What I Did While Obama Made History

After Mack and I did our civic duty at the polls and collected proof in the form of a sticker, we came home to watch as the first African American in the United States became the leader of the free world. And this is what happened...

Kitty tried to kill me and steal my Obama-Biden t-shirt.
Obama supporters cheered and chanted at Grant Park in Chicago in the brisk November weather.
McCain supporters listened to the guys from the FreeCreditReport.com commercials perform at the swanky Biltmore Hotel in Phoenix.
Kitty tried to drink my beer.
Wolf Blitzer said, "Bonanza."
A panel of 5 white people discussed how having a black president will affect race relations in the United States.
Kitty stole Mack's breath and he went unconscious.
Paul Begala said, "Peace out, Cub Scout."
McCain's extra neck skin started to be a distraction... and has he always had stroke eye there on his left?
Obama wins Ohio. I got jiggy with it.
Dana Cash said they've turned off the news at the Biltmore, likely to preserve what's left of the "festive" atmosphere since they opted NOT to have an ice luge.
Guy Working the Map said, "I wouldn't bet a dime on McCain winning New Mexico."
Mack ate some pumpkin chili and broke out his Quantitative Analysis homework.CNN's graphics officially went over the top with the Capitol Building in the middle of the table and the rainbow of seats over it.
And then they hit the ridiculous mark when they HOLOGRAMMED IN Will.I.Am... as if he was Princess Leia.
Finally, the polls closed on the West Coast, and my candidate was awarded what he had worked his entire life for.
Let us never underestimate the power of a community organizer ever again.

R.I.P. Halloween 2008

Somehow I managed to turn October (the entire month) into Halloween. I unintentionally used the same tactics I use in May for my birthday, and now I have no money and had way too much fun.

This Halloween was bigger and better than any I've ever had before. And by bigger and better I mean we had an ice luge.
For those of you past fraternity rush age, an ice luge is a block of ice carved with a little trail through it that you pour shots down and then catch in your mouth. I'm not positive, but I think it's what inspired the Beastie Boys to fight for their right to party.
Since I am past fraternity rush age, I concocted a "witch's brew" to save myself from having to succumb to peer pressure and ingest shots of actual liquor. And no, I did not go as a wimp this year. I went as Regan from The Exorcist.
The ice luge was a centerpiece of the crime scene we set up in the carport. In anticipation of my best Halloween party yet, Sandra and I did a few rounds of crime scene photos that we used to create creepy ambiance on Friday night. Being on the verge of death is never really as much fun as we had faking it, a fact Jen can attest to.

In addition to mandatory costumes, I insisted every guest try the ice luge and get their mugshot taken. Because what fun is Halloween without a few requirements? And photographic evidence of poor judgment?
Since my neighbor does construction we had actual coffins -- one grown up sized and one baby sized. And we had a graveyard. To all the poor homeowners who hired my neighbors, thanks for the plywood and the styrofoam. They really made my month.
Hope everyone had a Happy Halloween. Or at least lived through it...

Waasssuuppp... the last 8 years

Remember that Bud commercial (back when Budweiser was an American beer) where all the guys "Wassup" each other? No? Well, here it is.

It's been 8 years since those guys made that commercial. So, they reunited and made this one. And they are not looking so good these days.

Not exactly Mr. Rogers... but then he was creepier than anyone thought he was.

I talk about my neighbors a lot. Partly because they are in such close proximity all the time and partly because they have sort of become my surrogate family.
They drive Harleys and they have a dozen snakes living in their house. Their baby girl wears skeleton clothes and sports a mohawk. They cuss like sailors and drink Jack Daniels. They have a pit bull. They decorate our garden with jawbones and skulls that Sandra got during her career in taxidermy.
At first glance, they seem like a scary lot. And until Halloween last year, I doubted that we had anything in common. I mean, I'm sure it's quite a sight to see me in my heels heading to work on a scooter while Bill in his tattered blue jeans heads to work in a truck I'm not entirely convinced isn't my grandpa's.

But Halloween, that time of year when people are allowed to let those dark parts of their personalities come into the light, showed that we are more alike than I may have realized. I love horror movies, they love horror movies. I love carving pumpkins, they love carving pumpkins. I love to be scared, they love to scare people.

