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Friday was Bingo Night at Jefferson Elementary School. They are doing extensive remodeling so the event was held in the gym with not nearly enough tables and chairs and a sound system which was made up of one microphone component the size of a gumball held to the lips by a string. So you couldn't hear, plus you couldn't see because you were seated on the floor against the wall sitting on tumbling mats with your bingo cards in your lap and only a cheap generic crayon to mark off the squares. But we worked the system through cunning and a basic knowledge of statistics and walked out of the place with a $15.00 gift certificate for Cold Stone Creamery and a remote control airplane.

Yesterday the children took their airplane up the street to fly it through the air. Dylan came home a few minutes later and announced that the airplane had gotten stuck on some lady's roof and she wouldn't let them climb up and get it. Dylan wasn't interested in the negotiations process and left the scene for the comforts of home, leaving Jaden and Paulina to stand in front of the woman's house staring up at her roof for the next hour, hoping the airplane would blow off. Which it did not. They came home frothing about the mean lady's refusals to assist in their innocent efforts to remove an airplane from her rooftop.

I said "Wait until your father gets home. He will know what to do." So we all waited. Chad eventually came home from his bicycle race (6th place! He didn't crash!) and heated discussions of how to get the airplane back commenced. Nobody liked my idea: strong-arm the lady's hose and squirt it down, surely you could accomplish your goal before the cops showed up. It was decided that they would all walk up the hill with the big ladder and Chad would use his persuasive charms to convince the home owner that plane removal would be in her best interests.

So they got up there with their ladder and knocked. The woman, a small, gentle Filipino lady, was waiting for them. She insisted that Chad sign away his rights to sue her should he fall and smash his skull in while on the ladder. She was very nervous about the entire scheme of things. She had been spending the past hours praying to God she said, that the airplane would go away.

They got the ladder up and against the roof and were prepared to begin their ascent when a little gust of wind came up and blew the airplane off the roof and gently to the ground below. The Filipino woman sighed and put her hand to her chest. "God has answered my prayers," she said.

Coffee Talk

I called my grandmother last night. We seem to have an unspoken arrangement that I call just so often. When I call too soon, she sounds confused and wonders what my story is. When I take too long, I get the whole "Oh, I haven't heard from you in a while. You must be busy" routine. Frequently I go "9:30! SHIT!" and it's too late to call. I'll do this many nights in a row.

I called last night at about 8:15 PM and she sounded like she was already about asleep. She said that Grandpa had told her that he was going to bed at 7:00 and did and that that was something new. So she went ahead and got an old movie tape and went in her room and put it on. She said it was so old she didn't even recognize the actors. Her voice was extremely weak and I couldn't tell if it was that she was so very tired or if she is so very defeated. It is likely a bunch of both.

She said that both my dad and Randy (my uncle) had called in the last week. No, actually, Randy had called and Grandpa had asked to call my dad. He wanted to talk with him. Grandma always puts the preface on for you before she hands the phone to Grandpa. She says "Now, just talk to Grandpa and when you're done talking just say you have to go". She says in both instances, Grandpa talked and talked about things that were really going on, and asked appropriate questions and seemed right on target, but that the minute he switched the switch and went into his whole flying airplanes to New York and playing for the Yankees routine, both my dad and my uncle said "I have to go". She said that she thought that it was too uncomfortable for his sons to deal with. I suppose that's natural.

It's interesting how as he withdraws from reality, his family withdraws from him. There must be a psychological explanation; it must be a pre-grieving process of some kind. I can listen to him forever and interact when he's recalling his false memories. He still enjoys telling the story even though it isn't true. I think that my ability to do this stems from knowing that many of our few family members wouldn't be able to as well. Plus, of course, I am eternally in my grandparents' debt, as they took the best care of me when I was a child, when my own parents couldn't step up to do it.

It's almost time for petunias. Grandma is partial to Wave brand Petunias, so I'll swing by Lowe's and get enough to fill their deck planters, front step planter and the front yard boxes. The two of them used to spend the entire day all day every beautiful summer day in the garden. There was nothing my grandpa couldn't grow and Grandma's roses would make you drunk with their intoxicating aromas and various bright colors. Now their garden appreciation is limited to these small pots of flowers; their world is hemmed in, tighter than the property line, all the way up to nearly the windows.

