White T

Recently, a discount European Grocery Store by the name of Aldi has moved into the area. Aldi has become the favorite place of my Uncle Moustafa, and as such, is a frequent topic of conversation to my whole family.

At a recent trip to Uncle Moustafa's house, all the produce and tea purchased from Aldi were brought out to my family, where Uncle Moustafa ordered us to smell the foods, as proof that Aldi--although cheap--sells wonderful products.

After this particular visit, my dad made his speech about Aldi, which you can find in a previous post, but I'll recap here: The only people who shop at Aldi are Minorities and Immigrants.

Anyways, for some reason, my dad decided to shop at Aldi a few times to buy bananas and potato chips (people who came to the Arrested Development fun fest may remember those chips, the ones that went *thud* when they hit the ground). Well, one day my family was going out to eat, and my dad jokingly said "God Bless Aldi!" Which he followed by saying
"No, the Aldi is okay, but there's so many immigrants and minorities there. And also, a lot of White T."

"White T? What's that?" I asked.
"YOUR FATHER MEANS WHITE TRASH." My mom shouted, followed by "JUST BECAUSE PEOPLE ARE POOR DOESN'T MAKE THEM TRASH!"

My mom's tirade was drowned out by my laughter, and I said "Dad, did you just make up White T, or did you see it on a show or something?"
"No, I made it up so your mom wouldn't get on my case, but she figured it out."

Anyways, White T has found it's way into my family's home and vocabulary, much to my mom's dismay.

A few weeks after the initial White T discussion, I came home and told my dad that I'd seen a lot of White T at my work that day.

"Yeah? Were there a lot of B's?" My dad said, and cracked up.
"B's? What?" I asked (thinking my dad meant Bitches)
"You know, Blacks."
Before I could even respond my mom screamed: "THAT KIND OF TALK IS INAPPROPRIATE AND I AM NOT GOING TO SIT HERE WHILE YOU DEMEAN SOMEONE!"
My dad, being the epitome of tolerance said "Ah, come on, I get along with the Blacks!"

The next day, my entire family went to the gym, then decided to stop and get some dinner before heading home. Let me point out that my entire family is sweaty and dressed in sweatpants and tshirts at this point. As we walked into the restaurant, I said "Jesus, we look like White T." My mom --for once--agreed that we did.

As we walked into the restaurant my dad says: "You know the guys at that school (the carpentry school where almost everyone was a former convict) used to say White T all the time. In computer class, they'd go on the internet and look at, well, pictures of ladies and say "Hey man look at this White T! What a broad!" Haha, man. I really miss that school."

Thus it was discovered the origin of the phrase "White T" came from my dad's convict friends looking at porn in computer class.

Momentary Conversions

The other day, I asked my dad if he was Shiite or Sunni Muslim, because I wasn't really sure what the difference was, or which one my dad was. Here's how my dad answered:

"Uhhh, you know, that's a really good question? I don't know, because you know, I didn't even know there was two different ones, until I got to this country. Uhh, you know I don't know. But actually, uhhh, I think I'm Jewish." then paused a second and went "Oh, haha, god no, I mean I'm Sunni. I made a mistake."

The Challenge

As most or many of you know, we have some "wild" cats in our neighborhoods that are surely evil, and have no tail and are probably bobcats according to my dad. Well, now it seems some new feline foes have moved into the neighborhood.

My dad was outside on his way to his car when he first encountered what will surely become his newest arch-nemesis: The Giant Cats. My dad's tale (forgive the pun) of the Giant Cats goes something like this:

"Well, I was going to work you know, when I come around the front yard, and there. they. are. Two of the most meanest looking cats I ever seen. So I looked at them, and they looked at me, but they weren't just looking. They were challenging me."

At this early point in the story of The Challenge, my dad left the event simply as two mean looking cats "challenging" him, whatever that means. Well, as luck would have it, my dad later explained the cats' challenge while my family was sitting around and watching animal planet.

Somehow we got to talking about cats outside, when my mom went "Oh say, have you seen those cats? The ones that challenged you?" (this was followed by quiet chuckles from my mom and I.). See, with my dad, anytime you ask about something that happened a while back, he can never just answer the question, he has to launch into a re-telling of the story.

