Descarte Thinks Not

I was going to post the "Descarte in a restaurant" joke, but today this one suits my mood better:

Heisenberg is out for a drive when he's stopped by a traffic cop. The cop says, "Do you know how fast you were going?"

Heisenberg says, "No, but I know where I am."

Becoming my Mother #1

It's kinda early, the first day of "summer vacation" for my kids. I was awake and alert at 6:45AM. WTF is up with that????

Here's the scary part: I know what's up with that. And I now know how my mom felt, lo, those 30 odd years ago.

"Damn. Now there's going to be here ALL the time."

This morning I know that I can get a few things done before everyone wakes up and starts asking me for things, sitting on my lap, hanging on the arms of my office chair, following me to the bathroom when I pee, interrupting me when I'm on the phone, messing up stuff I just cleaned, refusing to change out of pyjamas until the crack of noon, rejecting what I cooked for supper...

And that's just my husband. The kids do all that and also tell me how mean I am, as well.

My husband doesn't think I'm mean. In fact, most often he doesn't think I'm nearly mean enough.

Maybe I should concentrate on being "mean" this summer.

That, and quitting my worst vice. No, not smoking, though I need to quit that also. I'm talking about compulsive reading of trashy romance books. It's interfering with more important things like talking to my family, and tending to my domestic duties.

It's time for an intervention. I'm sure my family will get on that, as soon as they wake up and change their pyjamas.

Wah-Fuckin-Hoo! Bluesfest!

This is a re-post from August, 2004, in honor of the fact that school doesn't start in our district until August 27. This means that it no longer interferes with the Bayfront Blues Festival in Duluth, Minnesota which I've been unable to attend these past two years.

I was also brought to mind of this post by a conversation I just had with The Boy (my brother). Pretty soon I'll post something about him. And it won't even be insulting. Promise.

So here it is, my delusion from 2004 when I realized I could afford yet another Minnesota trip. And I do mean "trip." Read on:

Mission Possible

The plan:

My co-conspirator will arrive at 4:15 AM on Friday, August 13 and bring me to the pre-arranged destination. From there I will endure a high-level security check which may or may not include body orifices. This will determine whether or not I enjoy it.

If they suspect me in any way, I will endure intense questioning while locked in an empty room, via a loudspeaker which was salvaged from a drive-in-movie theater in the 1970s. When I don't answer, they will blindfold and handcuff me, and threaten me with bodily harm, or at least have me listen to a really lame security guy old enough to be my son and not yet old enough to quit his acne medication try out really bad pick-up lines on me.

Seven minutes later, I will escape unscathed.

Moving quickly to the rendezvous point, I will attempt undercover observation. I must keep my wits about me. Any personnel in the area could be the enemy.

Could be one of them.

The people I betrayed over a decade ago and have been running from ever since.

My flight has not been easy. I had to exchange my resistance of one elemental extreme for the other. I have had to learn to stop my car behind the go line. I have even had to endure the shame of having to call Dubya my Governor and assume the identity of someone who does not politically and intellectually reject the concept with every fiber of my being.

I married a Republican. I had to take on a mundane occupation which enabled me to continue my subversive research of various multi-conglomerate businesses. With the assistance of out-of-state financiers, I purchased a house far beyond my means, and began driving a vehicle that had a MPG far below what my conscience could have tolerated in my former life. I even stopped recycling.

With the help of a programming genius, I managed to conceive not one but two offspring with recessive characteristics typical to those I flee from. This may be necessary in the future if I am ever to be assigned a covert position back among those who seek to bring me back.

Once again, I have been called. The orders came from above--far above--the tiny little empire of suburban utopia which I have managed to gain control over.

They came from the entity known only as AA, in the form of an airfare so ridiculously low, it tipped me off to inquire further. Sure enough, it contained an encoded message. Go back among them. Act as they do. Speak as they do. Sunburn as they do.

Along with dread, I also felt a certain thrill at once again being called upon to subvert the dominant paradigm. To gather what information I can, and to retreat unscathed from those who, if they caught me, would once again assimilate me.

The enemy.

Minnesotans.

I will report further, from the next rendezvous, which is to take place with one I am told is so genetically similar to myself, that I must be her clone. Though this thought disturbs me, I must accept it. I can only assume the superiority I have over her in terms of height, IQ, and body mass are due to improvements made at the secret facility hundreds of miles away which is disguised as a food storage facility for the government, in case of emergency.

The pattern is beginning to emerge.

