Dance Dance Evolution

Much apologies for my absence, but it was certainly for a good cause, so I hope you don’t mind.

I also hope you won’t mind if I indulge in a little story-telling this week, all of which will revolve around one special person, my cousin, Beck, who this time next week will step away from her rank as a single person and step instead onto the path of married life.

Beck has been in my life as long as I can ever remember, and has also been so amazingly supportive of this blog, that it feels only right to honor her. How? Why with embarrassing tales from our youth, of course!

Now, one of the things that has always bound Beck and I together was our love and taste in music. From as far back as I can recall, we often found ourselves bonding over shared musicians or songs that we loved, no matter who was the first to introduce it to the other. The Sundays, Ben Folds Five, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, Dave Matthews Band, Save Ferris, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young; all were bands that Beck introduced to me and eventually their songs became the soundtrack to my childhood. I will always cherish them, and her, for that.

What we also bonded on was our dancing. Let me rephrase…Beck could (and still can) dance. She’s always been very graceful, even when she walks.

Now, on the other hand, I must quote another one of our favorites, Phil Collins, and profess, “I Can’t Dance”. But that didn’t stop us from trying to coordinate our own moves!

The first attempt at choreography occurred one night when we were about 10, while watching HBO; a channel we were probably not allowed to watch at an hour I’m sure we weren’t supposed to be up for. The feature presentation music began and Beck mentioned how much she LOVED that music.

Feeling silly and goofy, we both got up and tried to dance along with it. I ended up just trying to match what she did- each taking two big steps, followed by two quick steps, crossing our paths, and then doing a jazz-hand/punch combo in a make-believe box. Hard to describe, and probably harder to imagine, but if you ever heard the HBO Feature Presentation music, you’d get the idea. Still can’t see it? Someday you may get the opportunity. I’m talking to you, Paula Abdul- straight up.

Our next attempt was a tad more organized. Instead of getting creative, we merely copied. The Electric Slide? The Macarena? Well, we did learn those, but we focused a bit more energy on a far more relevant and wide-spread hit- the “Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion” Dance.

I’m sure you are WELL acquainted with that masterpiece of a film, but Beck and I always enjoyed it, especially the scene when the two are in a club and seamlessly break into a cool dance to the song “Stayin’ Alive”. Of course, we had to learn it, and did- after surprisingly many attempts. From then on, whenever we were in each other’s company and that song came on, we’d immediately get into place and meet odd glances with our spastic foot kicks.

Sure those were good times. But my favorite memory that involves this trifecta: Becky, Me, and the dance, has to be when we got into our heads that we wanted to be like Riverdance. Remember when that was popular for about 3 months? Didn’t stop us from begging our parents to take us to Irish dancing classes.

Beck managed to get to practice more often, but I only went once- and it was because of that one time, I vowed never again.

Beck’s mom, my aunt, drove us all the way out together one night for our lesson. We walked in, and instead of a one-on-one kind of thing, it was a class with about 7 or 8 other girls. Beck, as I said, had gone a few times, so she knew some of them.

Meanwhile I, in my over-sized pink sweatpants and white socks, tried to act inconspicuous- a difficult thing, considering the ceiling-high mirrors. If standing in tight dance clogs, wearing basically your pajamas, in a small studio with other far more graceful and agile females doesn’t completely scrub away that pesky dignity, putting up giant mirrors so you can stare at your own ass and back sweat should do the trick.

And if that doesn’t work- try to actually dance! You’ll be on your way to a psychiatrist couch with more problems than an 8th grader’s math test.

Still, despite my own neuroses, we shared something in these dance experiences. We started to become the people we would be someday. Me, the overly sensitive and painfully critical smart-ass, and Beck- the dignified and adventurous woman she is today.

Mother Hood and Her Merry Sisters

To put it simply, my mother and her sisters are Robin Hood and the merry (wo)men. Not totally in that "steal from the rich“, but more because they have ways of getting around obstacles set in place that are inherently unjust.

I had always noticed their capers- getting a refund on an expired receipt, or getting the discounted price on an item no longer on sale, etc.

But I have never been more amazed at their undermining than I was on a recent visit to the beach.

I should also mention that my mother and her sisters are glorified sun-goddesses and their temple is the beach. As long as I can remember, summer time excursions to the shore (which wasn’t really too much of an excursion since none of them live further than a few miles away from a coastline) were so commonplace we all practically lived on the beach. And being residents of these beach towns, my mother and aunts were able to enjoy these beaches with little frustration.

Until, that is, “King Join” (as in “join-our-membership-in-order-to-use-what-is-rightfully-yours’) came along.

More and more rules were established by local governments to restrict beach access, causing frustration from the tax-payers who resided there. My mother and her sisters were no exception. But rather than petition and plead to those who would not bother listening, Mother Hood and her band of Merry Sisters took action into their own hands. Their weapons? A loophole and a fishing pole.

They discovered that, by carrying a fishing pole with them when they went to the beach, they were allowed access free of charge. Somehow, somewhere, there was a loophole in the regulations that allowed free access to those who came to fish. And since no one bothered to ask why a group of middle-aged women wearing Ann Taylor sarongs were carrying designer beach bags and NOT tackle boxes instead, they were waved on and a new precedent was set.

From then on as word spread of this tactic, the townspeople, with fishing poles in hand, were once again able to reclaim what belonged to them, thanks to the Mother Hood and her band of Merry Sisters.

How I Know I'm Getting Old...

In no particular order- and the fact that I really can't remember if I already did something like this should be number 1 (and if you have some of your own, please do so share)....

1.) I carry tissues with me at all times- either stuffed in pockets or hidden in my purse.

2.) I now listen to more talk radio than I do music.

3.) I worry about things like my gallbladder and colon.

4.) I make the conscious decision to pee before I bother walking all the way downstairs so I don't have to come up again.

5.) I'm starting to hear the words "I don't give an 'f***'" come out of my mouth more than "I hope I don't..."

6.) I'm really starting to not give an 'F***'

7.) I'm starting to know more married people than single.

8.) My college friends are having kids.

9.) Many old friends moved away and I have to re-learn how to make new friends.

10.) I've begun denying any grey hairs on my head (which there are none, thank you)

11.) I refer to anyone a year younger than me or more as "children".

12.) I'm ok with the idea of marriage.

13.) I'm starting to get ok with the idea of kids. Starting to.

14.) I signed up for a 401k plan.

15.) I now understand the simple pleasure of giving and receiving greeting cards.

16.) Things are starting to creak and crack.

17.) All the "youthful" imagery shown on television and in movies are referencing 22 year olds and younger.

18.) 22 seems so young.