Whenever I talk about my neighbors to my more "contained" friends, they seem to feel for me that I live by these people. But I love it. I've lived by people who were far worse (Roy, the mailman who nagged me about mowing my yard even when I was working three jobs to pay my mortgage, comes to mind) and by people who we far more secretive (I've lived by some people for years without ever seeing their faces, which made asking for a cup of sugar seem like an offense). With my neighbors now, what you see is the worst of what you get.

Most days, when we're not playing with blood and pretending to kill things in the name of Halloween, they make me coffee and share their pumpkin muffins. They plant colorful mums and water my plants. They bring down a bowl of veggie chili and invite us up to watch them feed their snakes. At the risk of softening their edge, they're really the best neighbors I've ever had.

(* no one was harmed in the making of these photos, except the pumpkins)

Dulywed: What's Beneath All Those Vows (a series)

I sat working on my Halloween shopping list, sipping a latte he made from our new espresso machine -- an indulgence courtesy of his first med school acceptance. He danced his fingers across the out of tune piano in the living room, creating an ambiance that echoes the one I want to have in the house I get with secret passageways and hidden rooms.

And in a few harmonious seconds, I forgot all about his facial hair wallpapering the sink, his obliviousness to the dishwasher and his post-judo practice smell perfuming the whole house and remembered that this is why I love him.

That is when he switched tunes and replaced Chopin with Kung Fu Fighting.

Adventures in Babysitting

On Saturday night I was trusted with the life of another human being... that of my neighbors' baby to be precise.

Which seems even more remarkable considering that they know I sent my dog to a retirement home and that my cat has been on her last legs for two years now.

I was all prepped to give my full attention to something the size of a pumpkin, was all ready to read books full of one syllable words and was totally committed to doing the same thing over and over again so she could give me a few good chuckles before she gives me that look that tells me I went just a little too far into crazy.

And then she fell asleep. Before her parents were even gone. Without even one game played.

So I laid on the couch next to her and watched The Devil's Rejects while she made little snores and no doubt had sweet dreams.

Miss Kitty's seen better days...

Like when Jen was here. Not only did Jen make our house literally smell like roses, she also did the dishes, groomed the cat, and made the bed. And now, Kitty is once again thinking she's royalty, this is her kingdom and I am here only to serve her Iams and make Mack's life better suited to lounging with her.

Fine then...

Apparently my challenge wasn't very... well... challenging. My mind is busy being creative about other things like HALLO-FREAKIN-WEEN!

Anyway, here's the real reason Jen posed at Muscle Beach. I think his name is Dark Sexy, but I'm not positive. Jen was the one who got his number...

Extreme Tourism...

Jen is a tourism super model. She does all the right poses and is just so when it comes to getting her travel pictures taken. This makes assembling Martha Stewart-esque scrapbooks much easier.

But in the case of the photo below, Jen played up her tourist persona to bring you a very special glimpse of Muscle Beach. Can you tell what it is? Leave a guess in the comments and then I'll do a big reveal in a couple days. The first winner gets a trick or a treat... I get to decide.

A little toupee experiment

Jennifer is here. Suck it to the rest of you who want her. I won this weekend.

We've had oodles of fun that involves bicycles and margaritas and ravines and minimal blogging, but for now, I offer you this: a segment we call "uh, what's up with the hairpiece?"
Hey, we tried to be perfect, but alas, Mother Nature issued other mandates. Since it's been a losing battle, we've instead opted for perfect fun, which, to quote my future president, makes us potentially a little "too awesome."

Lisa, this one's for you...

Just about a lifetime ago, I had the privilege of being an observer of "A Summer of Staches." The "SoS" was a season of change for several of my guy friends, wherein they all agreed to grow mustaches and wear tank tops.

Lisa asked earlier this year if anyone had photographic evidence of this event, and while I had a mental picture, I just could not find the physical one. I pulled out boxes upon boxes of photos, making Mack think I'd caught the crazy that Barbara Hershey gets in Beaches when she's all, "I've got to find the picture of my mom's hands or else my daughter will die!"

I gave up and assumed it'd been lost in the move. Until last night.