The Briefing

There's a snag in the plan. Those who control the cloning facility where I was created have discovered my new mission. They aren't happy. Though they no longer control my training, and no longer finance it, they feel that prior association--nay, my own creation--entitles them to attempt to influence the powers I answer to.

That's not the only problem. The other operatives present quite a quandry.

There's the SkyDog--a brilliant athlete who used to infiltrate large gatherings behind the Iron Curtain--when there was one. Now that the Iron Curtain no longer exists, his skills have fallen from favor. That, and the fact that he failed a major mission in 1988 which precluded his ability to infiltrate a clandestine international gathering in Calgary that year. He never bounced back as an operative.

However, his smuggling skills are astounding. I can't even begin to describe the sheer tonnage of "goods" he brings into the country each year, and does this without falling on the wrong side of the authorities.

Except for the Coast Guard. He's got it in for the Coast Guard, and they for him. The grudge started years ago when he was communications operative for a shipment. Things got out of control and the Coast Guard implemented steps that led to the shipment having to dump its "ballast," eventually leaving it stranded.

That one made the papers.

What's the problem with SkyDog? His memory. He's lost it. He is to be my transportation, and yet I have no idea if he remembers. My only choice is to relay information through the entity that ordered this mission: AA. And AT&T. But mostly AA.

Then there's PeeWee. A specialist in aquatic infiltration--he's the best. Over water, under water, through the sewers. He's under such deep cover, he works as an employee in the city where I am to carry out my mission. He's worked there for years. That in itself indicates to me how long this mission has been planned, unbeknownst to me.

Recent events make me suspect sabotage, and he agrees. Yesterday, one of his power sources went off grid and he was forced to control the situation. He and his partner were left with half power, cut off from everyone, stuck in the middle of territory controlled by yet another adversary: loggers.

I have no idea what to do about the loggers. And I have more operative profiles to review. More preparations to make. More wardrobe choices to consider. More beer to consume.

The success of the mission is no longer within my power. Please advise.

NASCAR Snapshot

Texas race, last month. We parked on the back stretch side, because SaxyGal's foot is broken, and that's where she and her RandMan had tickets. That left me and the BeerHound walking half the circumference of the track.

We walked from the back stretch to the finish line. I pointed out our seats as we walked by, which were straight up from the entrance to pit row.

It was still early, and there were only a few fans in the stands. We were in sight of the finish line. I had chills. I couldn't think. I was just shivering. So I asked the BeerHound to hold my beer and did my happy dance.

(It's not a pretty sight. It just looks like I'm running in place really fast, but like a girl--'cause I am one--with my eyes scrunched up tight and a huge grin on my face. I'm a total dork.)

We took a couple of steps closer. There was a small door in the fence, with a couple of steps leading down to the track. The door was open and there were two NASCAR officials guarding it.

"I think we can get a picture of the finish line through the opening," I said to the BeerHound. I approached at what I thought was a respectable distance, intending to use the telephoto feature.

"Excuse me ma'am. I'll take that." It was one of the NASCAR officials looking really serious.

What? Like it's top secret or something? Did I cross some invisible line? Well, actually, when I did the happy dance, I did it INSIDE the yellow line next to the fence, and I figured I was being busted for that.

The guy looked at the camera. Then he walked down the stairs and through the opening. He took one picture of the finish line straight on, one from the middle looking up the track, and one looking down.

He handed the camera back to me with a knowing smile on his face. We thanked him effusively.

We walked about 20 paces back toward our seats. Then I did the happy dance again.

It was a good day.

BeerPup's Homebrew Manifesto

Here's another repost from 2004:

I'm a beer snob. You've seen us, turning our noses up at Budweiser, scoffing at Coors, shuddering at the thought of even being near a Natural Light.

Not that anyone asked, but I'm here to tell you what makes a beer snob what they are.

We are not the type who drink primarily for volume, though we do that too--often. Rather, we prefer the joy of a really good beer to tantalize the taste buds, satisfy the tummy, seduce the sinuses and sedate the cerebellum, all in one fell swoop.

Most "premium" beers don't do this. "Premium" is another word for corporate conglomerate product. Premium beers--Bud, Miller, Coors, et al--are beers for volume drinkers, and there's nothing wrong with that. In fact, I'll give all volume drinkers the benefit of the doubt and assume that they have other ways to satisfy their senses, like really good pizza, or sushi, or filet mignon, or oral sex. Now there's a great way to satisfy the taste buds. Yep, all the volume drinkers are down with goin' down.