19.) My distaste in current music and movies has continuously grown considerably.

20.) The term "old school" for me refers to things from the mid 80s to early 90s.

21.) I can't remember the last time I rode a bike.

22.) I looked at a recent photo of me and realized that's what the "grown-up" me looks like.

23.) I've been able to drink legally longer than I used to sneak it.

24.) I can cook.

25.) I'd like to buy a house.

26.) I am starting to look at makeup that fights and conceals wrinkles.

and lastly...

27.) I make lists.

What makes me still feel young? Simple:

Joe, the music I love, the friends and family I cherish, the passions I keep, writing, and still being able to get drunk off 2 beers.

The Freakin Firkin

Since my choices for television have been re-opened to me, I have found myself falling back into some of my old favorites, specifically, "American Pickers" and "Pawn Stars." I love these shows not just for their "reality" moments, but because they endear me to a small interest I have always held- antiques.

I haven't had many personal experiences when it comes to purchasing antiques, but my parents have. I seem to recall years back while on a family vacation to Maine when I actually saw my first real antique, courtesy of my mother.

My family and several of my mother's sisters and their families all went up to Maine for a week or two in the summer. One day my mom came back to our shared beach house after enjoying a nice afternoon with my aunts, and she carried something big, round, and wooden in her hands.

"What is that?", we all asked.

My mother, with a pleased smile on her face, replied, "It's a firkin!"

Of course, none of us had any idea what a firkin was, but my mom seemed very happy about it. She infomed us that she and her sisters had gone to an estate sale or auction, and had bought this odd heavy wooden bucket-thing. I still didn't understand what exactly it was and since it didn't really have anything to do with my oh-so important life, I shrugged it off and walked away.

My curiosity was still piqued, however, so when we actually got back to our real house I found myself looking it over again. I was able to make out some kind of painted floral and leaf pattern on the front and thought it did look pretty, especially set against the dark brown wood. Ok, so it looked nice, but what the hell was it for?

My mother tried to explain that in the old days it was basically just a utility bucket used in kitchens or around the house- which is exactly what it ended up doing for us. It helped us around the house by first being the deposit spot for firewood. However, as we were very loudly vocally reminded by my mom that it was an ANTIQUE now, and therefore retired from such hard labor, it spent its remaining days sitting on our stair steps collecting old magazines and toys. It was like setting up a assisted-living village in Sesame Place- not a very dignified end to such a magnificent piece.

We always remembered the "freakin firkin", as my father lovingly coined it whenever my mom hassled him about taking care of it. It might have seemed silly at the time, but my mom introduced me to the idea of obtaining a piece of history; of being able to place your hands on something that was once in the hands of someone from long ago. I always appreciated that, and still do.

As to the current whereabouts of the firkin today...I have no freakin idea.

Walk Down Memory Games

Thanks to my little brother I am helplessly and hopelessly hooked on an online sensation known as "The Angry Video Game Nerd."

He first showed it to Joe and me on a recent visit.

"Hey, you guys ever hear of 'Angry Nintendo Nerd?'" he asked us excitedly. We shook our heads no and I couldn't help but roll my eyes a bit. I mean, how entertaining could THAT be? Some dorky guy explaining the ins and outs of games I'd never even heard of. The answer is- extremely entertaining. So much so in fact, that as soon as we got home Joe and I began uploading episode after episode, from Who Framed Roger Rabbit to Castlevania.

It is a surprisingly entertaining show, despite the fact that I'm pretty clueless to video games. But not completely, as I found myself walking alongside him with his reviews of games that I could recall, paying attention to the memories they invoked from my past, as opposed to just the game play. I think that's partly what I enjoy the most about the show- the fact that with each review or tour of a game I find myself back as a little kid in my pj's, watching my sister or cousin or whoever playing the game and excitedly holding my breath as they battled the final boss.

So I though I'd take a turn and take you back to the past- my past- with video games.

1.) Super Mario Bros.- One of the earliest games I recall, but still one of the best by many standards other than my own. I can clearly recall watching my sister playing this game as if it was a reality TV show. These weren't just characters. She was IN the game, just in the shape of a bunch of red and brown pixels. I remember being enthralled watching her finally get to the last boss- Bowser, and getting the best feeling when he was defeated and Princess Peach (or Toadstool, I never knew if there was a difference) was finally safe.

2.) Legend of Zelda- What can I say about this game? Though our Nintendo library was small it always stood out- primarily because it was gold. But it deserved to be; a game with such infectious music and epic plot should be given a carat rating. And I never even cared about playing- it was always about just sitting back and cheering on whoever was, as if Zelda's life really was held in the balance. Plus the idea of the Triforce, the plethora of enemies and hidden passageways; it was hard to not be excited. And it still is, all these years later.

3.) Super Mario Brothers 2 and 3- I recall a sunny morning and early afternoon, in the summer I believe. My sister and my cousin Evan were furiously trying to beat the latest Mario game while my other sister and I watched like excited spectators. It wasn't just the two of them playing- it was a battle that we all felt. We shouted and screamed at the screen whenever an enemy popped out of nowhere and exclaimed with delight when they made it past another level. I can't recall for sure which one it was but I am pretty sure that they DID beat that game that day.

4.) Ms. Pac Man- One of the few games I actually would play and only because it was in the mini arcade inside the dentists office. Well, that and Centipede. Though I still get the taste of fluoride in my mouth whenever I think about it, Ms. Pacman used to vex the hell out of me because I never seemed to get very far. Still, it remains in a place in my heart forever.

5.) Tetris- Another game that sits in sparse category of "Games I Played" was Tetris. I think it was because you couldn't really "die" because you were basically just a bunch of blocks. But again, another great game with a great soundtrack that could penetrate your brain as badly as the game would. At times if I was bored I would begin to really see things in terms of space and blocks, imagining what shapes I'd put where. At church, when I should've been listening to a sermon or something, I'd be putting the tiles on the floor together, finding the L shape to fit in perfectly over the square block. I once got to level 13 on the Gameboy version- a feat I daresay I could never and will never duplicate.

Hope you enjoyed this tour down memory lane. I'll try to post tomorrow, but it being St. Patty's I doubt I'll have the time (or sobriety) to do so, so have a good one everybody!

My Christmas Story: A Very Beanie Christmas

Holy hell, I'm finally back in Jersey. I realize I was absent the past TWO days but what can I say, the holidays insist upon it. Still it was glad to see an old friend once more (at Drag Queen Bingo...yep) so it was worth it.

But I do hate leaving things unfinished and so I give you my final Christmas story...