While tidying up for Jen's visit (just 10 more hours!!!), I was trying to toss Mack's microphone to the top of the bedroom closet. It decided the top of the closet wasn't where it wanted to be, so it took aim at my head. I fell into the shelves where I keep my hot rollers to dodge its attack, and in my state of grace, I knocked a decorative photo box off the shelf. Photos spilled out chronicling misplaced moments from my life, and there, at the bottom of the pile of memories, folded in half, was The. Stache. Photo.

Dulywed: What's Beneath All Those Vows (a series)

Sitting in our respective spots in the living room, after watching a thrilling episode of Project Runway and eating pumpkin muffins for dinner, Mr. T looks my way with a glint in his eye that means he's thinking about something not related to judo.

"We've had some great adventures," he says.

"Season Finale, part 1...," I remind him, ruining the sweet moment that's about to slap me in the face.

"How many other couples can say they've been to Africa and to a McDonald's diner together?" he ponders.

"Or to jail."

No, this is not "baby fever"

But, come on, when meat collides as it has in this photo of my neighbor Sadie and her cousin, it needs to be shared with the world.
So as not to explode your mind, I cropped out the BABIES KISSING, because that would have been cuteness overload and the kiss was really not letting the meat have its moment.

Now, if I could just get my chub to look that cute...

Riddle me this...

Right, so, okay. There's this thing. It comes once every four years, but it lasts only about two minutes. And basically. Yeah, basically, people have died trying to get this thing. Uh huh, they've died. Like more people than have died in Iraq have died trying to get this thing. And now EVERYONE has it. Everyone. They've given it to Every. Single. Person. It's doesn't cost a penny. But it could cost you everything if you don't do it. So, what is it?

Dulywed: What's Beneath All Those Vows (a series)

Mack slumps into the house after a long day of school and discovers me hard at work on his computer. Reading stories.

"Babe, seriously, can we get some groceries?" he whimpers. "I really can't go to school all day and not eat."

I tenderly point out the fact that it's not the we don't have food... it's that he won't make it. If it doesn't come in a microwaveable bag or a banana peel, suddenly it ceases to exist.

Broken into a state of ludicrous from starvation, he turns into a crabby monster.

"Don't treat me like I'm a baby," he huffs.

"Stop acting like one and I won't," I tenderly retort.

"Get out of my face and don't talk to me the rest of the night."

Normally, I would have thrown some hate back in his face because that's what makes us happy, but he was hungry, and I know how hungry can make you insane.

Like when I'm hungry (or tired), I turn into this:
I tenderly stood up, left his computer, went into the kitchen and started cooking every morsel of food we had in the entire house. I made him two grilled cheese sandwiches, a dinner plate's worth of green beans, pasta salad with green beans, basil and tomatoes from our garden or my Aunt Becky's garden, potato salad and tuna salad. Then I went to the grocery store and replenished some of the snack stash, even throwing in a bag of hydrogenate-free chocolate chip cookies in the hopes that it would sweeten him up a little bit.

And that is why I earned an A+ in wife today.

I'm sad about this.

I love the scene in Cool Hand Luke where Paul Newman eats 50 eggs. In no way am I a film expert, but that scene is executed to perfection. The ludicrousness of the challenge, the humor of Luke's distended belly, the rallying prisoners -- it's tense and dramatic and comical all wound up together in a dreamy little package of time.How do you pay tribute to the life of a man like Paul Newman, a man who happily stayed married to his wife forever and who started an organic food movement long before it was cool? I think it starts with a bag of Newman-Os, a tall glass of milk and plans to escape.

Smooshie Muahs

I love being this close to other human beings. I love squashing our faces together and forgetting whose arm is whose and letting our heartbeats make sense of it all. Thanks to those of you who let me be this close to you. It makes this life worth living.

The Endorsement Series (Part 9 in a Series)

When I visit my mom and dad's house, I eat basically every nut they have in their house.

They have Everybody's Nuts Pistachios. Ate 'em. They have Blue Diamond smoked almonds. Devoured. They have Blue Diamond wasabi almonds. Well, they HAD wasabi almonds.

I just can't help it. Nuts are like salty crunchy goodness wads, and I am weak in the face of salty crunchy goodness wads.

I crunched through every nut in the house, and then, on the way to the airport, just when they thought their nuts were safe, I discovered the Blue Diamond Cinnamon Brown Sugar Almonds that my dad keeps in the console in the event that during his workday he realizes he's skipped 6 meals and is on the verge of a coma from improper nutrition. His near-death starvation couldn't even stop me from popping a handful into my mouth.