I believe what Ben Franklin said: "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy." I think he meant the whole process of beer consumption, and not only the lovely inebriation we cull from it.

Beer--real beer, that is--contains barley malt, hops, yeast, and water. The primary ingredient is malt, which is sugar that has been extracted from barley. Most commercial breweries buy the malt in bulk, pre-extracted. This malt looks like molasses and varies in color according to how much the barley was roasted prior to extraction.

The novice homebrewer will also use entirely pre-processed malt. The intermediate brewer will use some extract, but will also add (aka adjunct) some cracked grains to their brew to give the beer a more distinctive flavor. Don't worry, we strain the husks back out again. No one likes chunky beer.

The advanced homebrewer will extract their own malt, not using any pre-processed products. These people are insane.

One thing that should never be used as the primary ingredient of beer is rice (meaning plain old white rice). Read a Budweiser label carefully. It's made with rice, not barley. This is a beer snob's abomination.

Let's review. To be beer, a product must contain barley malt, hops, yeast, and water. Is the word "rice" in that list? Nope. Therefore, whatever it is that Budweiser is, it is NOT beer. It's more like a horse voidance by-product.

On to the next vital ingredient: hops. Hops are flowers that are dried and added at three stages during the brew process, to add initial taste, aroma, and finish taste. The geographical differences between beers--American vs. European, etc.--is mostly due to the type of hops used.

Yeast is necessary to make the beer ferment. Once added to the brew, it first reproduces itself--a veritable yeast orgy--which releases a lot of CO2. Then it converts the available sugars--AKA malt--into alcohol. Then it dies and just becomes an empty hull; however, it's rich in vitamin B12 which is excellent in preventing hangovers.

The bubbles in beer are produced by adding a small amount of sugar just before bottling so that the CO2 produced can't be released until the seal is broken on the bottle.

Additional ingredients may or may not enhance the flavor and/or quality of the beer. For instance, one of the best beers I ever had was a homebrew, courtesy of my friend Armen (named after Armenia) which was a very rich beer made with wild rice as an adjunct. Only Minnesotans bother to brew and sell wild rice beer commercially, and only a serious homebrewer would bother to make their own. Not an easy task. However, the beer was wonderful. Thanks Armen, wherever you are.

FYI, wild rice has no relation to regular rice. It is the seed of a grass that grows naturally in rivers and lakes in northern climates (Minnesota and Canada and a few other places) and must be harvested by a boat and two sticks. The good stuff is harvested by the native Americans and sold for an arm and a leg. The bad stuff is grown commercially in a rice paddy and is sold for less than an arm and leg--maybe just a hand or a foot. It's worth it to pay the arm and leg.

Wild rice is an example of a good adjunct to beer, along with some fruits and other sugars, as in Sam Adams Cherry Wheat, Leinenkugel's Berry Weiss, and honey brews.

You can put just about anything in beer to flavor it. But really, the best beer is usually a fairly simple one. And if a beer snob is being honest with him or herself, the quality of the beer only matters for the first three or four. Once the senses are sufficiently numbed, we all become volume drinkers. We'll drink anything.

Even a Budweiser.

You want Dewey with that?

These protesters look like librarians to me. Don't know why, but we just recognize each other when we see each other.

I was at a librarian conference in Minneapolis back in 1999, when I was pregnant with Stick Girl. Every kiosk and shop owner and taxi driver could spot us a mile away. I know we're all of a kind, but I didn't know it was THAT bad.

The only thing we all have in common is, is the Voice. It's just necessary, like a newscaster, or something. We need to relay information concisely, and NOT have people ask additional questions, because we're busy, dammit, and there's a line. We could be giving you a line of bull, but we say it in such a voice that you are charmed, and even if you doubt us you dare not question us because we've said it so well, it's got to be true, right?

Imagine your mother's Phone Voice. It's that, times ten.

We all have it. I think it comes with the MLS (Master's in Library Science). Like some kind of supernatural power that's bestowed.

Personality-wise, librarians have many other things in common. We tend to wear practical shoes, have short hair, prefer tea over coffee (NOT me) and cats over dogs but love both, are slightly more liberal in the political area, and have a somewhat higher rate of homosexuality than is reported in the mainstream.

We also love random facts about our profession.

But we've all got the Voice. When I use mine, people believe me.

Which is nice.

Charley and Ewan, together again!

A couple of days ago, the announcement was made that Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman are now embarking on their motorcycle trip that is and will become, The Long Way Down.