A few years after the Super Van City incident or the Magic Diary debacle I felt I had outgrown alot of my childish wants. I wasn't looking for just toys anymore, I was looking into investing....into toys. My neighbor friend and I found ourselves beginning to collect and research those cute beanie creatures known as Beanie Babies. We had been given them by our families but when we realized that people were actually collecting them we set to work to see what our current ones were worth. Soon we were joining the masses in every greeting card store, obsessively hunting and buying every $5 animal we could, carefully following the guide of which were collectible and which were not. One day we walked into Intrinsic, a hippie head shop (in the mall, of all places), and in their very back EVEN they had a display full of floppy animals, some even encased for protection of their value: a few of the rabbits and a Garcia, the tied-dyed 60s bear- shocker.

It was around this time that my sister Hill was beginning to shop around for colleges to attend, and so on one trip the whole family decided to go. On one stop in Savannah we were walking around and found a collectibles store. We meandered in, looking at all the toys from bygone years and happened upon a display of Beanie Babies. I suddenly piped in like an expert and began to explain to my fellow family members about which ones were worth anything. I must've impressed them enough because they actually not only withstood my blathering but even incited questions for me to answer.

Eventually the months passed and so did the fever for Beanie Baby mania. I still was happy to read about which were collectible but for the most part I could feel my interest beginning to wain, just, as it happens, in time for Christmas. Months prior I had still been all set for nothing but Beanie Babies, so my mother didn't really even have to bother asking what I wanted for Christmas.

The big day came and after we all had opened several gifts my mother handed me another one. It was a Beanie baby. I plastered my fail-safe smile, the same one I had donned all those previous years, and was told that the rest of my new "collection" was everywhere in the room, so I'd have to go and find them. To my mother it was a cute scavenger-hunt idea, but for me, it was the final humiliation to walk around and fain excitement as I plucked each animal from behind pillows or behind sofas. Finally, my family noticed my lack of enthusiasm and asked the loaded question- "what's wrong?"

I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe I had done it AGAIN! Why do these obsessions I have disappear the instant I have it in my hands. I felt terrible but thankfully I didn't have to say anything. My family members have been through this ringer a few time now, and so my sisters chimed in, "she doesn't LIKE them anymore!" My mother, also a veteran to this war, simply smiled, rolled her eyes, and said, "Oh..oh well."

I felt like a total ass, but I was grateful my family could make light of it and rather than crucify me angrily every year henceforth about my fickle Christmases, merely crucify me with jokes and quips. I hope I have grown out of this phase...after 20-something years. But you never know. "Oh, did I say I WANTED an iPad?....ummmmm"

Anyway, hope you enjoyed my tour of the Gifts of Christmas Passed, and hope you have a great holiday, full of embarrassing tales and horror stories about gifts, family, and travel. I'll be back to relate mine sometime next week. Till then, Merry F-ing Christmas everyone!

My Christmas Story: My Magic Diary

Time passed and I became, what I thought was, more sophisticated in my gift-choosing. I felt I had grown beyond just regular toys. Toys were for little kids. I wanted something hip. I wanted something technological. I wanted....a diary.

Not just any diary- the most modern diary that was ever created (at least for the mid 90s). It's been so long since I really tried to remember it, but I assume it did record your thoughts by typing on the keyboard. However, the coolest feature of the thing was claimed to be an address book for storing your friends and family's info AND you could customize a digital image of that person to go with it. It was the most mind-bending technology I had ever encountered...and I wanted one BAD.

SO again, I badger my poor beleaguered parents to get me this thing for Christmas. I tell them it won't be like Super Van City. This is a useful device, not some silly toy. I could use it for school as well as an organizational tool. I'm not sure how I hooked them, but eventually Christmas came and I found myself once again being nudged in the direction of a small wrapped package.

I ripped open the paper, and it had returned...that worrisome pit in my stomach that told me I had just wasted yet ANOTHER Christmas on a gift that wasn't going to last longer than our Christmas tree. I once again plastered the happy and grateful smile on my face as my dad fumbled for batteries. I probably got the first hint that this was a bad gift for me when it required a screwdriver just to open the back and put in the batteries.

Dad handed it back to me and I began flipping through the instructions as to all the things it could do. As I said, I forget alot of these, but I was still mesmerized at the thought of being able to create a doppelganger for for friends and family. So I went to that chapter and began playing with it. After what felt like an eternity I had only completed one person's cartoon-like face. I was getting frustrated that the image didn't look EXACTLY like the person. I decided instead to focus on the basic commands, but as I flipped through the manual I found myself spending more time scratching my head and reading that anything else. I began to find that in the case I need to jot something down or had a thought I never had My Magic Diary nearby or close at hand. Soon, I began to forget all about it entirely, until my parents began to ask what had become of it.

"I'm, um, not sure. Must be around here somewhere," I said sheepishly. Then while rustling through one or the junk drawers my mom finds it and asks me why it's there.

"Don't you like this thing anymore?" she asks. I didn't really have the heart to tell her it's novelty wore off faster than Fruit Stripe Gum's flavor. I tried to play it off, but before long my parents began the running joke of calling any gift they say impractical or useless as the "My Magic Diary."

"Oh you want that? Aw this isn't going to be another 'My Magic Diary' is it?" they'd ask, stifling aggravation first but then blossomed in a good laugh at my expense. I never really did live that one down. From then on, whenever I was looking for a pen in the junk drawer or cleaning out my closets, there it would be. I'd pick it up and see if I could get any of that excitement back that I had for it originally. Instead I would either find myself staring down at a face that was supposed to resemble a friend or else getting frustrated that I need a screwdriver.

Still, as history forever repeats itself, so do I and my Christmas gift obsessions. Read all about The Beanie Baby Incident tomorrow.

My Christmas Story: A Tale of Super Van City

You get the reference right? Ralphie and the BB gun? I had a Christmas like that- gently hinting to my parents about a specific toy I was gunning for, and then when subtly failed having to convince them that it WAS a great toy and perfectly fine for me to have.

In fact, I have had a few Christmases like that. The main differences however in my situations and Ralphie's was that in the end mine didn't exactly end in a happy ending. Instead, they have become the cornerstone to every Christmas gathering with my family, a retelling as traditional as "The Night Before Christmas". So pull up some eggnog and sip a chair...this is the Tale of Super Van City.

Back when Beck and I were kids she used to show me her massive Matchbox car collection. Sound odd for a girl to be interested in cars? Not really. See, Beck's dad was in the car business so she basically grew up around cars and learning much about them. For me, I tended to be more interested in finding a car my Barbie could fit in, but since none of these little cars would do I simply liked to listen to her describe the cars and play with the real opening and closing doors. The more we played with them the less I was focused on Barbie. We especially liked the kind that you could wind up and watch go. My fascination in these "boys toys" emerged enough that year that I was hooked by a commercial for a specific toy: Super Van City.