I don't want my life to be a bell graph, where my world grows wider for an unknown time and then closes in on me. Will my family cast their glances away from me, will I be a responsibility, not a blessing, when I am old? Will I spend all my time ruminating on this instead of going out and living a crazy fun life while I can?


I inserted vast amounts of coffee this morning, squinted at the $25,000 Pyramid to get my self in gear, loaded the car with various foodstuffs and drove up to Camano Island this morning. It took three trips with my arms completely full to bring in all the Sunny Delight, polish sausage and maple syrup and naturally I was compelled to tally the total and accept a fist full of twenties for my trouble. "This is for gas," Grandma said, handing me another twenty. "You know I don't like it when you give me extra money," I said. "Yeah, I know," she said, finalizing the transaction. "So that explains why you keep doing it," I said, putting the money in my purse in defeat.

Grandpa was watching Emeril and then whichever schmuck follows him, some shady character who made sloppy joes and put it in a thermos to take to a baseball game. The TV was very very loud. Then Grandma decided TV time was over and turned it off and we sat the same way in the same silence staring at the same television. She kept saying things that were mind-numbingly boring and I kept saying "mmm-hmmm". She noticed gas was up four cents this week. Her power bill was $180 last month. The weather has been cold for longer stretches than before. They said it was going to be windy but it never did get windy. The thermometer said it was 55, so that wasn't too bad. Bartell's had Kleenex for 79 cents but they were out so she got a rain check. Jack in the Box had pretty good salads with carrot and cucumber on there. I felt exhausted, like I couldn't summon the energy to be conversational, to put in the effort to play this low-level jibber jabber ping pong. "Mmm-hmmm," was all I could say. I kept waiting for her to jab me with a "How are you FEELING" which means "Did you stop taking your medication or something?". Instead she kept hitting me on the top of my head. Like a pat, but too hard. I finally told her she should stop hitting me on the top of my head.

She said, "Can you ask Grandpa some questions? Get him to converse a little bit?" Grandpa had been sitting silently in his chair, compulsively touching his hat, lifting it, setting it back down. Rubbing his forehead with his fingers. Tapping his hand on the armrest or the side table. These are classic Alzheimer's symptoms, repetitive motions. I said "How are you doing, Grandpa? Are you falling asleep?" and he said "No, I'm not falling asleep. I'm just about to go over here to this guy who grows corn and pick you up some corn." I literally looked into the corner at where the tv was, where he was motioning, casually. "Here we go with the corn again," Grandma said. Grandpa then began spinning a tale that skipped through time. Sometimes he was here and now and sometimes he was in Weatherford growing watermelons and aiming rifles at gangs of watermelon raiders (true) and other times he was overseeing all these ladies who worked on the cheap picking cotton (not true). Sometimes he was in California. Grandma would keep leading him back to reality choices for conversational topics, but I found it most mesmerizing to listen to Grandpa say that he had a farm, right here and right now, growing corn and watermelons and cotton and yes, indeed, he had chickens and heads of livestock. He could tell you exactly how many he had. He sure made some money off that cotton. He sure made some money off those watermelon, maybe not a lot, but enough. Some character on the next farm kept giving him tractors and that sure beat the hell out of trying to plow fields with horses, he had me know. It just kept leading back to the corn. He wanted to take me down to the man with the corn fields. You had to pick it just so, he demonstrated, repeatedly. I had to leave. I didn't have time to pick imaginary corn, although, I have a feeling that picking imaginary corn was not going to fit the bill. I told him we'd get some corn the next time I came over. He said OK, he'd see me in a bit, like I was just going around the corner for a minute. "It's only January," he said. "It's not even February yet, so the corn might not all be ready yet," he said. I marvel at how he still understands the concept of the growing of corn, the idea of waiting for the crop to mature, but has lost the understanding of how February is not August. I wanted to pry his brain open like a walnut. "What year is it?" "Who is the president?" "Do you remember being thirty five?" kind of like when I was sixteen and faced, alone, with a five year old French child and I quickly went to town asking the child questions in French, "Where is your hair?", "Where are your feet?", "Where is your nose?" for the sheer glee of being heard, of being understood in my language infancy, and then dying with joy when the child would correctly understand my fledgling French and point to the body part I had painstakingly pronounced.

I'm thinking of getting a camcorder or one of those Flip video cameras Chad's company sells. So I can record Grandpa before he can't remember anything anymore. Even flights of fancy.