It all started with The Long Way Round. These two actors, both successful but only one famous, and who are best friends, decided to take a trip from London to New York, The Long Way Round. And amazingly, they did, with no crass commercialism. They sold the video footage of it as a reality series, with the help of one extra rider/cameraman and a small team of support, to Bravo (US) and Sky1 (UK). They sold it as a book, which became a bestseller. They gave the profits to Unicef, and highlighted Unicef efforts as they did the trip.

Mostly, they were just two guys on a trip, and let us come along. It was way cool. Even my parents liked the video, foul language, brief nudity, and all. Rent it, y'all! Put it on your NetFlix list.

Now, they're doing it again, from Scotland to Cape Horn. Check out the quick video at http://www.longwaydown.com/.

Anyway, a couple of days ago I saw an announcement that they would be leaving in a couple of weeks. Which means they probably left two weeks ago. They had a few problems with advance notice of their trip last time (even in Kazakstaan) so I'm sure they're just bamboozling us. Whatever.

Here's what I wrote in 2004 about the first trip:

A couple of weeks belated, I will comment on the Bravo TV channel series, The Long Way Round. I mentioned it last spring, when my number two obsession, Ewan McGregor, was embarking on a motorcycle trip around the Northern hemisphere.

I'll be the first to admit I both under- and over-estimated the team on this venture.

Though I read about the trip as it evolved on their web site, it didn't quite strike me as difficult until I started watching the television series. I really should have known better. I've been on a motorcycle before (admittedly riding bitch) for days in a row in my previous life.

The extent of my personal experience was almost exclusively one- or two-day trips with frequent stops to be touristy or drink beer or some other noble American pastime. The hardest trip I ever did was to ride around Lake Superior (granted, the largest lake in the world) in four days, on the back of a Honda V65 Magna.

It was both wonderful and horrible. The most interesting it got was when we were going through Michigan's Upper Penninsula (check out a map, people) in the middle of several thunderstorm and tornado warnings.

We were on a schedule, so we pressed on. However, I started to understand the biker bitch, fuck y'all attitude when I took off my rain pants in a nearly deserted restaurant and the waitress gave me crap about it. Like I was supposed to sit there in dripping wet waterproof pants for 45 minutes while I enjoyed the house special.

Oh, nevermind. Quick conclusion: I don't know what it's like to ride on a motorcycle for that long, but I know that after four days on a bike, my ass was numb for weeks, and I should have known better than to assume.

You never know. But now ya know.

If you love Junebug, set him free...

I'm going to do some speculation here about Theresa Earnhardt. I think she was always out for herself, even when she first married Dale Sr. I'm not saying she didn't love the guy; I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'. And I think that around the time that Sr. died, there was a good chance that Thersa would not be Mrs. Earnhardt forever, or even for long. She was, after all, the third wife, and he was, after all, a volatile man. I think he was a little nuts, particularly since he had a bit of an invincibility complex.

You've only got to look at the footage from the last few seconds of his life to know that the man didn't think he could die; what he was doing was just that dangerous. (In addition to the rumor I've heard that he habitually would undo his safety harness in the last few laps of a race.)

He didn't think he was going to die, so he hadn't bothered to consider legal matters if that should happen.

Looking at interviews of Theresa, one thing that strikes me most about her is that she has almost no body language. No emotions at all.

One thing I love about racing and all the personalities that surround it, is that people will usually SAY what they're supposed to, but their body language often says something different. Theresa's doesn't say anything.

That is most often interpreted as bitchy. And maybe she is.

But she most certainly made, as Julia Roberts once said in a movie, a "Big mistake. Big. HUGE!"

NASCAR: The Unfocused Tirade

Many of you might wonder why now, in my late 30s, I have become a NASCAR fan.

(The rest of you wonder why I write NASCAR in all caps, but assume I just do it because BeerPup Thinks It's Really Important, and BeerPup does weird things like that all the time, so you just pretend you understand.

It's an acronym. A real acronym, as opposed to an internet acronym. Real, like SCUBA (Self-contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus) and SNAFU (Situation Normal, All Fucked Up).

NASCAR: National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing.)

But back to the original topic: Why NASCAR, and why now?

After all, I've watched a lot of other sports, both on TV and in person, professional and college level. I've never seen a pro hockey game, although I figure since I've been to my fair share of WCHA games, I've seen those guys before they were, you know, rich. Or had chest hair. But they were still damn good players.