It wasn't just that it was an entire city that unfolded, complete with road signs and small businesses. It wasn't just that the cars were teeny. It wasn't just that the whole thing folded up into a neat van-shaped carrying case. It was because it was ALL of that. Plus, as we all know, I am pretty much a sucker for any good commercial. I HAD to have this toy, as far as I was concerned. I saw myself impressing Beck by bringing it over, and we could reenact dramatic scenes that required cars...and a city. I was all about it, so when my parents asked what I'd like for Christmas, I said with full certainty- "Super Van City!"

And so the weeks went by with brunches with Santa and school Christmas parties, all the while I kept hoping that this toy that I had build my Christmas around would deliver. At long last, Christmas morning came and when it was my turn to open something my parents excitedly guided my hand to one particular box. I giddily tore open the wrapping and paper, and there it was.....hmmmm.

I put on a bright smile to please my parents, but for some reason the magic felt gone. My dad offered to help me put it together and as we were doing so I felt it- the first pangs of Christmas regret. We opened it up and it did look cool for a little while. But soon I found my interest waining, even giving it over to my little brother to play with instead of me. My parents caught me shuffling the gift away and noted my change in attitude.

"What's wrong? Aren't you happy with what Santa got you?" they asked.

I could feel the lump of tears beginning to well, sad that I had foolishly wasted a Christmas gift on something I didn't really even want anymore, and scared to tell my parents. Eventually, I finally broke out, "I don't think I want it anymore..."

The look on my poor parents face must have been the closest thing to murder I'd ever see. After I had been so adamant about getting it, convincing them that I would love it and play with it all the time, and then to be done with it after 10 mins must have been a harsh blow.

As a little time passed and I watched how much fun my brother had with it I did begin to play with it a bit. But the initial magic of the thing was gone the second I pulled the wrapping paper off. Unfortunately for my parents and me (then and now) I never did quite learn my lesson. Hence, a few years later...with My Magic Diary...

Nineties Nostalgia

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---from Georgia

About a week or so ago I came downstairs and noticed Joe was watching "The State" on Netflix, and laughing profusely. I had heard of this show before but I never paid much attention to it until Joe began telling me how fantastic it was. So I sat down next to him on our sofa and watched. Much to my surprise and delight, it was as funny as he described it. And it got me thinking of another show I could allow myself to watch: Beavis and Butthead.

I can hear you intellectuals groan and see you roll your eyes. No, it may not be the smartest show that ever existed, but it will always sort of hold a special place in my heart. Allow me to explain...

Whenever my parents used to have their friends over for parties, my sister and I would sneak upstairs to watch Mtv, the "forbidden" channel. If it wasn't the overtly sexual music videos that turned my mother off enough to ban us from watching Mtv, the nightime cartoons, known as "Mtv Oddities", offered the final blow. But being kids and curious we figured that on those Saturday nights we stood the best chance of tuning in.

I can recall turning off the lights and sitting on the floor of our shared room, getting comfortable while waiting to be sure our parents were distracted enough, and then flipping on in time to chatch Beavis and Butthead. We then proceeded to laugh our asses off while trying to not be too loud so as to tip of our unwary parents. It was one of the earliest times I can recall laughing so hard I couldn't breathe and my sides actually hurt. It was also one of the first shows my sister and I bonded over.

So as I scanned Netflix's selections I was pleased to see that they carried three separate collections of Beavis and Butthead cartoons. I settled in on my couch and proceeded to once agin, laugh my ass off. Maybe not as totally hard as I used to, but I still got up trying to catch my breath.

It's not just what these shows were about, it was of what they reminded us, not to get all Jerry Springer: Final Thought on you. They're like little gems of nostalgia that bring up memories of who we were back then, who we watched them with, and why we tuned in. Or if not, at least they can still make us laugh hard. Uhh uhhh, hard.

A Vine, "How Do You Do?"

Yes, I am still here. The oceans did not dry up. The world did not end. My parents met Joe's parents and I've lived to talk about it.

I wish I had some juicy tidbits to share, like someone talking with food in their teeth all evening, or someone spilling a beer on someone else, but truthfully the weekend went by without a real hitch. Well, maybe a small one...

My parents arrived first (something that never happens) and I was able to visit with them for a while until Joe's parents got there. We all had some drinks, went out to dinner, came back for more drinks, and then pretty much everyone went to their respective bedrooms or hotel rooms for a comatose rest.

The next day, Joe's school fair was cut short so he came home much earlier than we expected, allowing us to get a good head start on the wine tour I had planned.

Now, let me explain quite bluntly, that I'm a crappy planner. Sometimes I swear it's not always my fault; I truly believe fate likes to keep it's eye out for me and throw whatever barrels it can my way to make me look like an ass, as I've mentioned before. Still, like Sisyphus hauling that huge boulder up the hill, I try and try to plan ahead, no matter how futile.

I asked my friend Leslie which wineries I ought to hit, since there were a few in her neighborhood. Armed with her suggestions and a logical map I explained the route we would take to my hapless parents and Joe's parents, and we set out on our way.

We were fortunate for a beautiful clear day and as we passed rolling hill after hill, I figured the first winery would be around there somewhere. We followed the GPS and soon found ourselves in a small country town. Ok, I thought, it must be right behind here. However, instead of pulling us out back into the countryside, we were told to make a turn right into what looked like an alleyway. Oh, hell...

My last shred of hope was dashed as I spotted the winery's hanging sign just when the GPS announced we had arrived at our destination. We looked around for the organized rows of grapes, a rustic facility for crushing them; hell, even a tractor. Instead we were met with people's back porches and trash cans.

"Where do they make the wine? In some guy's garage?" my dad pondered. Joe's parents, God love them, just smiled and went with it. I could only hope the wine itself would outweigh the atmosphere of Meth Lab Vineyards. We walked in and behind the counter was a man who looked like a roadie for ZZTop, complete with long gray beard. He barely acknowledged us, only to hand out the glasses and a few sheets of paper with the descriptions of the wines. We asked how much it would be for us to taste.

"Nothin," he muttered out. We soon realized we would get what we paid for. While we assumed at first we could choose which wines we'd like to try, he brought out six and began pouring.

"If you taste anything you don't like you can drop it in that bucket right there," he said. I don't think I hav ever made use of those buckets in any wine tasting I've done, but there, I more than made up for it. While it could just be that my pallet is for sweeter wines, something tells me these were pretty lousy, even fore dry wines. I eventually contributed to the bucket more than I finished my sample. Still, I was there for the experience and wanted to buy a bottle from each place so I chose their one dessert wine. As I was handing him my card I noticed the size of the bottle was only slightly larger than an infant's. I tried to hold back my shock and disappointment, paying full price for basically a single serving. And for a flavor I hadn't even tried yet.