Come on, they taste like CHRISTMAS MORNING, people! A nut that is like Christmas. As if I could resist that.

Just go out, buy them, and hide them in a special place like a little squirrel does with its winter nuts. Deez nuts.

Making Messers

Leiah and Matt finally did it. No, they did that a LONG time ago. This time they did this.
During a whirlwind trip home to witness the nuptials and share my over-sized bosom with relatives I haven't seen in years, I think I managed to get in 11 hours of sleep.

The whole weekend was like a slurry of sassy comebacks, which basically means it was like a long weekend in heaven for me. I went out with Leigh and Heather to soak up some "Is that Sarah Palin?" glances. I got to have a beer with my cousins Isaac, Ryan, Nate, Andrea, and Taylor, all of whom I haven't seen in years and are even more fun as adults than they were as kids. Aunt Tina and Aunt Becky made my mom smile that way that only her sisters can make her smile, and I had an impromptu family reunion right outside the restroom with the Hensleys, who all seem to be gradually turning into Mimis and Pas. I think Magnolia actually emits light from her bright personality. Of course, Seth was there too... flunking on his ushering duties and trying to grow facial hair. I got to spend the night at Betsy's apartment and be jealous of her tiny furniture and her ability to make random feel orderly -- and I got to perform some big sister duties against some newly discovered larvae in her bedroom. I got to teach Ben the importance of the clink when toasting, even though he was drinking out of a sippy cup.

The only thing not perfect about the whole affair was the absence of Shan, Chaz and the Sweet Meat. But, they were huge parts of the story telling and big sources of pride for the rest of us, so while they weren't there in physical form, they were represented well by the words hanging in the air.
I talked too loud, I barked too many orders, I laughed too hard, I revealed too much, I generally overdid everything. It was like I was on Life Red Bull or something, and now, now that it's calm enough for me to bathe responsibly, I am sick. Like sinus pressure, hacking cough sick. Like the sick where your colleagues say, "Um, maybe you should go home," and you retort, in the voice of a 13 year old boy because that's all the voice you have left, "No, I'm okay. I've got some tea."

I wouldn't change it for the world.

Dulywed: What's Beneath All Those Vows (A Series)

The room becomes filled with what can only be described as bombed by a Porta Potty.

Me: Did you just shit your pants?

Him: No, you were just ignoring what I was saying so I tried to communicate with smells. 

Never before in my life

Normally I steer clear of political discourse because I get too mad to listen to people who don't care about those less fortunate than them and I am admittedly far too uninformed to challenge their way of thinking. And, in my house, even though Mr. T & I live on the same political page, he is black and white and I tend to swim around in murkier realities. Then he gets exasperated at how rageless I am and I shut down at how rageous he is, and then I make a mental promise never to discuss politics again. Ever.

But lately, especially since the Democratic Convention, I have been smiling at the TV in ways that are usually reserved for episodes of Wife Swap. I have been doing my dishes to speeches that make me take my sudsy mitts into the living room to worship the orator. I have been moved to approach voter registration tables to thank the people for working to get others involved. I have felt a kinship to people who I'd normally have nothing in common with, and all of this has given me a sense of peace.

This is going to sound nuts, but Barack Obama does for me what I imagine Jesus does for others.

He inspires me to love my fellow humans, he makes me feel valuable, he gives me courage to be myself, he teaches me that truth and honesty are the best defense and the greatest unifiers, and he shows me that being friendly is heroic. He gives me hope.

I have a very unfounded but very present fear that the world may in fact end in the year 2012. I know it's ridiculous. I know it won't happen. But things are just so bad and there are just so many coincidences that point to 2012 and the environment is flashing a red alert and I don't even have an earthquake box ready! That little voice whispering, "Twenty Twelve!!!" in the back of my head won't shut up all the way and keeps me in a constant albeit low level state of freaked out.

But ever since Obama has taken the political stage, I feel like we've had a second coming. Like we've been given a bonus chance to get it right. I don't feel afraid, but rather feel optimistic, like we may just come out of this alright. We may just be able to keep loving those we love and breathing the air we've become accustomed to. We may just settle down and stop running all frenzied until we die. We may start taking care of ourselves and stop being so damn greedy.