Yeah, Tony Hrkac, I'm talking about YOU. And a few of you others.

But I was never a fan...as in, followed it beyond the latest game, or through the play-offs, or whatever.

Why NASCAR, why now?

I've never NOT been a NASCAR fan. I used to watch with my brother when he watched, way back when. So I've always known the big names. Then he started going to some races, as did my sister. And like everyone else in the family, they wouldn't shut up about it. Then came Texas Motor Speedway.

So for a moment, let's blame it on Texas. Six years ago (longer, actually) my siblings decided to descend on my home and go to a race at TMS. I was up for it. The Jesus of Cheese was up for one race, and he chose to go to the Busch race. He took some spectacular pictures. A couple of other best friends came along for the ride. My in-laws live ridiculously close to TMS, so we did a bit of camping out at their place.

It was a blast, start to finish.

What I remember most about that weekend, though, is that I was about 8 days pregnant with my son, Simian Boy. And with Simian Boy, along with Stick Girl who was not yet 18 months at the time, I got a little sidetracked.

Hey, I had things to do! Diapers to change. Labor to go through. Finances and a house to manage. I got shingles. I went insane. I was busy, okay?!!

Without fail, though, my sis the BeerHound would ask me every weekend, "Did you watch the race?"

And Stick Girl seemed to have this thing for Tony Stewart. Okay, not for him I didn't think, but for his car. Even when she was just over 2 years old, she loved Home Depot, and whenever I watched the race or when she got some little toy at McDonald's, she'd get all excited about seeing the "Store Car." She'd follow the Store Car around the track. Store Car this, Store Car that.

At the time it bugged the crap outta me, because I didn't like Tony. I thought he was too hot headed and unsafe, no matter how well he drove. And maybe he was.

One time at Home Depot, the kids asked for the mints that came in the little race car tin. I said to Stick Girl, "Yeah, that's the Home Depot car. You know who drives that car? Tony Stewart!"

She said, "Yeah, mom. The STEWART car." She rolled her eyes.

Damn, I'm a fool. She knew all along who was driving the car.

After that, I started doing some serious watching. Before then, it had always been casual viewing, to the point that once early on in our marriage, I asked the Jesus of Cheese to pause the channel because The World Of Outlaws was on, and I think he was really wondering who the hell I was that night, because I wasn't the demure librarian he'd married.

I'm glad he didn't divorce me. Otherwise I wouldn't own half of those wonderful pictures of the Bush race from March 2001, and you know I'm going to sell them for tons of money some day.

But why NASCAR?

1. The season. It starts in the spring when everything else is ending, and ends just before the insane Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Year's comedy extravaganza.

2. Great commercials, all year long.

3. A definitive reason to like Home Depot better than Lowe's, other than "The Lowe's sales guys ignore me because I don't have a penis."

4. All the family/business intrigue. You want a soap opera? Forget daytime TV; tune into Dale Earnhardt International. Not kidding. Look up the news on these folks. Go do it. I'll wait.

5. The hint of scandal. NASCAR is, essentially, a monopoly. And a law unto itself. It's the only national sport that doesn't publish its rule book, mostly because they change it at will.

6. Tailgating lasts all week.

7. They're patriotic, embrace female fans, and they pray. I don't care that it's a Christian prayer because it could be a prayer to Odin or Ninkasi for all I care; if people are going to be going almost 200 miles an hour for three hours, somebody'd better pray to SOMEONE.

8. NASCAR fans are NASCAR fans first, and their driver second. In the stands, you never know if the guy next to you will be on your team or be rooting for your guy's worst rival...and you get along anyway. Not saying it's a lovefest...just saying it's rather civil, but usually much more.

9. For me, the shoe fits. It's the club that wants me. I can drive; they drive. They just do it much better than me. Football definitely doesn't want me, hockey doesn't (unless you count floor hockey, at which I kick ass), baseball pretends it wants me, and basketball is so far out of my realm.... Let's put it this way. I'm 5'2" and didn't make a basket until I was 16 years old. No lie. Mostly because no one actually showed me how, and on that note, thank you Mr. Charles Roux--the band teacher--for teaching me how, and fuck off, Mr. Gary Schuler--mr. hot shit basketball coach--for never giving a shit about me. Fuck you very much. (Yes, I have issues, but only when I think about it.)

Wow. That was way too much emotional baggage. You're gonna need paper AND plastic for that.

However, there's only one real reason for my fandom:

10. Rubber and rumble. You just gotta be there. It can't be explained.

If I had a hatch, I'd batten it

We survived the storm just fine, thanks.