Thankfully, the other two places were more charming and had better quality wine. But if I ever get a hankering for the picturesque scene of alley cats meowing on broken down microwaves and see the stunning blue of recycling bins while sipping my battery acid Cabernet, I'll know just the place.

The Fockers Meet the Griswolds

I know there are probably other things I could be writing about tonight, but really the only thing I can think about is the momentous event that is about to occur. I've scrubbed the oven, mopped all the floors, sanitized the bathroom, and washed the linens. That's right, the folks are coming for a visit. Whose folks? Why, both as a matter of fact!

My parents and Joe's parents are finally coming together to meet this weekend, and while I love seeing both sets of parents, it will be the first time they will be meeting each other.

I've asked around to other unmarried couples to find out if their parents had met each other. Surprisingly, it wasn't that uncommon; some of their parents even hang out with each other. So while I kept trying to keep myself calm, and tell myself it wasn't a big deal, my friend Ashley would read my mind and express the emotions I was trying to suppress.

"Your parents are meeting Joe's parents?? Oooh, thats such a big deal! Are you nervous?"

I don't know why I feel like it's such a big deal. My parents met my first boyfriend's parents back when I was in high school. Of course, I guess the difference is that our area is small, and they were already friends with my aunt and uncle so it wasn't a huge leap.

Plus, being a high school romance, it was a point of fact that our relationship wasn't going to last forever, so the meeting must not have carried as much weight. This, on the other hand, after 7 years, is just a touch more serious.

I know I shouldn't be paranoid or worried. Joe's parents are awesome and so are mine. I guess it's the same feeling you get when you introduce a childhood friend to your new friends. You can't pull any punches because your longtime friend can call you on it. My parents have known me my whole life, witnessing my best and brattiest moments. Joe's parents, however, I think have only seen my best behavior (well, except for those moments of drunkenness, but I think they forgive me for that, haha).

I know it will go well. I know everyone will get along and we'll have a wonderful bonding weekend. But what does happen? Find out on Monday with the Parents Weekend Wrap-Up.

It's Dempsey Time!

November already?? Yeah, I know I missed out on posting yesterday but I was so damn tired I couldn't handle it. Not just because of my crazy busy weekend, but because the allergy medication I had to take was knocking me out (more on that tomorrow).

As I mentioned before on Thursday, Friday Joe and I made the three hour trek to New Jersey for my cousin Graham's wedding. Despite my obsessive worrying about getting there before the reception was over, I was pleased that we not only made it in time, but a few minutes early. What's that you say? Me? EARLY? I know I was pretty shocked too. If ever there was a person who could be diagnosed as being on Dempsey Time, it's me. In fact, it's especially embarrassing when your friends know not to expect you for at LEAST an extra hour or so. I try to fight it, but I truly believe there is some force out there watching over all of us and whenever I try my damnedest to get somewhere on time or even early it points me out.

"Oh, the curly-haired girl with the glasses...That's her right? Ok, keep anything that might resemble a possible outfit away from her reach, throw her car keys behind the couch for some reason, and just to make ABSOLUTELY sure, toss on some late night unnecessary construction on the main highway. Is she pulling her hair out and cursing up a storm? Excellent. Good work team."

So my brother and Joe and I all walked up to the banquet hall searching for the entrance. Since it was cold we simply decided to just use the door in front of us. As I jostled the wedding gifts we opened the door to the buffet line. So much for a graceful entrance. My newly added cousin-bride was standing right there but thankfully she was very gracious and unfazed. Whew.

I had also been a little nervous about this wedding because I had shopped for a dress myself. This may sound completely natural and not note-worthy at all. However, as my sister Linds pointed out, "For the Dempsey aunts, weddings and holidays are like the Superbowl." They all take the time leading up to the event game-planning which of the numerous outfits they have bought for the occasion they will wear that night. It is pretty normal for phone calls to be exchanged as quickly and desperately as a hostage situation. We, the younger generation, have picked up where our aunts left off; discussing where to buy a nice dress, what to avoid, what the trends are, who used what coupon, etc.

Being in Maryland, and fashion inept, has its disadvantages in this sense. I was forced to meander over to Macy's by myself and sift through dress after dress, having no idea what exactly would look cheap or gaudy, too old or too young. I had tried to get a head start on it (see, I AM trying) by going to Forever 21 to find something, and I realized...it's name is misleading. There's no such thing as being 21 forever. In most cases with these clothes, you can barely be 18 and still pull it off. I tried on three different "dresses". One was too short to be a dress, one was too long to be just a shirt, while the last just made me look like Dina Lohan.

Luckily, I managed to get the approval of my coach, I mean mother, which is quite the compliment. All in all, it was great to bond with my cousins (many of whom actually read this damn thing, so HI COUSINS!) and my aunts and uncles (whom apparently refer to this thing as Conway Twittey. I'll take any support I can get, even the mislabeled kind.)

I am also going to take my family's advice and shorten this thing from now on (and not just ramble--oh, oh wait, too late). So, goodnite folks.

The Maine Event

Holy crap, I completely missed my centennial! Can't believe it's been 100 posts. What the hell have I been talking about all this time? Hopefully something entertaining.

Anyway, I'm on a tight time-restriction. Joe's on his way home from the studio and he insisted that since I used the excuse that I was too tired to watch x-Files last night, I couldn't use it again. I've therefore been ordered to write in the blog right now so we can watch an episode when he gets home.

So what to talk about? Well, I hate to keep beating a dead horse with this whole weddings and marriage thing, but Beck had a good suggestion for tonight's post. I was at work, hardly working, when I decided to check my email. Low and behold I had almost 13 new messages, all from the same 5 cousins. Apparently Beck had sent out a mass message to all of us asking what we were going to wear to our cousin Graham's wedding (which is taking place next weekend).

You ever see My Big Fat Greek Wedding? I know they are Greek, but when it comes to family matters, Greek and Irish are quite similar, especially when it comes to big events. Among the girls in the family, the question always comes around to, "what are you going to wear?" However, since I pretty much cashed in my femininity check a looong time ago, I was satisfied with just reading what everyone else was saying. (Seriously, I looked at pics of me at my cousin Kristen and Evan's wedding. Why I had opted for the pink, puffy, short dress, (at 25) I'll never know. Even my younger cousins looked more elegant than me, while I looked as awkward as a hippo in a tutu.)

