This past weekend I went to go see my parents: hooray! I even took a vacation day on Friday so I could spend more time with them. “Pack a bathing suit!” my mom said, “we’re going to Russian River!” dad proclaimed. After hours of travel via BART and then the Golden Gate Ferry, I arrived on the other side of the bay at the ass-crack of dawn (8am) and my sister pulls up to take me to see the dear family. “Do you have grungier clothes than that?” I was wearing a sun dress. I had packed a bathing suit, sun dresses, cute sandals and enough sun block to protect even Conan O’Brien…but no grungy clothes.
“Why do I need grungier clothes?”
“Oh, because we are going to be pressure washing mom and dad’s house and painting it this weekend. Didn’t you know that?”
I’m sorry, but lying to a Jewish girl about where they are really going and what is really going to happen to them when they get there has a long and dark history.
From now on the exclamation “pack a bathing suit” will be a sarcastic remark reserved for unpleasant scenarios. Getting a root canal? PACK A BATHING SUIT!