"Yeah, you know those cats were the meanest, ah god, the meanest cats I ever saw. And they were CHALLENGING me, they looked at me and they said "Hey Man, come on, let's see what you've GOT!!"

Laughing, I said "Oh, so when they challenged you, they were really challenging you to a fight?"

"Yeah, they were serious about it, but I kept it together you know, I just walked to my car."

"So how big were they? Pretty big, I guess if they wanted to take you on." My mom said.

"OH, they were HUGE, you won't believe it." Then my dad held his hands 3 feet apart and said "EACH cat was at LEAST this big, they weighed at LEAST 35 pounds each!" (At this time I'll point out my dad was roughly describing something toddler-size.).

"Do you think they would have eaten you?" I asked seriously.

"Ah god, don't be stupid, I could handle the cats they couldn't kill a person, but if I were dead outside already*, no hesitation, they would eat me. For sure, no hesitation. I never saw cats like this in my LIFE, I just hope they don't challenge me again."

But in all actuality, I think a second challenge from the cats would be pretty excellent.


*you may wonder why my dad would be dead outside in our front yard. This scenario isn't that unrealistic, as once my dad ate an entire 5 pound of bag of filbert nuts which caused an allergic reaction, and instead of calling the ambulance, he staggered outside to die, but then decided he didn't want anyone to find him dead outside, so he staggered back inside our house. Luckily though, he just slept for a really long time and then threw up a lot, and did not--in fact--die.

The March for Equality, or Dinner At My House

As usual, if you're over-sensitive and PC, skip this.

The first update in the march for eqaulity, is that now EVERYONE, not just jews, has the potential to turn into a vulture upon death. As was discovered last weekend at dinner, the Reincarnation As A Vulture group is equal opportunity. After long and exhaustive thought, my dad decided that anyone has the potential to turn into a vulture upon death, because "in this world there are bad people. And there are ugly people. And, I guess there are good people." So apparently, having taken inspiration from a popular film, my dad determined that if you're bad or ugly, you're going to end up a vulture. Hooray for one step forward for equality.

But, as we know from Paula Abdul's hit single "Opposites Attract" with one step forward, comes two steps back. In this case, the steps backward from equality occurred also at dinner, when I announced the opening of a discount grocery store, near my Uncle Moustaffa's house. I brought it up, only because I knew Uncle Moustaffa loved the discount grocery store which sells overly ripe fruit and nearly expired milk, and would be happy that one was opening closer to him. My dad looked at me and said "Oh yeah, I saw that. I don't know why you would think we would care though, only immigrants and black people shop there." which was followed by my mom going "well, you're an immigrant." to which my dad responded "yeah, but not THAT kind of immigrant, come on now." After a few minutes of pondering what exactly "that kind of immigrant" was, I asked my dad why he thinks only immigrants and black people shop there. He looked at me as though I'd just asked how to spell my own name, or something equally as dumb.

"Well, immigrants and black people shop there because they're too poor, and they have too many children." to which I said "Oh." and my mom went "But YOU'RE an immigrant and we're not poor, and you only have ONE kid, and Moustaffa has NO children and he isn't poor. So I don't get it." my dad just shook his head and went "They're just poor and have too many kids, everyone knows that. I don't know how to explain it any better."

And in conclusion, just because it's funny, I'll tell you what my dad ate for dinner that night (yes, this was all in one dinner.) : 2 chicken breasts with red peppers(this is what my mom made for us that night), a giant plate of (leftover) chicken curry rice, a giant plate (not bowl) of(leftover) chili, followed by some okra in red sauce. All of which my dad deemed excellent as soon as he finished eating, but upon sitting for a few minutes he declared: "I'm like one of those damn monsters at a buffet. ah god, ah god, I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm going to barf."

Vultures and Demons

Alright. This is part two of Green Mill confessions, but by now it has developed into something so large, it is its own entry.

Also, it is offensive. And by offensive, I mean really offensive. And by really offensive, I mean if you're really proud of your jewish heritage or George W Bush, you may want to read something else.