In any event, Beck mentioned I should describe some of our family's past weddings as tonight's blog, but since time is a factor I shall relay my memories of the first wedding I really recall, a.k.a. Why I Don't Drink Midori Sours Anymore. Enjoy.

The first wedding I really recall was my cousin Rachel's. Hers was pretty momentous, as she was the first of all the cousins to make that big adult step, so we were thrilled. What was even more exciting was that she and her now husband Chris decided to do a destination wedding in Maine, a favorite family vacation spot for all of us. Linds and I joined Hill and her boyfriend in his car for the drive up, where we were given a full lesson on early Police songs. We all booked rooms in the same hotel in Portland, so we felt as if the hotel was all ours. Unfortunately there was some maintenance being done in some areas, so besides the occasional wall stain and odd buckets here and there, it was very charming.

Months earlier all the Dempsey sisters were a buzz with phone calls and long discussions on the beach consisting of who was wearing what to the wedding. So when the day finally arrived we were all running around each other's rooms, borrowing these earrings or that perfume (again, like My Big Fat Greek Wedding). This was also very momentous because this would be the first social gathering with my family in which I'd casually (and carefully) have a drink or two. But since we didn't want to piss the caterers off, we snuck a few small beverages in our hotel room after the ceremony. I was still a rookie in the drinking game, so I told my sister's boyfriend that I wanted something "easy". He brought out some Sour Watermelon Pucker, which we mixed with handy dandy Sprite. It tasted awesome, actually...in a super-sugary-yank-your-teeth-outta-your-head kinda way.

Anyway with our Pucker buzz goin we hit the reception. Everyone was dancing and laughing, having a wonderful time. At some point a waiter asked us what we'd like to drink. I'm pretty sure Beck and I exchanged glances. What were we supposed to say? We wanted something, but didn't want to suggest the wrong thing. We asked just for something sweet, at which point he brought us these Ecto-cooler neon Kermit green drinks. We took a sip and were relieved that it tasted similar to our Pucker drinks. We paraded around the reception feeling like such big shots, although I'm pretty sure we were deservedly mocked by our relatives.

The next day I felt like a hammer was being chucked out of my head from the inside. I stumbled over to the bathroom and noticed my face creased with makeup and my eyes bloodshot. I didn't recognize her at first, but I had just been introduced to Hungover Me. I felt the sickening sweetness of watermelon in the back of my throat and wanted to vomit. It was then that I vowed never to drink Midori Sours again.

We wished Rachel good luck with her future, sending off one of our own. And as I sat in the back of my sister's boyfriend's car, listening to "Canary in a Coalmine" for the 11th time that trip, I reflected on how quickly time goes by. If there ever was a moment when you can physically point to and say you've officially grown-up, marriage must surely be it. It was strange to see a direct cousin of ours make it to that particular moment. I could barely comprehend it, although what did I know? I was still a teenager, nursing my very first hangover, and vowing never to do something so stupid again. I stuck to that promise too...for a few years anyway.

Personn-hell

First off, let me start by giving a proper shout out to my dad, my eighth loyal follower. Hi Dad! If mom's driving you crazy, hopefully this'll put a smile on your face. And speaking of family...

I come from a long line of customer service-pros. Not in just the fact that, at one time or another, everyone in my family has worked some sort of customer service work, but more specifically, if there's one thing my family does well, it's get things straight. To the layman you might refer to it as "complaining", but the Dempsey females have mastered it to an art form; letting the person who is (supposed) to be helping you know EXACTLY how they're doing. I include the Dempsey women, but unfortunately I do not lump myself in with the masters.

My mother is a dynamite complainer, though she would never admit it. More likely she would back-up her embarrassing complaints with the simple statement,"Well, after all I'm PAYING for this." And really, as keenly as an artist selects her brushes, my mother knows which tone pairs well with which words, given the circumstances. For instance, when in a restaurant, and her meal arrives cold, she'll simply call the waitress back over and without breaking her sunny voice and sweet words say, "Excuse me, hun. But I think this needs to be warmed up a bit more, please."

That's because usually it's some poor teenager just trying to make some cash, and my mom knows it's not her fault (usually). However, if she's to go to battle with such enemies as Comcast or AT&T, she opts for a more cutting tone and sharpened words.

"You know what, I have been a customer with you guys for X amount of years, and this is really ridiculous. I am not paying for that anymore, so please either cancel my service or tell me what you can do for me, because I've had it." Sure enough, the representative on the other line admits defeat and offers up the spoils in the form of an extra few months of reduced cost or something for free. I used to slink away from the room when she'd be engaged in such a battle of words; now I simply watch and learn.

My problem is I don't seem to be getting anywhere. More likely, I'm the one who ends up apologizing for something someone else did.

"I am soo soo sorry, but could you please, if it's not too much trouble, heat these Southwestern Eggrolls up a little tad more?", I said on a recent trip to Bill Bateman's.

"Oh sure, are they still cold?", asked the waitress.

Well, I'm guessing the ice crystals that are lodged inside are not part of some trendy marketing gimmick, I think. Instead, I just say, "Um, yeah just a little."

My big sister Hill, though, seems to coming along just fine, if her letter to a major chain hotel in St. John is to be any indication. I tried to copy and paste a few excerpts but for some reason I can't, so I'll just give you the gist of her experience.

Hill and her friend Annie were going for a small vacation to St. John's, just as hurricane Otto was slamming the coastline. Though they were both forgiving of the weather conditions (and therefore lack of fun in the sun), what was unforgivable was the hotel's lack of fun in the anything. No pool. No hot tub. No restaurants or bars that were open. They were basically left sequestered in their rooms, held hostage by boredom due to unavailable amenities. According to Annie's letter, they were not even addressed by words of concern or apologies from the staff; in fact, quite the opposite. When she asked why no one had bothered to inform the guests of the closed facilities, the receptionist merely replied that it wasn't their responsibility to do so. Yeah, because when people are spending their hard-earned economy-helping money at a high-end resort, why would they bother informing their customers in advance or (gasp!) post it for free on their website. Some people deserve to get sucked into a hurricane...

The girls were looking for something, ANYTHING, to make their stay worth while. The people at the front desk did not offer any sort of complimentary services, nor did they offer any solutions (besides telling them that the Ritz was open, which is exactly where my sister and her friend checked in halfway through their trip).

They managed to salvage the rest of their vacation, and even were rewarded with a few free nights at their original hotel (after writing scathing yet deserved letters to management). I still live pretty much by the motto "You get more flies with honey.." But maybe it pays to use vinegar more...

Ok kiddies, the towel on my wet hair is pulling my eyelids back, which means it's time to hit the hay. See you tomorrow!