It was just a big thunderstorm, with tornado watches and warnings. Pretty normal for this time of year in North Texas.

The basic anatomy of it was 3 inches of rain in an hour, horizontal winds up to 90mph, thunder, lightning, electric brown-outs...a normal May Wednesday in Texas.

Lately the Jesus of Cheese has been appreciating the fact that I bought a radio. A normal, plug-in radio. Being the technogeek he is, we're totally connected--until the satellite and internet go out. Then he panics until he sees the radio, and then he realizes it wasn't such a stupid purchase.

We have a storm drill. Since we don't have basements or cellars down here, the safest place we have is my clothes closet. Into that goes my purse, cell phone, and everyone's shoes. The Jesus of Cheese is responsible for his own wallet and phone.

(In the past, I was in charge of our son and the dog, and the JoC was in charge of our daughter and the cat. Being the cat and dog are both dead and the children are now very mobile and opinionated, the only rule is that we're all in view of each other.)

Yet as the storm was raging, I couldn't help multitasking. I put some cleaner in my kitchen garbage cans and on that cover from the bottom front of my refrigerator, and put them outside. Hey, it's an effort-free, no-cost power wash!

The Jesus of Cheese didn't like me opening the door during the storm. If I coulda, I woulda sat out there in the middle of it.

I like storms. They're cool.

I wish I could teach my family to not be afraid of these storms. What's the danger? Damage to the house and other property, fire from lightning, damage from tornadoes.

Of those things, the only thing I can actually control is where I am when it happens, and even that doesn't matter that much. I can't stop the wind from taking off my shingles, knocking down my fence, leveling my landscaping. I can't control the lightning, as it strikes where it will. I've been in a vehicle that was struck; it really sucked, but it's not like we could have been somewhere else when it happened. And I'd like to think that if lightning struck my house and set it on fire, I'd be smart enough to leave.

As for the tornadoes, they go where they want, too. I'd hope that there would be a siren, and if that failed, I'd hope that we'd hear the rumored sound of a freight train before it struck. If those things happened, we'd be in my closet with all of my out of style business suits and discarded craft supplies, pretending for the kids it was all a game.

But even that, I wouldn't have much control over.

So I'd rather sit back and watch the storm, and will it to try and take me on.

And every storm that fails, I've gotten a bonus day, bonus year, bonus life.

I really love storms.

Nice to know

I'm not the most irresponsible mom in the carpool line.

Now, I'm definitely irresponsible. I've been known to smoke in my car while in line. I've been known to have a beer before going to pick up my daughter. I don't feel particularly guilty about that.

However, on a regular basis (only while waiting in the carpool line), I let my son unbuckle his seat belt and crawl all over inside the car, and even occasionally open the sun roof and stick his head out--but only the UrbanTruckster SUV. He's not allowed to do that in the PTLoser, because he knows how to lower the back seat, crawl into the trunk, and open the trunk lid from the inside. Which he's done while the car was moving. No, not safe. Not safe at all.

Which is why I break one law by making him sit in the front seat with his seatbelt on when we're moving. Because I'd rather him get hit by the airbag, than fall out of the back of the car and get run over. It seems to me to be the lesser of two evils.

But today I was reassured that I'm NOT the most irresponsible mom in the car line. Because today, the car in front of me contained the standard issue mom, plus a girl about my son's age. The girl was in the front seat, unbelted. Fine, we do that all the time.

BUT! The girl kept climbing out the passenger window. Sitting on the window ledge with only one arm and one leg inside the car. Now, granted, the car was in park, but we were still in the middle of the street! In the driving lane! Where anyone could have rear-ended me, sending my car into hers, and the girl's head would be squashed like produce at a Gallager show.

What. The. Fuck.

A few years from now, when there's a news report of a teenage girl who somehow managed to fall out of her boyfriend's car and die, I'll know who to blame. The mother.

Because it IS always our fault.

I love my family

This e-mail just arrived from my cousin, Crazy Lisa:

I forgot to tell you, we are having a bring your favorite organ meat buffet at the reunion! We will be feasting on tongue, heart, head cheese, fried gizzards, liver and onions, blood sausage and for an added bonus chitlins and sweet breads!

Feel free to bring your favorite organ meat!

She's not entirely kidding. All but the chitlins and sweetbreads have been served at previous reunions. And she left out any comments about the inevitable poached walleye and venison.

My family has a long tradition of poaching.