I drove away, feeling just fine. I don't know why it doesn't make me sad anymore. I guess when you've been writing someone's eulogy in your head for years on a tear-stained pillow, well, I guess things get a little more analytical and interesting and not as morbid or heartwrenching. It also makes me want to have a more exciting marriage, do more with our kids.

My grandparents were runners-up in the early 1960s for a Life magazine article on classic American families. Their consolation prize was a very nice 8 x 10 professional black and white family portrait taken in their living room. And then fifty years go by. They have boxes of reel to reel footage. They did it all: Yellowstone, Boy Scouts Camp, the works. And now they can't do a damn thing but watch cooking shows with pork and lamb in the meatloaf, rendering the recipes outlandish. No more adventures! Grandma has drawn a line on adventure. I spend too much of my life drawing a line. I'm too young for that.

When Grandma was asking me to go to Coscto, she said "But, really, it's an awful lot of WALKING for you," and I sighed at her eternal mixed messages and said "I'm THIRTY FIVE." "Are you?" she said. "Yes," I said. "And I can walk with the best of them. You should see me go."
I am starving to death.

I should write a poem about it.

But I don't remember how to write a poem.

There could be haikus of starvation:

my empty stomach
says "cheese cheese cheese cheese cheese cheese"
and then passes out

Or the diamante:

Orange, Flavorful
Chewing, Tasting, Swallowing
Hollow, Pitiful

Or the limerick:

There once was a liquid diet
And a stupid woman who tried it
and she wanted cheese
and a complete seven layer dip with Tostidos
But she couldn't have it at all.

I also would like an egg.

I will eat my egg in any fashion you desire.

But mainly I want a hard boiled egg.

I even look forward to the yolk getting stuck in my chest cavity.

I should make a little menu for my pretend make believe restaurant that I can't eat at.

Nomin's Cafe

Serving Delicious Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner since 1974

Breakfast Specialties:

Eggs Benedict- Why everyone's favorite. We start out with two crispy sourdough English muffin halves and top them with two farm fresh eggs, poached to perfection and swimming in a sea of our world famous Hollandaise sauce. Just a touch of paprika on top and a hearty portion of hand-crafted hash browns on the side. Add our famous seven-fruit salad cup parfait with whipped cream for only a dollar!

Ham and Cheese Omelet- It's ham. It's cheese. It's an omelet. You want tomatoes in there? Hell, we got tomatoes. Sour cream on top? How about two scoops? Comes with piping hot potatoes o'brien and hot, buttery sourdough toast with our homemade strawberry freezer jam oozing off each and every corner!

Breakfast Burrito - Ole! First we take a 25 inch diameter flour tortilla from Mexico. Inside we nestle scrambled eggs, three handfuls of bacon, some ham, a sack of shredded extra sharp Tillamook cheddar, two ripe tomatoes and Big Al's legendary hash browns, all coated in a rich layer of pico de gallo, wrapped up like the baby Jesus and dolloped with seventeen scoops of sour cream.

Lunch Favorites!

Nomin's Special French Dip- Why ask why? Nine Inches of Meat. Just the way you like it. Served alongside a sopping wet bowl of simmering au jus with cole slaw, potato salad or our neato new waffle fries!

Cobb Salad- Do not make us tell you what a cobb salad is. Oh, all right, we'll do it just this once. Our Cobb Salad will make a man out of you. Upon a bed of romaine lettuce, feast upon chicken breast, bacon, black olives, tomatoes, avocado, green onion, hard boiled egg and blue cheese crumbles. Blue cheese salad dressing on the side that you will never use because our salad is so perfect all on its own. Comes with hot garlic bread.

Dinner Time:

Mom's Meatloaf- That's right! With a stripe of ketchup right down the center like mom used to make! Served alongside a mountain of our signature Heavy Cream/Full Creamery Butter Mashed Potatoes, crinkle carrots and our Endless Salad Bar complete with seven kinds of croutons.

Spaghetti with Butter and Cheese- You've tried the rest, now try the best. Our spaghetti has so much pure Tillamook butter and Lucerne parmesan cheese coating it that you won't even think of ordering that third chocolate malted milk shake from our in-house ice creamery and cheese tasting station.

Tacos Tacos Tacos - Every night is taco night at Nomin's Imperial Taco Bar. Doesn't all fit? The hell you say! Our patented slotted bib platters keep you covered. Endless shells in five sizes and colors, pre-dipped in our famous oil-cheese. Chicken, ground beef, picadillo, pulled pork, or vegetarian, four kinds of lettuce, five kinds of tomatoes, six kinds of cheese, nineteen flavors of hot sauce and our "Sour Cream Surprise" automatic condiment splatterer. We guarantee you'll leave tonight completely filled with tacos.