I have voted in every election I have been old enough to vote in, but never before have I been motivated to do much beyond that -- beyond placing my fate in someone else's hands even though I know it's really up to me and me alone. Unfortunately we have created a situation where I am not enough anymore -- and I am hard working, college educated, healthy, blessed beyond belief. I can't pay down my student loans because they've done nothing but accumulate interest since I got out of school. I can't afford to add my husband to my health insurance policy because it would prohibit us from paying our rent. I am not enough, and something needs to change so that those who are hard working, college educated, healthy and blessed beyond belief won't have to feel that they aren't enough.

Obama represents that change to me. His is the first campaign that I have donated to (meagerly yet always significantly appreciated). He is the first presidential nominee that made me want a campaign T-shirt. He is the first candidate that I have actually wanted -- and trusted with my well being.

Vote Obama.

Take This Milton Keynes!

Charles is always so braggy about England's impromptu witch hunts and strange festivals where they give babies dirty cats to chew on, so I wanted to share a little of what goes down in Venice, where I live, and where strange happens basically every weekend. And, I'm doing it in comic form because I know how Charles LOVES a Chick Tract!

Partying Down with the Virgo Babies

One of my best friends and my favorite nephew both have birthdays in September, so when the two collided on my front stoop on Labor Day Weekend, we had choice but to throw a party.

Sadie, the creepy monster who lives upstairs with her mom and dad and security dog, is turning 1 on Sept. 12, and Ben, the love machine with the goldilocks and shark chompers, is turning 2 on Sept. 15. I believe birthdays should be celebrated for an entire month, and the only way to teach the kids that is to start them early. That's where I come in.

I may have spoiled it for the rest of you by getting first dibs on the party, but I got what I want, and the squirts got what they wanted, so we win.
[Note: this is a slideshow from that Smilebox thing. It's admittedly more annoying/less cool than the scrapbook thing, but I wanted to try it. The pictures are cute enough to make you watch all the way through, though.]

Scrapbooking

[Note: I got a free copy of this scrapbook/slideshow software called Smilebox when I was at BlogHer. It's normally $40 for a subscription, and then a few bucks extra for music options and ad-free slideshows and photo albums. It's very cute software, so if you like it, now you know how to get it.]

Precious Moments

There are several things that are incredible about the following. First, Ben is voluntarily on the sand. Secondly, he is having fun on the sand. Thirdly, Leiah did not vomit despite spinning round and round and round. Fourthly, I restrained myself and did not right then and there kidnap that angel baby and flee to Mexico.

A Letter to John McCain

Dear John,

I don't think you're a bad guy. In fact, as far as Republicans go, you've always seemed somewhat mild mannered and reasonable. If I shared a table with you at a wedding, I wouldn't find it altogether miserable, and I certainly wouldn't rub my armpit on your chair and swab my crotch with your napkin, which is what I think Republicans usually deserve (except Jennifer, who I love). But as a presidential candidate?

John, come on. You're turning 100 years old soon. You admit you don't use the Internet. You've got that weird thing where your arms are stuck like Barbie's, which I'm sure is probably from all that torture you survived but it's still weird looking. You're not bad; you're just not right.

I don't deny that you are an asset to the United States, that you have served more and better than I would be willing to, that you make the Republican Party (except Jennifer, who I love) seem less insane and evangelical. But this presidential campaigning is just wearing you out.

It doesn't help that the guy you're running against is not only charismatic and charming and brilliant and deliberate and affirming and confident and stoic, but he's also young and sexy. Well, younger and sexy. When you try to come off as young and hip against Obama, you look older than ever. And it hurts me to watch, especially when all those idiots in your party (except Jennifer, who I love and who is not an idiot) start whining on your behalf after they've made you do things they couldn't stand up to the scrunity of.

So, pack up your dignity, hold onto your self respect, go back to being a rational right winger, and act your age. It'll help you save face, I promise.

Love,
Miss Thomas

Move Over, Beethoven

I know it may sound like I'm bragging, but I'm pretty convinced Bam Bam is a prodigy. Whether he'll make David Beckham look like a ballerina or make Bob Dylan look like a suburban emo only time will tell, but right now, at the ripe old age of almost 2, he masters everything he touches. 

