I think I’ve let enough time slip by that you’ve all moved on from the holiday / New Years  resolution crap right? Like, we can talk about other stuff now? As in, big picture stuff?

Kgood.

So I’m currently in the middle of two very important things:

1. Designing my first business cards for the photography business that I started two years ago.

2. Breaking the news to my mother (and myself) that she is in love with Steven Tyler.

And while you’re contemplating the meaning of this and low-carb diets, I’m gonna serenade you with a few random pictures from the past two weeks.

I think the above statements are pretty self explanatory. Clearly, I’ve waited two years to design business cards because I’m an unrepentant pessimist and was quite certain that I would not even be able to figure out how to use a DSLR. And if I did, the world would probably end first so why invest in cards? That extra twenty dollars is the difference between designer imposter perfume or the actual Elizabeth Taylor White Diamonds fragrance. 75 gas station cappuccinos or one caramel macchiato from Starbucks.

And although the discovery of my mom’s secret love affair is alarming, it’s not entirely surprising. Being able to detect the inevitable destruction of a relationship is my sixth sense.

I first picked up on it when Steven Tyler appeared on last year’s American Idol. They laughed in all the same places. My mom unapologetically admired his purple suede pants and feathered hair accessories, claiming that they were in homage to his supposed Indian heritage. She was not happy when I had to tell her that feathers were the newest hair trend and could be purchased at your local Great Clips for 7 bucks a feather.

The culmination and affirmation of my suspicions occurred tonight, when my mom kept switching back and forth from the OWN channel to see if the 2hour Steven Tyler interview was on again. She had been talking about it for days after watching it with my dad. (I know, the nerve!) ‘Cause, first of all, the OWN channel?

“Mom don’t you hate Oprah?”

“Well, I hated her on that other show. But now she’s doing different stuff.”

“Other show? You mean, the OPRAH show. There’s nothing different except now she just has an entire network called THE OPRAH WINFREY NETWORK. It’s like one big continual OPRAH show.”

“But these interviews are cooler.”

“Because they’re 2 hours long or because she’s interviewing your boyfriend?”

Her lack of protest might as well have been a handwritten admission of love stamped by the king of England with that melted candle waxy stuff to ensure that it’s legitimacy.

Sorry, my Tudors phase is never far from me.

When the interview finally came on, she rushed to the living room saying, “Oh my gosh, it’s on again! I could watch it a hundred times. Brit, you gotta see this. His house is so cute, it’s on a lake in New Hampshire. His kitchen cabinets are yellow!”

Um. Ok, mom. I’ll watch it. I’ve always been concerned with the interior color swatch of Steven Tyler’s kitchen. But I’m slightly more concerned about how dad is going to feel when you’re cooking bacon in that kitchen in about six months.

I grabbed a blanket as I watched him talk about his battle with drugs and self esteem and monogamy. This tool is going to be my stepdad? Will this make me part fake-Indian too?

And if so, do I get free stuff?

Like, just college? I heard they got clothes and food and stuff too. ‘Cause, I could probably come around to the idea.

I’ve always liked New Hampshire. And I mean,the cabinets can’t be that ugly. The sun is yellow and I like that.

I kept a journal over the past week, to help process my thoughts. It’s not the most uplifting, but, it’s life.

8.4.11 {Donuts.}

I’m writing this while at the hospital, laying on the bed across from my grandpa. He’s been gasping for breath and finally admits that the smoking got the best of him – not that this foreshadowing would have changed anything. “There’s just nothing like coffee and a cigarette in the morning,” he always said.

He’s been around since I was born, although he’s not my dad’s biological father. When I was young, I didn’t know what a bitter and broken man he was. I didn’t know that he stormed Normandy Beach and fought in the Battle of the Bulge, only surviving because his friend’s bodies shielded him. Nor did I know that he had two children in the cemetery, and his only surviving son (Larry) was born prematurely, which resulted in visual and mental impairments. And I did not know that his first wife died of a sudden illness when Larry was only 25. All I knew back then was that he had an awesome underground pool, liked to drink “highballs” and made me cry when he dressed up as Santa.

