The Karazin Family Vacation: Like Band Camp Without the Instruments.

Well, sheesh. It’s June already, and I only have 25 more days until the semi-annual Karazin Family Vacation-slash-Reunion. Every few years Mamma and Poppa Karazin foot the bill for the whole family to meet up and try to kill bond with each other. Last time we went on such a mega-vacation, it was to Club Med in Ixtapa, Mexico. Acres and acres of beautiful palm trees, white sand beaches and Mexican sunsets, and I didn’t enjoy one damn bit of it. That’s because at nine weeks pregnant with my son, I was making out pretty heavily with the nearest toilet. Not only did I have the run-of-the-mill morning, noon, and night sickness–that I could have dealt with. But I committed the First Deadly Sin of the Mexican gods: I ate the lettuce. Raw. I stayed away from the water, because, duh! everyone knows you don’t drink the water in Mexico. And here I was, trying to be all healthy and eat salad instead of French fries, and didn’t stop one second to think that the lettuce is watered–WITH MEXICAN WATER. I think they call it Montezuma’s Revenge, and whoever that guy is, he’s getting back at of all of those American gringos (and in my case, negroes) who stole California, Texas and New Mexico. So, while everybody partied on bottomless margaritas, I had the most hideous excreta coming out both ends, simultaneously.

So this time I was excited when I learned that another trip was coming because my husband had a vasectomy. My sister-in-law and I were lobbying for a cruise to some beautiful Third World Country that was not Mexico, because with all that’s going on down there, no one is too keen on getting in the middle of a drug war whilst shopping for cheap pottery. Plus, how Montezuma dogged me out and got me all twisted up–it’s still much too raw. Like the lettuce.

Alas, the cruise was not to be. My husband’s brother and sister, all their kids, all our kids, and his parents are set to meet at a–what can I call it–oh yes! A sleep-away camp, complete with camp leaders forcing families to swim together, sing by the camp fire, make up silly skits all without serving one drop of booze. But Matriarch and Patriarch Karazin have that covered and will be smuggling crates of wine in all varietals, and plenty of Vodka (or is it Vermouth?) for my mother-in-law’s favorite Manhattans. Then it’s good times for sure.

In addition to packing 3,000 pounds of luggage for a family of six, there are a few essentials that must be taken care of before we leave. Namely, me and my oldest daughter (made by me and Baby Daddy) will have to get our hair braided. My husband, sweet man that he is, learned long ago that me and my daughter’s hair had to have special treatment, even if it meant we had to forgo one (or two) weeks of our grocery budget to do it. I was not going to Camp-Whatever-the-Heck-it’s-Called in upstate New York, thick with humidity, with both me and my oldest looking like Sideshow Bob from the Simpsons.

What my hair looks like after swimming

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