to be just perfect before my class pictures, so the night before, I took matters into my own hands.

I’m having one of those 72 hours.

We took on a crazy 3-day trip. It started by driving to a boat, then riding on that boat for a couple hours.

Medicated, of course. Thankfully these were available like condiments on the boat. In fact, they were in the basket next to the salt and pepper. Fresh ground vomit inhibitor on your microwaved hamburger, sir?

Unfortunately, not everyone knew about the salt. Or the drugs. Which meant that my time spent here:

was spent sniffing the odor of fish, vomit and bad aim. But I could only smell it when I wasn’t concentrating on not throwing my body against the walls of the head as my land legs tried to navigate the crashing of the boat against the waves.

So I spent some time on the upper deck of the boat. Lots of people were holding half-full, small gray bags at the back of the boat. I did my best tweety bird impression, telling passengers how the boat “wocked, and it wocked” but nobody at the back of the boat thought it was funny. Especially the ones holding the bags. I was drugged, so I didn’t really care.

We landed and drove to our destination, with my brain still hazy from the drugs, where the next day we prepared for a relative’s milestone birthday, including going to a party store. We tried on everything.

Elton John joined us, just for fun. Then we had the party.

Bet you didn’t know he was that old.

We also took lots of pictures of family.

And tried not to bring up the secrets some family members try to keep hidden. Then I spent several hours arguing politics with a relative fond of conspiracy theories and arboreal embraces.

The next day we were back on the boat.

Did you know one of the warnings on the back of the package is “can cause drooling during sleep?” My shirt needed a wash anyway. As we got home the mental haze was just clearing when I realized all the work that didn’t get done over the last 72 hours. And a daughter who didn’t want to live in our house anymore; she wanted to live with Aunt I Have A Polly Pocket Collection. Then I had to address some spam issues on a different website that I run. Some of the people on that site were pretty sure I should be working way harder on that issue while they sit in front of their computers, eating chips in their underwear, enjoying that site for free.
So I think I’m going to go have a couple dozen drinks, otherwise I might just swallow whole the head of the first person who posts anything but a glowing comment here.

DJ: Babwa da shizl

Jack: Are you working the Snoop-speak, DJ?

Diane: Fo’ shizzle.

Jack: Fo’ shizzle mah bizzle.

Agalia: Fo’ shizzle mah bizzle? What’s fo’ shizzle mah bizzle?

Agalia: Fo’ shizzle mah bizzle.  Fo’ shizzle mah bizzle. Fo’ shizzle mah bizzle.

This is the hospital where I was born, almost 40 years ago.

There weren’t that many houses around it when I was born.

Right on the coast.

Right in the path of Ike.

Today I live 2,000 miles away. But I still think about you, Galveston. Especially now.