Santa always did scare the crap out of me.

He was generally nice to me, albeit a bit cranky and argumentative. But as I grew, it became apparent that he never accepted my father or our family. I saw how controlling he was of my sweet and wonderful grandma. How he caused our family to fall apart. How my father had to tolerate years of awful mistreatment just to see his own mother. In latter days, bitterness caused me to detach, which carried along the tragic side effect of lost time spent with my grandma while she still had her memory.

So I’m sad today, but not for obvious reasons. I’m sad for my uncle Larry, who has no family of his own and whose mother died when he was young. I’m sad for him because now he’s losing his caregiver and father; and his stepmother (my grandma) has Alzheimer’s. I’m sad because he’s been sitting by his dad’s bedside for a week, without barely sleeping or eating, just waiting for him to open his eyes. I’m sad because I know that he envisions himself in that bed someday and he wonders if anyone will be sitting by his side. And I’m sad because I realize that I’ll have to go through this with my own parents someday and that thought is incomprehensible to me.

I don’t know what to say. I can’t hold it together when I see the tears welling up in someone’s eyes. I leave for a while to regain my composure and to buy some sprinkle donuts and Excedrin for Larry. And a few hundred purses for myself.

Larry turns to me and says, “If dad were awake he would yell at me to change my shirt because it has stains on it… I wish he would wake up and yell at me.” My dad shows up with a stack of To Do lists, tired and stressed, although no one could possibly tell except me. I force him to sit down and eat something. He’s always taking care of everything but himself. Just like any five year-old would, he jumps on the wheelchair scale and starts weighing himself, in attempt to distract Larry for a second. It works.

8.5.11 {Death.}

Grandpa dies. My dad and cousin are digging through files and making funeral arrangements at my grandma’s apartment. I see the heaviness in my dad’s eyes as he contemplates how to tell his mother the news and having to move her into a home. I try to distract grandma by looking through picture albums with her. Larry is in the bedroom crying and we hope she doesn’t notice. As I flip through pages, I start removing pictures of my grandpa to use for the memorial posters at his funeral. My grandma repeatedly asks what I’m doing and I tell her that I’m making a special project for her.

8.6.11 {Five poster boards.}

As I sort through eleven boxes of pictures, I attempt to summarize my grandpa’s life in five poster boards. Five, because that’s how many easels the funeral home gives you. How do I possibly divide up a person’s life like that? I look at the growing stack of pictures I’m not going to use and I realize that in the end, pictures of trips and toys and new wallpaper don’t matter. They all get thrown away. No one is going to pass those down. They won’t be displayed at your funeral. I cry for the first time as I glue his life together, picture by picture, and I think about what he did and didn’t mean to me. Then I turn off Damien Rice because he’s not helping any.

My dad stops by to bring me lunch because – he’s concerned about my stress level. He says when the pastor asked him for stories for the funeral,  he couldn’t think of one good memory. He admits that it is hard for him to listen to everyone gush about how great his step dad was. Of course, my dad is too much of a man to ever let them think otherwise.

 8.8.11 {The funeral.}

The morning of the funeral, my grandma has to be told all over again that her husband is gone. The funeral is about to start and she is the last to arrive. My dad finally walks in, holding her arm with tears in his eyes as he sees how broken up and scared she is. I have to look away.

I sit right behind them in the second row and all I can focus on are her silent sobs as her shoulders shake with overwhelming sadness. Larry’s frequent outbursts are heartbreaking and I try to stare at the ground. Later on, my grandma keeps saying that she isn’t able to take care of herself and she doesn’t know how to live without her husband. We assure her that we’ll be taking care of her and hope to God she forgets all of this by tomorrow.

I feel sad and relieved and guilty and bitter. My grandpa was a great war hero. He was a wonderful father to Larry. And growing up, we did have some good times at the pool. Our Christmases were always a blast, until we stopped having them. He made my grandma happy, for the most part. He had a lot of sadness in his life and I do cut him some slack for that.

I don’t know. But those are the things I’ll try to remember about him.