Good Cheer

Please, do come in. Have a seat on the chair of your choosing and join me in the indulgence of a silver goblet of our house wine- Powerade Zero Mixed Berry. It includes not only electrolytes and healthful aqua food coloring but also a smattering of B vitamins which shall fill you with pleasure and vigor and satiety. It will be the highlight of your evening, this scrumptious zero-calorie beverage. And when it is drunk, you shall not want another iota of caloric substance, for you shall be overflowing with the richness of what you have imbibed. You are ever so welcome.

Glad Tidings

I'm mailing the Christmas cards, yo. If you got a Thanksgiving card, I have your address and you can be smug in the knowledge that a card will be coming your way without further ado. If you didn't get a Thanksgiving card, I don't have your address or failed miserably to be thankful for you this year. Assume it's the former. I will send cards to all who submit an address! And my cards are really good! All comments are screened.


I have a vague memory of being very small and having to go to a special day care for one day because I was sick and couldn't go to my regular day care. It was a sick kids only day care. The lady said that I could play with these puzzles. "There are puzzles," she told me. I took a nap. I woke up and asked if I could play with the puzzles. She maliciously told me that puzzle time was over, that I couldn't play with the puzzles anymore. Small children shouldn't be left in the care of psychopaths. Despite this crushing blow to my psyche, I still love puzzles. Nobody keeps puzzles from me. I order them by the case.

My kindergarten teacher was Mrs. Quinlan and she was skin and bones and 100 years old. I was the only child in the class who could read at all and I could read absolutely anything. I was put on display at some event for parents and made to read aloud some Shel Silverstein poem about peanut butter sandwiches. The mothers made cupcakes for their children's birthdays. This trend would continue throughout my elementary years. My mother didn't make cupcakes. I had to bring Oreos. This made me feel great embarrassment. Now my children go to schools where the mothers aren't allowed to make cupcakes because everyone is allergic to peanuts and this somehow is a sensical equation. Everything has to be from a grocery store bakery. I know a lady who works in a grocery store bakery. Her garlic bread is lousy and I sure don't trust her cupcakes.

Yogurt. The optimum choice was fruit on the bottom Spiced Apple. Everything was fruit on the bottom then. Now you're hard pressed to get your hands on it and I bet you can't even get Spiced Apple. Second choice was Pina Colada. Blueberry was kind of a punishment. One time I buried yogurt in the yard to avoid eating it. My stepmother was terribly fond of feeding me yogurt. I still like it. Tillamook French Vanilla Bean is the best. I bet you can't get Tillamook where you live. There are some good things about where I live.

Today they took the garbage and the recycling away. It always feels like winning the lottery. What a stroke of luck that you can pay people to come to your house every week and take everything away that you don't want and you don't have to talk to them or anything, just stick it in a can and shove it into the street. I feel bad inside when it's recycling day and I have a few grains of coffee left in the big can, or a little bit of syrup left in the jug or so much shampoo left in the bottle. It really makes me crazy, wanting to recycle my containers.

Boy do I need to pee.


"For only one dollar extra you can get a green salad," she said with optimism.

"A green salad," I said, buying time until I would inevitably have to reject her offer. "No, I think I'll just stick with the club sandwich, but thank you." I nodded appreciatively with meaningful eye contact and she slapped closed her order book, put her pencil into her apron, and walked away.

I perused the sweetener options, my iced tea in front of me. No Sugar in the Raw, I noticed with chagrin. Not in this place. I liked the way you really had to go to town with your straw to get it all to dissolve and even then you'd find yourself with a great mouthful of crystallized sugar now and again. That left Equal or Sweet and Low or the big silo of straight sugar on the table next to the ketchup bottle. I went for the sugar, naturally. Club sandwich? No green salad? Who was I kidding.

The man in the booth across from mine was reading a newspaper and savoring a red plastic basket of chicken fingers and a cup of coffee, black. He ignored the honey mustard and barbecue sauce-filled ramekins alongside and ate his chicken straight. He had a gray handlebar mustache and was squinting into the obituary section, reading line by line, his lips moving. He kept clearing his throat and he had a paper napkin on one knee.