A Visit with the Griswolds

I love my family, don't get me wrong. My dad's got a great smart-ass sense of humor (which I hope I inherited) and my mother is loving and nurturing (another trait I think I have). My sisters are cool and wise, my brother is fun and good-intentioned.

They also drive me bat-effing crazy sometimes, even now living on my own. The problem is that I have my own neuroses to contend with, so I feel fairly comfortable calling us all 'The Griswolds" at times. And last night only furthered my observation, as my parents and brother came for a visit.

It started out sane enough, as how any adventure with the Griswolds usually begins. I frantically tried to escape work early to run to the store for a few last items, then stop by the fruit truck, and then finally get home to do some final cleaning. Of course, since one of my problems is perpetual tardiness, I didn't get out until they were already on their way over to the townhouse. So I passed on the store and just grabbed some fruit from the truck and headed back. I didn't see their car yet (whew) so as I was pulling up to a parking space, thinking I could at least do my cleaning --BEEP, they pulled up right next to me.

We said our hellos and started bringing their things in. Having never been there before we decided to walk them around for a tour. As I stepped first down into the basement, somehow my foot twisted and I crashed to the floor, missing the wash basin by a hair. I was fine, except for my foot...and dignity.

When we arrived at the guest bedroom my parents starting putting things down and Georgia wandered in. Now, all I can say is that I just wanted her to be an angel for them so they could see how well we had trained her. I let her come into the room, and while I turned my back for a second I hear my dad say, "Uhh, someone's takin a dump..." I spun back but it was too late. I ushered her out, scolding her all the way while my parents escaped the emanating smell.

As I cleaned up I could not BELIEVE this horrible luck. It was bad enough tripping and landing on my ass down the basement so that my parents think I'm totally inept or that the house is unsafe, why did the dog have to crap in THAT room! All I kept thinking before their visit was, if she craps in the house PLEASE let it be in our room where we can clean it up without anyone being the wiser. No, that kinda luck never happened for the Griswolds, so it would never happen for me...

Finally, we go out to dinner to a place I had never been before. Part of my anxiety about my parents visiting is that I want to ensure they have a great time, so they can pass the word on to the extended family about how well I'm doing. Even down to the restaurants we have down here, so I was nervous how the place would be. Luckily I got a great tip from my friend Heather about a place for crabs, and I'm happy to report the night went off without a hitch. Well, except for a small one.

While we were ordering, we noticed that the waitress's attention appeared to be elsewhere. She was looking off in the direction of the televisions. My mother was still deciding and trying to ask her questions. Finally, my dad noticing her intent gaze, followed it with his own. I don't know why but it made me bust out laughing. My dad caught my eye and smiled, knowingly. When the waitress finally left my mother asked us what was so funny. So it wasn't really a hitch, just a funny odd moment.

After I got up the morning (and my mom rearranged my kitchen to her liking) I said my goodbyes to the Griswolds, promising them I'd visit soon. Even though their visit was brief, I still drove to work smiling (and with a few less hairs since the had been pulled out). I know that I'm just part of my funny family, and even though they drive me crazy sometimes, they make for some good storytelling.

Gettin' My Hands Dirty

So basically the reason I was late (or missing, I should say) with a post yesterday is because we are STILL in the midst of moving, which is getting old, let me tell you. Moving SUCKS! Let the sound of that word sink in...SSSUUUCCCKSSS. Joe and I both, short-fused and short-tempered, have been hauling 2 years worth of crap into the bed of his truck and my car for the past week. I really shouldn't complain, because really Joe has suffered the brunt of the moving shit storm, but it is still pretty annoying to me.

I think it's been doubly difficult because we've been bringing Georgia with us over there, thinking she'd be good and quiet while Mommy and Daddy swear under their breaths and break finger bones lifting boxes and crates that have unknown realms of crap inside. But no, she seems to mistake the disassembled apartment for her own personal PlayPlace, and continued to leap and chew on anything she could get her mouth on. So while asking each other questions or game plans we have to constantly tell her no or avoid tripping on her. Needless to say we are both so SICK of moving I am so glad we can actually see ourselves staying here for a while, cuz I'd just as soon torch my belongings than have to move them into another place.

So, that all being said, I do really love how the new place is coming along. And, surprisingly enough, I'm finding the things I disliked about the place are slowly becoming not bad...even good. For one, the bathroom, which anyone who has followed this thing knows I was really upset with...But now, since Joe sprayed the tub with a refinishing spray, and I've gotten to see what it's like with a window that actually blows fresh air...I actually think I love the bathroom. Once we get a storage thing in there, it really is gonna be a nice little bathroom.

Also, the kitchen, which still irks me with the lack of counter space and available wall space, but I've actually grown to not totally hate the "no dishwasher" thing. I think it helped that we are coming from an apartment with such a crappy dishwasher that we had to hand wash the dishes anyway. It's not a total shock. But it is shocking that I don't really mind hand washing stuff...which is the breadth of what this post is about...

You ever see that scene in "When Harry Met Sally", where Harry is describing the two categories of women?: the low maintenance and the high maintenance. I've always wanted to be categorize as the former, yet for some reason I think I actually fall under the latter. Not really because of how I like to look or my fashion sense (which anyone will tell you is safe to dub "low" maintenance). But food, especially caked-on cold-and-stuck-in-the-sink food, makes me really high maintenance.

I don't know when it began, but ever since I was a kid and we'd clear the dinner table I always was grossed out by touching cold food. My mom or dad would ask me to wipe down the table with a sponge and I used to hold it like a scalpel, carefully dusting the food so it wouldn't touch my skin. It got so bad that at one point I just started volunteering to clear the packaged or bottled things, just so I didn't get stuck wiping the table.

The only thing worse in my mind, when we didn't have a garbage disposal, was clearing the sink of stuck food. GOD, it still grosses me out, just thinking of that slimy cold rice or peas. I really figured this same weird aversion would become a serious problem at this new place. With no dishwasher OR garbage disposal, I'd have to deal with this cold food all the time!

But, like anyone with a problem, you find a way to cope. My first thing? Rushing hot water into the sink, to not only warm my hands but warm the dishes and caked-on food. Next, I still avoid actually touching the stuff stuck in the sink my maneuvering a fork to lift the catch and then carefully lift it over the garbage can. No fuss, no muss.

Since I have those ways around it, washing the dishes really isn't so bad. In fact, it's almost like knitting, in that you seem to do it mindlessly, and plus you have the reassurance that it's clean because YOU cleaned them. Now, granted I haven't had a pile that consisted of more than just a couple of bowls and pans, but I think as long as I can scald the pots and not touch the drain...I think I'll be just fine....