You may or may not have noticed that I write about my dad on here quite a bit. Everything from his complete and inexcusable ridiculousness to how he’s the most amazing person I’ve ever met. But, here’s the thing: my mom is just as cool.

Isn’t that just a disgusting problem to have?

In the middle of trying to scan these pictures, my printer ran out of ink and I had to go buy more just so my scanner would shut up and do it’s job. Can I just get a moment of appreciation for the great lengths I take to make this blog an aesthetically pleasing experience for you?

What’s that? You could care less?  Ugh.

So, my mother. Some might say she is protective. I might say she’s nuts. But after losing her 18 yr-old brother to a fluke motorcycle accident and almost losing both her children in nearly fatal car accidents, I cut her some slack.

In her early thirties, my mom finally escaped what turned out to be an abusive, adulterous marriage with her high school sweetheart and she married my dad. From then on, she gave up any personal aspirations in order to dedicate herself to my brother and I. She homeschooled me until 1st grade because she didn’t want me to leave. When I was young, she would play with my hair while telling me stories she made up about a magical fox. She always dreamt of writing children’s books.

She was the type of mom that had cupcakes waiting after school. She never had a ‘don’t spoil your dinner’ rule because life is just too short. She told me every day how beautiful I was even when my face was one giant zit and I accidentally came home with orangey-blonde-skunk-stripe highlights in my hair (I cried myself to sleep for a week). She taught me how to respect myself and how confidence is the key to just about everything. In my teen years, she made me call her the minute I got in my car so that she could pinpoint where I was in case my car broke down and I got kidnapped by a rapist. She never slept until I walked in the door – even if it was 4am – then we’d watch The Bachelor, or Entertainment Tonight. She’s not into jewlery, or vacations, or nice clothes – and she is undoubtedly the hardest person to buy for.

Now that her kids have left, my mom spends the majority of her time directing a tutoring/mentoring club for at-risk and underprivileged children. She always said that if she could have gone to college she’d be a teacher. And I guess, now, she sort of is.

But, even though I’m almost 30, she still calls me every night. She still makes me giant chocolate cupcakes and home made snack mix whenever she comes over. She still tells me how beautiful I am. When I was depressed, she sent me a card in the mail every day for three months – just to say she loved me.

And no matter how many times I have failed at all my different jobs and creative endeavors, no matter how many relationships I screwed up, she never – ever – has said that she is anything less than completely proud of me for who I am and what I’ve done, the mistakes I’ve made and how they’ve molded me. She’s always been right there, in the front row, picking up the pieces.

Her paranoia and pessimism have rubbed off on me a little. But so has her rock solid confidence, her compassion, her ability to laugh at nothing, and her baking skills.

So, tell me about your mom.

So I may have mentioned my dad a time or two on this site. In case you aren’t familiar, here is a brief summary:

Here’s the thing with my parents.

My mom can’t turn a computer on and is still holding to her guns that The Internets will become the downfall of society. My dad can turn it on, but his technological knowledge consists mainly of creating spreadsheets. Oh, and there was that one time he typed up something for my mom in Microsoft Word and it took about 5 hours – that also included the addition of a clip art photo, don’t worry.

This might shed some light as to why my parents don’t read this blog. I am quite certain, however, that they know it exists. My evidence for this conclusion is that a random family friend mentioned over dinner how they thought it was hilarious when my dad accidentally brushed his teeth with Preparation H while on a road trip with his Pastor.

Incidentally, I was the only one my dad told.

Now, of course, every time I whip out a composition notebook, my parents give me the stink eye. But, two minutes later, they start laughing and say something like, “Oh, I suppose this is gonna be on a blob now, huh?” And then I write down the fact that they called it a “blob” and turn that into a blog too. They can’t win.

But that’s the beauty of my parents. They don’t take themselves too seriously.

So, I’ve got a special treat for you kids today.

[My dad is the Director for a local non profit that focuses on mentoring and tutoring at-risk elementary students. I'm doing a video for them and needed a 30 sec. spot from my dad. This was our THIRD attempt. SIX HOURS +  203 VIDEOS = 10 SECONDS OF USABLE FOOTAGE. ]

I gave him 4 simple rules to adhere to:

1. Remember the words.

2.  No awkward hand gestures.

3. Don’t say the words “touch” or “tie” when referring to children.

4. Don’t use imaginary words.

Am I asking TOO MUCH??