Behind me were the voices of two older ladies. They were discussing a friend, Fran, who was in the hospital with pneumonia. They were very worried about her husband and if maybe they should bring around some casseroles or something. There was some concern that he might not be much of a casserole eater, that maybe they'd be better off forgetting the whole thing.

I'd always had a thing about booths in restaurants. A deep-seated fear that something bad was way in there and, intellectually, I felt that I could only be correct. I could only sit on the outside near the aisle and I couldn't let my knee ever touch the underside of the table. I tried desperately not to even think of it.

The last restaurant I went to had a clown loose in it. It was too late- Sharon and I had already accepted our table and our menus and were staring down a couple of glasses of water with lemon floating in it when we saw it. We plastered on our constipated faces willing the balloon animal-making clown to go bother someone else, someone with children for crying out loud, can't anyone just eat in peace anymore?

My club sandwich arrived. I smiled up at the waitress.

"Can I get you anything else?" she asked, already leaving me, already leaning toward obituary man with her coffee pot, knowing my answer would be no.

"No, this is great," I said, making a big show of opening up my napkin, nodding vigorously. She attempted a smile and crossed the aisle to make the man an offer of a piece of pie for dessert. I wouldn't be getting any pie. I was already busy wrapping the pickle spear up in my napkin and shoving it down into the seat.

Pine Lake

Twenty five years or so ago Pine Lake and the surrounding Issaquah area was a rustic quaint nowhere kind of place. Now it has mansions on it and Little Caesars and property taxes and who knows what all. Where there was once a general store with plank floors there is now a Circle K. At least, that's what I've heard.

The Nelsons had a cabin on Pine Lake. They lived in their first-floor Bellevue condo in the cold months and switched to the lakefront cabin in the Summer. The Nelsons were Harry and Marian and you could drive yourself crazy thinking "Mary and Harian" in your head. Harry was just an old guy and Marian was just an old lady except she was in a wheelchair and freaked me out. I was their daughter's stepdaughter, which made me absolutely nothing to them. I felt it.

The Nelsons were Susan's parents. Susan was my stepmother except I called her Sue. I can't seem to call her Sue anymore, even though she's dead now.

Summers were all about Pine Lake. All I even remember about childhood was summer. We'd pack up and drive out there. I don't even know what we packed. I must have packed a swimsuit and extra shorts. What else did you need? If things were truly excellent, other people got invited to come too. My parents were both teachers and all their friends were teachers and these folks managed to make for good company to each other and secretly to me though I was never close to any of them and they treated me like I didn't exist. I liked them along side them instead of within them. I still do this.

The house faced backward. You entered the long gravel drive with cedar trees towering left and right and after awhile grass grew where the tire grooves weren't. You could park anywhere, up against the house, or off to the side. There was a newer bed house off to the side for sleeping over guests and that building had baseboard heaters and no mildew smell. A little farther down was a scary dark building that had scary dark gravel ground floors and that was worth venturing into because that was where the huge gigantic inner tubes were kept.

You entered the house through the back door. There was a mud room there. In it was only a particleboard shelving unit with sliding doors with diamond shaped indentations for sliding the doors. In there were those little cans of pineapple juice with the plastic seals you peeled off. Also Pepsi Light and most excellently those half size cans of Tab which for a long time you couldn't get anymore. I think there was also something called Pepsi Light with Lemon. It was good stuff in there. All the most poisonous diet sodas. The room was carpeted with indoor outdoor carpet. I think it had stripes.

Then you'd enter into the kitchen. When you opened the door into the kitchen, a musical thing, a hollow decorative little box thing attached to the door with metal strings on it and a swinging ball on a string went bong bong bing bong. You might play with that thing for hours. The kitchen had brown linoleum flooring. All I can remember from the pantry was corned beef hash in a can which was disgusting. The big bottom drawer had all the paper plates and plastic spoons and STRAWS which were everybody's favorite. There was some kind of funny thing on the wall about being "in the dog house", you know, shaped like a dog house. In the freezer were always homemade yogurt popsicles in Disney plastic molds. Marian would sit in her wheel chair and squeeze the frozen molds until they melted enough to release the yogurt popsicle for you. They were pretty tasty. You preferred the Donald Duck to the Mickey Mouse but you never knew why. I ate a lot of tuna sandwiches in that kitchen. You had to have a tuna sandwich before you could keep having fun. Fun fun fun tuna sandwich fun fun fun. There was no rhyme or reason to it.