Tat too?

God, I am freaking starving right now. I've been trying to be healthier by packing a banana and a small package of carrots for lunch, but really it's not cutting it. I find myself downing a huge cup of coffee just to stifle the pangs of hunger. It was especially interesting today when a couple of coworkers and I went for a walk outside in the brisk 87 degrees (actually it really didn't feel too hot, but for the sake of this rant let's just say it was), and I found myself wanting to keel over and vomit a little bit...nice huh? Yeah yeah I know, I should stop being an idiot and actually pack a freaking lunch, but I'm so lazy in the morning (and usually rushing around anyway cuz I'm never organized) I don't have the time to make anything. I mean come on, what am I, a freaking magician? Who has time to swipe a slab of peanut butter on two pieces of bread! And if that weren't enough, I'd also require a baggy of pretzels to accompany my sandwich and fruit...and of course, a cookie or two. So really when you factor all that in, I'm better off grabbing the damn banana and suffering the pain of my stomach trying to digest itself.

But anyway.

I don't think I talked enough about my trip home yet, which was both pretty relaxing and uneventful, yet at the same time had moments of revelation. Probably the biggest is the fact that my cousin, Beck, is engaged. Yeah, I'd say that would fall under the category of "Big News", so again, congrats to Beck and Anth!

But another surprising event happened, seamlessly enough, while in the car with my family. Now I should preface this by saying, I really hate, HATE, being one of those people who says they're going to do something but then rarely actually does it. Yes, along with my self-proclaimed laziness, cheapness, and pathetic addiction to television-watching, my procrastination (or probably more aptly, my never-actually-doing-it-tion) is one of my crappiest attributes. Let's be honest, we all do it sometimes but we all have at least one friend who does it ALL the time...and if you don't know of the person, it's probably you.

Anyway, ever since last year's birthday I've been seriously considering getting a tattoo. I regret not getting one at the same time my girlfriends all went together to get theirs, but I couldn't think of anything that permanent or life-altering at the time. Now that I think I have a reason for one, I think I'm ready to make (maybe) the biggest mistake of my life (of course, it could be a tie to the time back in 8th grade when I insisted on chopping off my hair only to end up looking like a mix between Pat Benatar and a brunette Herbie the Elf from the Rudolph the Reindeer clay-mation special).

So after some hemming and hawing, and some suggestions from tattoo-aficionados, I think I settled on the ideal representation for me...a single feather quill. Not only to represent my attempt at written adventures, but also because it symbolizes my lack of direction and how I seem to move along however the wind pushes me. Once I figured that out, the next big issue was where to put it. I kept thinking someplace easily hidden, like low on my hip or back, but for some reason I always felt I should put it on my shoulder. I even considered the back of my neck, but then I worried that by the time I was 80 I'd have to explain why granny's got a wilted string-bean looking thing on her. I was pretty undecided, so I really felt like I had no choice but wait until I figured it out.

Back in the car, jumbling around the back seat with my sister and mom, while my brother, Drew, and my dad were up front, we got on the subject of tattoos somehow. Now, had I gone through with it I fully intended to keep it from my parents as long as possible...at least until the holidays rolled around, being the season of forgiveness. When I couldn't contain it any longer, I said casually, "I was thinking about getting a tattoo." I waited for the bomb to explode.

"What were you thinking about getting?" my mother said.

Ok, that was a surprising response. When I told them a feather quill, my sister retorted with a less than encouraging reply. A few brief seconds passed before my mother responded.

"Oh I could see that. That would be pretty."

What? She basically said she wouldn't hate me for doing it, and she actually thought it sounded pretty? Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't the original thought behind tattoos to show you are rebelling from the norm? How am I supposed to be considered a rebel now, when my mother thinks my tattoo would be "darling"?

Actually, it made me more relieved. I always sought my parents approval with everything I did (and still do). So now that they seem to be ok with, it's almost like I have to do it now.

But who knows...maybe I'll wait till next year....

Fix Visits

Ok, this time i REALLY mean it. It's gonna be a short-er one. I am totally exhausted, and really what I want to write about isn't all that funny (like how I'm giving you the hard sell?) so bear with me, and we should all come out of this alive.

I don't know why really I am so tired. I pretty much had a whole day that consisted of sitting. Sitting at my desk for 8 hours and then sitting in my car driving for 3. God, what level of lazy are you when SITTING is exhausting.

Or maybe it's just the fact that I can loosen up a little finally. I took off a few days of work to come back up to the Jerz and visit with family, hit the beach, eat some clams, and have an all-around mini-vaca. It's also the first time I'm going to be away from Georgia, and while I already miss my little butter-bean, it's nice not to have to sleep with one ear open waiting for the sound of whining and dashing out to door to make sure she doesn't pee on the carpet again. Plus my friend Lauren KICKS ASS (I mean she did already before anyway, but now she kicks even MORE ass) because she can watch the puppy while Joe has a show and a filming gig. So Lauren, if you are reading this, you are my hetero-life partner.

But anyway, like I said, I'm tired because I worked the whole day, came home for about an hour, went back out to get us dinner, packed, and then headed back on the road. Now, I can understand why sitting at a computer all day can be exhausting: your back, your eyes, your hands all have to be in-sync and focused. When you first start driving, you don't think you would ever get sick of it, and it could never be tiring. But then again, I guess it's the same thing- all parts have to be at attention for an extended period of time.

Plus, the trip home can be a tedious one. Aside from the occasional town, it's pretty much just a tree-lined highway. But I made a promise to my mom that I would come up. And since it's also my cousin's grad party, I really had a reason to escape the stagnant heat of Baltimore.

Speaking of mothers, I think mine has a addiction- to her kids. You ever notice how parents, even grandparents sometimes, treat their children like they are little poppers or something? My mother will call me at the oddest times, always asking when I'm going to come around again. I have to tell her that I'll try, but I know what happens. She's thrilled to see me, gets all excited and relieved. And then soon enough, the high wears off, and I know it's time to hit the road again. She'll wait a few days, and then the calls for the next visit happen. I feel like a damn drug-dealer. I swear it's a terrible cycle, I should really check her in somewhere...do they have a department for that at Betty Ford?

Anyway, short story even shorter, I made it home in one piece but unfortunately it looks like I'm getting kicked to the couch. I forget that here I am in the land of the TV-Watchers. My sister Hillary (SHOUT-OUT) got here earlier and was already asleep in the one bed, while the only other spare was in my brother's room (who can't sleep without a tv being on).

But I think it'll be alright. I got a blanket, some water, and a trashy romance novel to keep me company. And I also have you, my little literates. On that note, I will bid you good night.