It's kind of freaky to watch, but then I remember he does have my DNA, and it all makes a little more sense. 

Dulywed: What's Beneath All Those Vows (A Series)

"Hmmm, lunch... lunch... what should I pack for lunch? Oh, I know, there's half a lasagna left from last night. I'll grab a bit of that."

[opens refrigerator; doesn't see lasagna anywhere; spots empty container picked apart by vulture man on counter top; eyes fall out of head in disbelief that a single human being can ingest that much lasagna as a midnight snack]

"Or not."

[heads off to work with the leftover salad that was completely untouched during the husband binge-fest]

I saw a perverted old woman... At Last

I love the Hollywood Bowl and I love Etta James, so when Etta decided to perform at the Bowl last week, it was basically the universe telling me to go, love, and smoosh it all together into a fun patty.

Paolo Nutini opened up the night, and if he wasn't so sweaty I'd be writing a marriage proposal right now. His songs were purely happy, and he kind of reminded me of the Beatles, only Scottish, a little drunk, and a little nerdier. As he rotated off the stage, Solomon Burke rotated on. The man showed up sitting on a throne big enough to hold an elephant and did not stand up one single time... because he was the size of an elephant. His voice was Barry White sultry though, so the love amped up so much that Mr. T had to remind me that he was the husband and as such, he should be putting his arm around me and secretly getting to second base.

Sometimes I forget.

Things were getting all lovey dovey touchy feely when Madam Blues took the stage. Since she's pushing 70 years old, she sort of hobbled out and immediately sat down on her hip replacement friendly stool. We also settled in to listen to her tell us how it is and were then treated to some of the creepiest old lady porn I've seen in... well... my whole life.

For some reason, possibly because she is crazy, she came out and rubbed herself. Her lower self. And then her upper self. And then she flicked her tongue around the microphone as if to say, "Hey there young boys, there's nothing but magic under these dentures."

It was so bizarre that whenever she made an advance on herself, the entire Bowl responded with gasps of horror and bursts of laughter. I couldn't look away because I could barely believe it was really happening.

Thanks to my FanciPhone, I was able to capture the moment in this triptych I call "Please. God. No." And now, you too, can experience Etta at last.

Things to Do in Austin when You're Drunk (part 2 of a series)

South Congress is a pretty notorious part of Austin, and after you've gorged yourself on Guero's, South Congress becomes a nice little stretch of asphalt that will aid in your digestion.

The strip has a lot of kitchy shops and restaurants, but unfortunately, it doesn't have a lot of trees. You're basically the egg frying on the sidewalk in August unless you learn how to hug the wall like Sarah does.
We wandered into vintage and antique shops with dusty old photos of people who are way past dead but who looked like they had a really nice life. I love old black and white snapshots of people. If it wouldn't be so incredibly weird, I'd like to make a family album of the pictures I really like and pretend that those are my ancestors and make up stories about them. Maybe in my secret life I will do that, but for now I'll let Shan be the primary weirdo in our clan.

Among the chandeliers, old farm equipment, feathered hats, tiny shoes, dishes and word cards that defined the four of us as Slow, Creak, Nerve and Prize, Kristin and I found a child's memory box. I had never seen one of those before. Since it's likely you haven't either, let me explain.

Apparently in the olden days, affluent parents liked to preserve their child's youth by collecting DNA samples and storing them in a velvet lined box. A lock of brown hair snaked around five little brown teeth in this particular box... and it was nasty. Interesting and mysterious, but nasty.

If I ever do become a parent, I must resist my pack rat tendencies and NOT save body pieces shed by my child. And if I simply have to keep these souvenirs, I must resist the temptation to put it all in a fancy box to make it seem special and not gross.

Since skin cancer was starting to materialize on Sarah's delicate skin, we called an end to our casual browsing and took refuge at a Doc's Motor Works Bar & Grill. Doc's was like a BW3s, only automotive. The beers were cold, brewed locally and called Fireman's #4. Just the way we like 'em.

Things to Do in Austin when You're Drunk (a series)

How Ruble, Sarah, Kristin and I managed to find the most incredible hangouts in Austin is either a testament to our abilities to sniff out good times or a clear indicator that Austin qualifies as one of the best cities in the United States.