So if you keep reading this and you're offended, it's not my problem, I warned you.




One day my family was watching World's Ugliest Animals on Animal Planet. After loudly disagreeing with many of the choices (A moose?! Some cute little monkey thing?!) the show got to an animal that our family all agreed was ugly. The vulture. So while the Animal Planet narrator is talking about the ugliness of vultures, my dad goes:

"God, I hate this animal. It's an evil animal."

Which was followed by chuckles, because my dad really has never seen a vulture, so no one knew what his problem with it was until....

"That's what happens to the Jewish people when they die. They turn into vultures. That's what a vulture is you know. Does anyone want some tea? Crackers? I'm getting some tea."

My dad delivered this line completely seriously, as though in a college textbook he had read about an experiment that proved Jewish people did in fact turn into vultures upon death. My mom and I just kind of stared. My dad has said some offensive things, but the vulture comment topped them all. When my dad came back from getting his tea, I said "Dad, seriously you think Jewish people turn into vultures, or are you joking?" to which he replied: "No, they do turn into vultures, that's just what happens them."

Flash forward now, to when we're eating at Green Mill. My dad has just finished his rant about how the Greek Orthodox Priest sculpture is a curse in our house, and has followed that rant with "But really, I don't hate nobody or nothing, I don't hate no person." which sparked the following conversation:

Me: Uh, do you remember when you said Jewish people turn into vultures when they die?
Dad: Oh yupp, yupp.
Mom/Me: laughing
Dad: Well, I suppose, I COULD be wrong, but I am pretty sure that is what happens. I mean, I suppose not all the jewish turn into vultures, but really I think...well, I guess I could be wrong, you never know. Okay, certainly not all the jewish turn to be vultures, no. Not all of them, that's not what I meant, but really, the jewish do turn to vultures when they die.

Again my dad said this like he was a scientist at a symposium discussing the possibilities of cold fusion.

Later, we developed the "Would So-and-So turn into a vulture" game. The reason behind this, is my dead is SO dead serious about the "jews turning into vultures, but not all of them" theory. My mom and I can't figure out why this is, because my dad never saw a vulture except on nature shows on TV, and muslims don't believe in reincarnation. But apparently the exception is the Vulture-Jew reincarnation theory. So anyways, in the game I ask my dad about a prominent jewish person, and he thinks seriously for upwards of five minutes, trying to decide if said jewish person will turn into a vulture. So far on the NOT turning into vultures side, we have: Jerry Seinfeld, Anyone else who might be Jewish on the Seinfeld show, Larry David. On the turning into vultures side we have: Steven Spielberg, and most other Jewish people, apparently.

My dad then expanded the vulture reincarnation theory to include "all bad people" and not just the Jews (with the exception of anyone associated with Seinfeld/Curb Your Enthusiasm). So I decided to ask about George W Bush.

My dad sighed heavily and scratched his head and went "Okay, well we know that man is a devil, really I mean he is a demon. So when he dies he will go back to where he came, with the other devils, because when a demon dies it goes back to the other demons." Then my dad shook his head in disgust and said "That man is a god damn evil. Does anyone want some tea? Crackers? I'm getting myself some tea. "

Green Mill Confessions: Part one of two

The picture at left is an actual picture taken in my home, with my phone. The little guy I'm holding up is a little Greek Orthodox priest (I think) from Greece. This little guy is part of a set of collectible figurines which show the priests doing all kinds of different stuff, like drinking tea, playing games, and in one hugely unfortunate design choice, standing in front of a kneeling altar boy-type figure.

Anyways, when I came back from Greece the first time, I decided to buy this thing for my dad as a joke. My dad has some kind of problem with the Greeks, and generally disklikes them (for reasons unclear to me. Part of it has to do with some Greek law against the muslims from back in the day, another part of it has to do with me wanting to some day live in Greece), but my dad also has a good sense of humor, and I thought he would find this little guy funny.

It actually turns out that without realizing it, I purchased my dad the WORST GIFT EVER. My dad laughed when I showed him the statue and then gave it back to me and said "yeah, funny." Not knowing what to do with it, I put it on our kitchen counter. The next day, the little guy was face down on the counter. Figuring it fell over, I picked it up, and left. When I got home, it was face down again.