[kml_flashembed movie="http://www.youtube.com/v/Ocxxx7zi6Ho" width="425" height="344" allowfullscreen="true" fvars="fs=1" /]

As he was leaving the parking lot that day, he yelled out, “Why do I have the feeling that you’re going to be making more than just the charity video?”

UPDATE: Winner of this contest is FAUX TRIXIE!  I took the total number of entries, minus those who opted out cus they live in the UK and the cookies would be gross by then and added one extra entry for those who commented on my column over at The College Crush.  Sometimes, it actually pays to be the first commenter!

So, there is no shame in sharing things, you know? I happen to need a new digital camera. In fact, a camera was the one item on my Black Friday list; however, I failed miserably at getting it because I became terribly distracted by all the other sparkly, half-priced objects. Please take a moment to marvel at my use of the semicolon in the previous sentence.

So, I’ve been borrowing my dad’s lately. No. Big. Deal.

Except when you are sitting down for Friendsgiving Dinner [a Thanksgiving for friends only], and you go to review the pictures that you have taken, and you come across this:

Pretty sure I didn’t take that.

99% sure that’s my dad.

But not 99% sure why he is shirtless, with gray hair and a white hand.

As I was pondering that thought, I fought against every urge to put the camera down, scared of what I might see next.

But curiosity is such a nasty little devil. So I ate some more cheesy potatoes and kept scrolling.

Then, I’d had enough. I did what any one in my position would have done.

Showed the pictures to all my friends and took bets on what was going on.

I called my dad and told him I’d found some disturbing pictures on his camera. He started laughing, and followed it up with, “Oops. Forgot about those. You better not show them to anyone.”

Come on, dad. A little credit for your best daughter?

Many of you have asked me over the years what it is about my dad that I love so much. After all, he did scam me into raising sheep.  Well folks, this pretty much sums it up. So because I love my dad so so much, and because he just turned 59, and because I have an awesome new Christmas blog header, I’m gonna give stuff away!!!!

Bitter Baking Company and Blunt Delivery will be doing several Christmas giveaways this December. This, being the first. All, you have to do to score some sarcastically delicious cookies on your doorstep is answer the following question:

What in the world is up with my dad in these pictures?

That is the only rule. **BONUS ENTRY: you can visit my new column at The College Crush and leave me a little love. It’s hard being the new girl on the block!

Must enter by noon Wednesday, December 8!

Merry Christmakkuh!

Dad: I got serious heartburn from that strawberry shortcake.  It was the milk.

Mom: Milk? I’d blame it on the strawberries. They’re so acidic.

Dad: Milk contains lactic acid. Don’t ever forget it.

Mom: Well I should buy lactose free milk then.

Dad: You did. You were buying that Soy Milk, but then you said it was gonna kill me for some reason so you stopped. Now I have heartburn.

Mom: They had something on the news about that for a week, Denny!

Dad: All I’m saying is that I may be avoiding death by Soy Milk, but I have no quality of life. I have heartburn.

Mom: Oh, fine. I’ll start buying the Soy Milk again.

Dad: What are you trying to kill me?

Twenty-five years of marriage and this is what it all comes down to. Not for me of course, cus I’m not getting married. But for all of you, these are the conversations you’ll be having.

That aside, I had a revelation the other day. And it wasn’t just that I needed a tan.

Or that I desperately need to visit the dentist. Still.

Or that I haven’t started any kind of workout and it’s mid-June.

Or that I still want an English Bulldog named Shakespeare.

Or that an unfortunate day is quickly approaching: my birthday. And I fear for the lives of many famous people on that day.

Or that I’ve been eating spaghetti for the last 13 days.

No, it wasn’t any of those things. But now that you bring it up, those are some serious problems.