Breathe now, because that sentence was a doozy.

It took us almost a year to the day for us far-flung friends to make it to the same geography, but it was worth the wait. We were barely off the plane an hour and we were sipping margaritas and eating queso at Guero's. A guy on the plane next to Kristin said he was going there as soon as he got out of the airport, so if he was that devoted, it must be a place worth devotion. Yeah, it was.
I was surprised to see how vegetarian friendly Austin actually was. I expected it to be like Dallas only worse, because Austin is known for its barbecue. Instead, I found veggie versions of practically everything. Which I'm sure I would have enjoyed if I wasn't already about to explode from all the queso I drank.

So, add Austin to your list, and at the top, write in Guero's. Also at the top, write "Hot as Hell... DO NOT bring your favorite hoodie."

I needed this today.

Ahh, the Torches of Freedom

Shannon, as we're pulling into Lake Charles for the first time: "Look at all the pollution. They're just burning it right into the air."

Mom, trying to look on the bright side: "Those are the Torches of Freedom, girls."

Shannon, after a long pause and five more sightings of burning pollution tubes: "Why are there so many of them?"

The Lake Charles Skyline

Annie's

I think we were on Common Street. I never did learn my way around since Lake Charles has grown so much since the last time I was there. It actually has several Starbucks now.

The place looked like a roadside shack, where genuine drinkers go to ease the pain, and as we past it I said, "We've got to go there."

Liz knows all about Annie's. Apparently she stayed there one night easing her pain and had Amy pick her up -- from the bar -- the next morning to catch a flight to Kentucky. That's what Annie's does. It sucks you in and gives you a place to wallow.

I'd left my ID in my suitcase with my boarding pass, so getting a beer wasn't as breezy as I thought it was going to be. The bartender refused to serve me even after I explained the ID traveling 30 years old story, when a woman three stools over asked me where I was visiting from. I told her California, Los Angeles, and that when we'd drove by earlier I'd told Liz we had to stop here and get a beer. The woman, Bonnie, called me over to "get a look" at me, had me take off my glasses, and okayed me for a beer. Since she was the owner, the bartender reluctantly complied, but not before a few cuss words were thrown around the room.

The bartender was a bitch. But Bonnie was awesome.

She'd been running Annie's for 26 years and had been living in Lake Charles for 40. As she explained, she was a "coon ass by injection." She'd named the bar for her grandmother, who used to go into bars in the days when women would cross the street to avoid walking in front of them. Bonnie called her a feminist. I understood.

Liz said I had to see the bathroom before we left, so I made my way to the back and, after a confrontation with a beetle the size of King Kong, went into the ladies room. It reminded me of my grandma's basement, where all the retired furniture and velvet paintings went to live. Delightfully tacky, yet refined, if you will.

We had to leave to meet up with Amy, but Bonnie told us to stop by on Saturday night for karaoke. She said things really get rolling at around 2:30... a.m. Good to know for the next time I visit Lake Charles.

Fast forward 18 years

One weekend when we were in the 7th grade, Liz, Amy and I decided to go to Wal-mart to get our picture taken. I borrowed a blue shirt with an over-sized collar from Amy, and the three of us went to the photo department of Louisiana's finest department store.

I forgot all about that afternoon until 2001, when my poor planning and geographical ignorance made me, Liz, Amy & I drive all over Louisiana and Texas in search of a good time. At a pit stop at Liz's house, there on the fridge, the past converged with the present.

She had three copies of the photo, so I stole a tiny one and added it to my stash in Kentucky. She forgives me for things like that.

Last weekend at Amy's wedding, where I was known as the one who got Amy into a fist fight at an amusement park with the unforgettable and foreshadowing statement "What? You're going to fight me over a place in line?!," the photo once again made an appearance. This time as a 5" by 7" framed enlargement.

Amy's mom, Ms. Bunny, had found it recently and decided to get a copy for me and Liz to commemorate Amy's wedding. So, to celebrate 18 years together, through fist fights and break ups and births and hurricanes and weddings, we decided to update the photo, with a photo featuring the photo. Photo.
I just feel lucky to have kept such good friends for almost 20 years (in Heather's case, though, it's been 20 years and counting). And I'm glad I've sort of learned to dress myself in that time.