Figuring still, that the guy was just in a bad spot and kept getting knocked over, I put the guy in my dad's mailbox (we have mailboxes on the counter next to the phone). The next day, the little guy was turned around, so his back was facing out. Finally I realized my dad was putting the thing face down, or turning it around. I asked my mom about it.

"Oh, your father hates that thing. I mean, he says he doesn't mind it, but I'm pretty sure he is afraid of it."

After weeks of moving the figurine around, my dad finally hid it. He said "It's ramadan now, and I got rid of that damn thing." My mom and I took this as a personal challenge to find the "damn thing" but we couldn't. For a year, the "Damn thing" remained safely hidden, much to my dad's delight.

Until a year later, which was a few days ago, my mom found it when she cleaned the kitchen cabinet. On the top shelf behind all of our oldest tupperware that we never use, but never throw out either, in a plastic ziploc freezer bag, was the little guy.

Laughing, my mom told me to come see what she'd found. My mom and I figured it was in the plastic bag because my dad didn't want to actually touch it, which we thought was ridiculous but maybe true.

So the other day, while my family is at Green Mill, I said "Well, I found that little guy from Greece." and my dad muttered and was like "I noticed." (because I put it in his mailbox again.). In the time since I brought the figurine home from Greece, my dad always, ALWAYS said he didn't mind the statue, and that it was funny, and that it was a joke that he turned it around. When my mom asked him if it was because he thought it was bad or something, my dad laughed and said that was stupid, of course he didn't think it was bad. But at the Green Mill, my dad came clean:

"That damn thing is like a curse in our house, and I hate it, it's a curse." he said matter-of-factly.

The mystery of it is this, my dad has no problem with the fact Jesus is on it, because Jesus is on millions of things in our house, none of which ever get turned around or hidden. My dad has never once had an issue with my mom's elaborate nativity set, and in fact really likes it a lot. So Jesus isn't the issue. My dad also has no problem with other things in our house which come from Greece. He liked the music tape I brought him, and he thought the komboloi (worry beads) I brought back were interesting. So, it's not that it's Greek. It's not really clear why my dad is convinced the statue is evil enough to not even touch, and to securely close in a ziploc freezer bag, I guess it's just some sort of intristic mediterreanean superstition, more of which you can read about in the much more offensive Part two of the Green Mill Confessions.

The Puffy Experience

The following story is a heroic story of my cat, Puffy. The cat at left is not Puffy. The cat at left is a Bobcat. Bobcats play a role in the Puffy Experience, trust me. Before I get to the epic tale involving Puffy, you need some background information.

The background to the Puffy Experience begins in January of 2004, when I left to go to Italy. Sometime between January and May, my dog died. The exact date is unclear, because I found out by sheer chance, since my parents had decided not to tell me that our dog had died. I was on the phone one day to my mom and dad, when the following conversation happened:

me: So how are the cat and dog?
mom: Oh, Puffy's fine! She's doing well!
me: Okay, so how's the dog?
mom: Oh, Puffy's great!
me: Right, mom, I get it but how's melborne?
mom: Um, Puffy is just doing really well.
me: IS THE DOG DEAD?!
mom: *sobbing*
me: *sobbing*
roomates in the background at my apartment: *laughing* (to their credit, the conversation is funny in retrospect)

Anyways, so now my family back home consisted of Mom, Dad, and Puffy, since Melborne was now gone. In May, my mom came to visit me in Italy. Meaning that my family back home is now Dad and Puffy.

My dad "don't like NO cats" as he so often affirms. The main problem he has with them, is that he used to be terrified of them (and squirrels. He once stayed in a building for 3 hours because a family of squirrels kept run past the front door), and only has gradually come to accept that cats are okay. Granted, he likes Puffy only because after 19 years, Puffy's a part of our family. So my dad was left alone with Puffy, who needs constant attention because she's a little spoiled. So while in Italy, I would call home and ask how Puffy was. My dad would always say "terrible, she can't walk, she's doing bad." to which my mom and I would roll our eyes. This is mainly due to the fact my dad exaggerates everything having to do with Puffy. If Puffy licks her food and walks off, my dad becomes convinced she has a tumor in her mouth and can't eat. If Puffy sleeps a lot, she's really sick, that kind of thing.