Off the kitchen was the gigantic living room with speckled linoleum floors. The walls were lined with sofas. There was a tv. That was it. It was a gigantic empty dark as hell room, with no light getting to it through the cedar trees that surrounded the house. People slept in there on the foldouts. Going back was the one bedroom and it was light green and the only thing I can remember about that room was that there was Cherry Ludens cough drops in there and I stole those of course. I also got my ass spanked in that room when I told a guest to "get your dirty hands off that" when he was handling a large musical brass globe wedding gift. It didn't matter that the guest laughed when I said it or that he was horrified when I was spanked for saying it.

The only other room was the one bathroom. It was bright white with an old fashioned sink and Aim toothpaste. Aim was not approved by the American Dental Association and I lusted after it only after Close Up and Aquafresh. Sue was a strict Crest user. She was very brand loyal.

But who wants to be inside when you can BUST OUT THE FRONT DOOR onto the porch and out onto the beach? Wait, go back. The front door led to the porch. The porch had some tables and chairs but what I remember most about the front porch was the ashtrays made out of Beer Nuts cans covered in aluminum foil. It was an art.

You had to watch your step running down to the water because there were cedar roots ready to trip your ass bulging up all over the place. You fell on your face at least once per trip to Pine Lake. It was worth it.

In the center was the long wooden dock. THERE WAS NO RUNNING ON THE DOCK. This was the only rule of Pine Lake. On the right side of the dock was where the swimming and inner tubing went on. It was sandy on the bottom. You NEVER went in on the left side of the dock. You want to know why? I'll tell you why. The left side wasn't sandy on the bottom. The left side was deep in GREEN SLUDGE that wrapped itself around your ankles and threatened to drag you under and drown your face. You only went over there for a cheap thrill. Also for thrills was GOING UNDER THE DOCK ON YOUR INNER TUBE. This was horrifyingly exciting. The dock was for the men to fish on, or for the men to blow fireworks off of. You might jump into the water off of it. The wood felt perfectly hot on your feet.

At night, of course, there were bonfires and grilling shish kebabs with canned baby potatoes and onion hunks and big marinated chunks of stew meat and cherry tomatoes and my dad would get his guitar and sing Go Tell Aunt Rhody and there would probably be marshmallows and it was truly the best. One time I skinny dipped with Sue's friend Wendy's daughter Amy. Wendy was mesmerizing because she drove a lime green Fiat with ruined red naugahyde seats and was a single mom. How Sue had all those friends was mesmerizing because she was so mean to me. I still haven't solved the puzzle of that.

One time I found a tiny little seedling growing in the sand on the beach. It couldn't live there. Sue was kind and told me to dig it up and plant it back along the driveway with the other cedars, where the delicious tiny red huckleberries grew. I did plant it and it did grow and I'd check on it every time I went to Pine Lake.

My dad divorced Sue of course. And that was the end of Pine Lake. And then they sold the cabin when Harry died. And then Marian died. And now Sue is dead. You can go to Pine Lake. The state park is three lots down from the cabin, which is probably now a big hulking rich people's house. But it's not the same. I went by there once and tried to find my tree but I couldn't tell which one it was or if it was even there.


Today was Sunday; Jaden and I rolled out of bed at the same late hour, both of us with terrible hair. Chad and Paulina and Cadbury were at yet another damn bicycle race and they came home around lunchtime and we hit the old fence with a sledgehammer until it all fell down and then we realized we have to put up a retaining wall for part of the fence and I chopped a bunch of maple tree away from the patio area and swept and stacked up bicycles and scraped up old blackberries with a rake and drank ice water out of a bicycle water bottle. We mailed some packages and went to the expensive grocery store and bought pita bread and teriyaki rice crackers and nectarines and a Sunday paper. Chad made pico de gallo and Jaden said it had not enough lime and too much pepper and I tasted it and said it had too much salt and Chad said there wasn't any salt IN IT, but it was very good pico de gallo. He really went to town mincing that stuff down. Mine is more rustic. Then everyone but me had a banana split and there were not enough cherries for every split. Chad then drank a dark chocolate coffee beer aged in bourbon barrels and I drank coffee aged in my coffee pot. We watched Andrew Zimmern eat squirrel and goat rectum and ants. We are out of Splenda, milk, matches and tortilla chips. Tomorrow is Monday.


God wants you to have seven pieces of toast

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May 2010


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