Per usual the Raskin Family Vacation has devolved into inter-generational blood-sports. All ages between 7 and 80 participate in cut-throat Bingo, vicious rounds of Dictionary, and competitive menu planning.
Courtesy of my bossy, insomniac brother, Jamie, we’ve also had mandatory Evening Activities like Fright Night, Comedy Club, Meet the Author :) and games of Sardines complete with high-pitched squeals emitted by full-grown men.
I had a run-in with my husband’s new toy, a teeny video-capturing drone, (a purchase I was against on civil liberties principles, anyway) that dropped from the sky and hit me in the back of the head. Hard. Then the stupid propellered thing stuttered away, and to the unbridled amusement of twenty members of my sick family — came back and hit me again.
And the man still had the audacity to create the following:
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