So finally, my mom and I come home. And lo and behold, there is Puffy. Who is doing actually worse than terrible. And who cannot walk. And who hasn't eaten in a while. After a few days of crying and holding the cat, she starts eating again. Then she starts being able to walk better. Finally after some weeks, she's able to jump up on the furniture again. So Puffy's recovered pretty much (we figure she had a stroke and then was miserable from lonliness). Her main problems now are that she may or may not be deaf (we can't figure out if she ignores us, or if she's deaf), and she has really poor balance and sort of walks around like a drunken sailor.

Recently we discovered that going outside makes Puffy feel a lot better, and she really enjoys it. So for 15 minutes each day, Puffy goes outside with an escort and takes her daily stroll through the garden. The key phrase here is WITH AN ESCORT, because Puffy's old and sort of wobbly, so she needs someone to keep an eye on her.

My dad is absolutely crazy about Puffy having an attentive escort outside. If you take Puffy outside, you must be within one foot of her at all times and you MUST be staring at her, and occassionaly glancing around, watching out for enemies. Who are Puffy's enemies you ask? Why, Puffy's enemies are the bobcats that hide in our bushes.

Have I lost you? See, we have stray cats in our neighborhood. One of them is a manx, which has no tail. My dad HATES the manx cat with a passion. Mainly because my dad thinks the Manx is a Bobcat who gets into street fights, and lurks underneath our bushes waiting for the chance to pounce on Puffy and tear her to bits. When my dad sees the Manx cat, our family has to endure this type of lenghty lecture:

"I seen that god damn wild bobcat today. You have to WATCH for him, because he's mean, he's a nasty! Ah god, he's horrible. When you take Puffy outside, you have to WATCH HER, because that damn nasty cat is probably outside and he hides in the bushes, thats what the bobcats do! You know he will KILL Puffy if he gets a chance, Ah god, that nasty....etc"

So anyways, my dad's rules of taking Puffy out, as aforementioned are extremely strict due to the lurking threat of bobcats in bushes. A new threat has recently become "the neighbors putting stuff or something somewhere for the cat to get" (right, I can't clarify that for you because I don't know what that means. I can only guess my dad thinks our neighbors are putting down poison to kill Puffy, but I don't really know).

So now we arrive at: THE PUFFY EXPERIENCE.

Last Thursday, I ran home between classes, made some Pad Thai, took the cat out for her stroll, and left. Shortly after I left, my dad went to check the mail. About 45 minutes later my dad left the house to go to work.

Keep in mind, my cat walks like a drunken sailor, but.....there is one time when she regains her youth, which is when an idiot opens the front door really slowly. Puffy will snap to attention, slink around the furniture and then RUN at full speed out the door and down the steps. And if you think she doesn't run fast, you are sorely mistaken. When it comes to getting outside, Puffy runs faster than a Cheetah, and somehow stays balanced and deathly silent, so if you don't pay attention, you better believe she's made it past you and is out the door.

So, when my dad went to check the mail, Puffy's insticts kicked in and she bolted out the front door. 45 minutes later, my dad left the house and by sheer luck, glanced back towards the yard before getting into his car.

There, in the yard, was Puffy eating grass and tottering around. My dad ran to Puffy and brought her inside.

Later that night, my dad comes home and says "Puffy was outside today for 45 minutes." to which I say "why were you outside that long." which prompts an akward silence. My mom and I both stare at my dad. "Uh, she was, well, she snuck out when I went to get the mail, and I just noticed her before I went to work, thank god."

My mom and I just kept staring. "You mean she was outside, ALONE?!" I said. "Well, right, but she's okay, thanks to god." My dad said.

Expectedly, this caused me to freak out for a long time, but I got over it.

The next day, my dad and I were sitting around watching the news. He turned to me and said "Did I tell you about Puffy's Experience?" I looked at him and I said "What experience?" He smiled and said "Well, she was outside alone the other day." I just stared at my dad and said "Right, when she could have been killed? God knows, she made it 19 years only to die because of you?" to which my dad snapped "Well she's going to die, but it's one thing to die naturally, and another to be killed. My god, I would have had to lived with that the rest of my life. The rest of my life."