I realized that I need to force myself to write more. I am veritably the WORST blogger on the planet. I get alot of emails from people asking why I don’t post more, yet you always stick around.  The truth is, I haven’t been posting cus I wasn’t inspired. Now I’m inspired, but I’ve never been so busy in all my life. I’m actually using my DayPlanner, as opposed to just admiring how cute it is.

But, I am going to post more. This is probably the only commitment I’ll be making in the foreseeable future. We’re not talking every day here, don’t get all clingy on me. We’re talking like a Monday, Wednesday, Friday type thing. Sound good?

What’s that? You don’t care?

Figures.

Speaking of busy, Eric Bana stopped by my town last weekend. Each time, he lets me snap some pictures of him. We’re tight like that.

Sorry if you came here looking for the answers to life. Was that title misleading?

My apologies that my posts have been a bit introspective lately, I suppose that’s because I’ve been doing a lot of introspecting. Or taking a lot of sleeping pills. Either way, deal with it. P.S. I’d like to extend my utmost gratitude for all of your comments on my previous blog. You have no idea what an effect your encouraging words have on me, even if they are just floating out there in cyberspace, and even if you really are just a bunch of perverted old men with a hit list, it still means a lot.

I was riding in someone’s car the other day. I got excited when we drove past a business and I saw my dad’s work truck parked outside. He looked at me and said, “I hope that my son’s face lights up like that someday when he drives past my truck.”  I’d never thought of it that way, but I guess my face did light up. It always has.

When I was young, I was convinced of all sorts of things. I thought babies came from swallowing watermelon seeds, I thought my grandparents had immunity from death, I thought the earth was suspended in air by magic, and I thought my cats actually went on to live in a better place after they died. A place where trees were made of Cat Nip and it rained milk. I thought married people really loved each other, and I thought the whole point of Easter was so that girls could wear cute hats. In fact, all it really took was for my dad to tell me something was true and and nothing could convince me otherwise. Example: for fifteen years I believed my cat had run away when I was 8. Not until my grandpa got wasted at Christmas and mentioned “that time my mom accidentally crushed the cat to death under the garage door” did I know the truth. It was a tragic discovery. But at least I know the little fuzzball went on to a better place.

It was a blind faith I had back then.

There is something innocent and wonderful about blind faith andhaving a father that you know would rather sacrifice his own life than see you get hurt. Someone who highly overuses the benefit of his doubt, who is eternally compassionate and understanding. But it skews your perception. And although I never thought there could be a downside to this, I find lately, that lifelong assumption may not be entirely accurate. This mindset is foreign to me and I’m unsure what to do with it. Much like that first kiss after moving on, it’s neither good nor bad, it just feels different. Different than you might have thought. Different than what you were used to.

If you’ve been around here for more than a hot minute you know that my viewpoint is anything but unicorns and pots of gold. Life has left a pessimistic taste in my mouth. But in spite of everything, when it comes to people, I have always had a tendency to believe the best, that their intentions are ultimately good, that they empathize with others, that they feel pain. Anyone can open up a history book and see that this is far from true, and naive at best.

I’m sure all of you can relate to this in some aspect. Your experiences have left you either too trusting or incapable of trust – so who is better off? Are we both just screwed? Cus I kind of like the sound of that. I’ve seen my dad tremendously hurt because of his outlook on life and people. Unfortunately, at the end of the day, I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather end up like. So what does that mean?

I don’t know. The older I get, the more it seems, I do not know. Confusion is where I live, and the population just keeps growing.

But I do know this: I still believe everything my dad says.

Really? Did I just have to throw around the “R” word to get your attention? That’s sad. Sad because I have been gone for so long that I feel like I have to throw a dramatic title at you in order to peak your interest, and sad because that just might be true. Well, joke is on you cus this post isn’t about racists OR ACNE.

I’m currently writing this from my local Borders. I’ve got the Chess dweebs to my left, the girls who can’t figure out why he hasn’t called yet to my right, and a riveting, religious debate going on behind me. Why. Why do I do this to myself? Well, I’ve been finding it increasingly difficult to get the motivation to do anything at my house these days. There are many reasons why this could be: 1. the 4-inch memory foam, which renders it almost impossible for me to move once situated; 2. the endless supply of rice krispie treats and fruit snacks in my nightstand; 3. the permanently closed blinds that let in zero sunlight, thus removing all sense of space and time;  4. the looming presence of Valentine’s Day in the air; 5. or the depression I’ve been stuck in for the past year.  There’s no way of knowing for sure. But my point is, if you ever want another blog again in your precious little life, you’ll stop asking questions.

Speaking of the overly-commercialized scam of a holiday, Valentine’s Day, this year my dad dropped off a bouquet of flowers along  with a bag of Xanax and a ”don’t kill yourself” note from my mother. I’m hoping this information spares me from any grief I’ll be receiving from all of you on why I only wrote two blogs last month. I’ve already got to live with the fact that today I’ve already consumed: a McDonald’s #2, a cold Little Caesars pizza, a box of Junior Mints, Frosted Flakes, and a carton of 100 calorie pack fudge stripe cookies. It’s not even 3 pm yet, and I’ve still got The Bachelor to suffer through later.

Considering my dad is the one guy in my life I can always count on, I reached a logical conclusion to make him my Valentine this year. So I will now share a quick story with you that took place over this joyous holiday weekend.

[I'm at the mall with my parents]

DAD: Sure, that’s a good idea. I’ve been eating really bad lately.

[20 minutes later...]

ME: Hey, mom, is that dad up ahead of us?

MOM: Yea, I can see his bald spot.

ME: DAD!  Hey, dad!

MOM: Well, what would he be eating? We’re about to go get dinner?

[I tap him on the shoulder and as he turns around, about five Fannie May wrappers fall out of his hand, which is holding a half-eaten pixie]

DAD: [looks at me, mid-chew] Crap.

So then, we walked into Panera to get some dinner:

DAD: Hey, wow. They have free Wi-Fi here. I didn’t know that.

ME: Yup, I guess they do.

DAD: That means we could have brought our laptops surfed the internet while we eat.

ME: Yes, yes it does.

DAD: Good to know for next time.

ME: But, you don’t have a laptop.

DAD: Well, it’d be pretty cool if I did. Maybe I will get one, you know, so I can use the free Wi-Fi.

Sigh. This is what I’m dealing with folks. Remember, I’m a product of these two parents - and surely, that counts for something. I hope all is well and none of you jumped off the nearest bridge last weekend. Cus really, at least wait until it’s warmer.

P.S. I updated my photography blog, Chumps. Check it out.

When I was young, my mom used to always shovel blueberries down my throat, whilst telling me that with every bite I was prolonging my lifespan and thwarting off cancer. Apparently, they were rumored to have the most antioxidants of anything on the earth. That was, until, the pomegranate phenomenon spread like STD wildfire throughout the country and caused my mom to question her entire world view.

So given this general knowledge, I’m deducing that it is in the best interest of my health and well-being to polish off all four boxes of Blueberry-Pomegranate ice cream that I just bought. And prepare yourselves  to have me around forever, got it?

Ok, now we need to talk about a few less important things. Like why I haven’t been around. And why the Osmonds won’t seem to go away. Or why I went to Walmart to buy green beans and walked out with 4 boxes of Blueberry-Pomegranate ice cream, a dozen chocolate glazed donuts and a #3 from McDonald’s.

It’s no secret to my inner circle that I’ve been suffering from a bit of a holiday depression this year. Normally, the tree is up by October with my christmasy music mix playing on repeat. I can’t get enough Christmas. Until, this year. No tree. No peppermint hand soap. No music. No cocktail party with teeny tiny foods.

But then I got bombarded with a slew of holiday cards, in attempt to lift my spirits… Look at me, I’m so popular!  I’m so loved!

Oh wait…. they’re all from my mom!

That’s right. My mom just wouldn’t tolerate my holiday funk this year. She sent me a Christmas card every single day of December, and each time she came to my house she’d sneak a pre-decorated mini tree into a different room. FYI: she was the ONLY one who sent me a Christmas card, so that whole “popular” comment was a bit of an exaggeration.

Speaking of Christmas, here’s a sound bite of how my holidays went:

MOM: Before we open presents we have to have some Christmas music playing.

AUNT: [to uncle] Honey, can you turn on some music? [looks at a huge list] Go to CD #81, that will be good.

[about 3 minutes pass as they are trying to figure out the stereo... finally instrumental music starts playing]

ME: Um, what CD is this? And why does it sort of make me want to cry but yet kill people at the same time?

[...silence...] [...looks of confusion...]

AUNT: Hmmm. What is this?   …..Ooooooooh, this is my Last of the Mahicans soundtrack. That’s okay though, this will be fine.

ME: Um, what? We can’t listen to that while we open presents. That’s the most depressing movie of all-time.

AUNT: Well, I don’t know how this came on, I gave him the number for Celestial Winds.

ME: Celestial Winds? No. That won’t work either. We’re not getting facials.

MOM: We HAVE TO HAVE Christmas music to set the mood.

BROTHER: Oh my God.

ME: Hey, you don’t happen to have the Gladiator soundtrack do you?

DAD: Is it time for pie?

THERE HAS BEEN A MAJOR OIL SPILL.

But first, a note from our sponsors.

Dear Everyone Who Reads This Blog Whether You Like It Or Not,

As of late, I realize that my online presence has been replaced with tumbleweeds and probably a surplus of tears.  To attempt to explain exactly what has been going on, which has kept me from you like an unjust prison sentence, would require more space than the internet can provide.  I can only beg for your forgiveness in this matter, and instruct you to refer to my book.  That I will write.  Someday.  As soon as I can figure out what will be in it.  But the past two weeks, you can be assured, will be in it.

Patience is a virtue,

Houdini.

As I was running out of the house with my arms full, I realized that I just absolutely could not survive the next 4 hours without a box of Rice Krispie treats.  I stumbled into the kitchen, reached up into the cupboard, and that was the last moment of life as I knew it.  Had I met my soul mate?  My maker? Did I experience an epiphany that somehow pieced together every bit of my crazy life into a beautiful puzzle of clarity?

Not quite. As I was staring at my kitchen floor/cupboards/rug/fridge covered in olive oil and shards of glass, I shouted every bit of language I’d remember from my French class.  Which, unfortunately, was nothing since I took Spanish.  An entire 48 oz bottle of olive oil (extra virgin, of course, cus what am I a cheap bastard?) had been knocked off my counter by my extemely oversize (but tragically attractive) purse.  And. Holy. Crapballs. It was a freaking mess. Have you ever tried to clean up oil? OH wait, you haven’t…cus it’s IMPOSSIBLE.

OF COURSE, I was already 20 mins late. OF COURSE, I had no paper towels.  BUT OF COURSE, I’m a neat freak and couldn’t handle leaving a mess of this magnitude so my immediate reaction was to reach down and pick up pieces of glass. WHICH OF COURSE, resulted in about 6, 3459 cuts on my hands, which isn’t even possible. AND OF COURSE, when I went to change the clothes I tracked olive oil onto my carpets that were just cleaned.

Finally, I said screw this and I put bathroom towels over my entire floor and took off.

But of course, I’m not the only one in my family who’s been doing permanent damage to the environment lately.

You should know that here in the Midwest we’ve experience an extremely unlikely, cold, and damp summer.  So the other night, I went over to my parents house for a “bonfire.”  I walk out in the field and I quietly assume that this is what my dad was referring to:

Have you met my dad lately?

That’s what I thought.  Apparently, nor have I.

And as we quickly ran to escape the nearly 100 ft flame scolding our faces and the atmosphere, we all took a second to rethink Heaven and Hell.

And we started stripping off layers of clothing due to the surmounting heat, my father stood back and watched like a giddy Boy Scout.

Me: Well, I guess our town might as well stop recycling for about a year, cus we’ve probably just reversed any progress they’ve made.

Dad:  [laughing in a way that makes it impossible not to love him]  Tell Al Gore I’m sick of this cold summer, would ya?

Mom chimes in: I think the only place Global Warming is happening these days, is inside Al’s mouth.

Ah.  This is the heart of America, folks.