Ironically a few days later, when I was bringing Puffy into the house from outside the other day and my dad said:

"You have to keep a closer eye on her! You weren't standing by her at all! She was right by the bushes, and that's a bad spot! You gotta watch her better when she's outside!"

And that my friends, is the Puffy Experience.




PS...For those of you who have my number, Puffy is again on my voicemail if you're dying to hear the angelic sounds of her voice.

A Modern Day Parable

Before getting into today's tidbit about my family, I'd like to tell you that the picture at left is NOT an arab man terrorizing a filthy man with some kind of sponge. Well, maybe that is what's happening, but the picture is supposed to show the Good Samaritan, which is the theme for today's story.

My dad works two jobs, I don't know really what he does at either, but one of them involves driving late night making deliveries (I swear it's more legit than I make it sound). So the Late Night job results in my dad getting home around 2am.

So a few nights ago, around the hour of 2am my dad gets home. He parks in the front of our house, and notices that there is something weird going on. Instead of my dad's junky truck sitting in front of our house all by itself, there's a second truck, which my dad described as "even crappier than mine, I'm not kidding you!" So my dad decides to go investigate said crappy truck. As my dad described it, the truck is full of garbage bags, like absolutely loaded with them. In the drivers seat, is some guy asleep. So my dad comes into the house and calls the police (astonishingly enough he didn't call 911, he actually called the normal police phone number.). What happened next is best explained in the form of a dialogue that my dad re-told:

dad: Yes, there's someone asleep in front of our house in his car.

police: Is he breathing

dad: well, I don't know.

police: could you go check if he's breathing

dad: um, no I dont really want to.

police: we need to know if we should send an ambulance.

dad: well I'm not going out there, I don't know who that guy is, he could be crazy! I'm sure he's fine!

police: well sir, we'll give you the phone number for the ambulance

dad: no, I just don't want this guy sitting out there in front of my house at 2am, my family is in here.

police: okay, well do you think the man is hurt

dad: I don't know!

police: could you go see if the man is hurt?

dad: I'm not going out there!

police: alright we'll send someone out.

At this point in the story, my dad paused and said "Then I started thinking that maybe I was crazy and didn't really see anyone, and I was hoping that someone was actually out there, or else the police would arrest me for making false reports."

So, after a while two police cars AND an ambulance show up, and lo and behold there is an actual person in the truck. They rouse the guy in the truck from his sleep and they search his truck and his body. Then eventually the man and the police drive off.

The point of the story is--as my dad put it--"I dont know what that guy was doing, but can you believe the police wanted me to go see if he was alive?! He probably would have killed me or something, who knows!"

So remember kids, if you're ever asked to check if someone is hurt or breathing or alive, you don't actually have to do it, because that person might kill you.

Bidet, mates!

To preface this story, let me tell you something sort of distressing. When you do a google image search of the word bidet, you come up with an amazing amount of things: there's bidet porn, artsy bidet photos, babies in bidets, beer in bidets, and animals in bidets. Obviously, I went with the cat in the bidet because it's heartwarming and gross, both adjectives that encapture the following story.

(PS, for those of you unfamiliar with the word 'bidet' it's not pronounced "bid-ett" it is "bid-ay" so consider yourselves enlightened.)

This story dates back to last May-ish, when my mom flew out to Rome to visit me, while I was studying abroad in Italy. I had just picked my mom up from the Rome airport (read: made my mom take a train then subway then walk a half mile with a million bags while I tagged along) and we were hanging out at our hotel. My mom went to the bathroom, and came out commenting on the bidet. She thought it was funny, and that was basically it.

So we spent the rest of the day hiking around Rome, my mom managing to drop a suitcase on her foot earlier, was struggling with an injury that would eventually lead to gangriene fears. We went to the Pantheon, saw some churches, ate some overpriced penne, got some gelato, and came back to the hotel. After resting for a while, we decided to go out for something light to eat. We went to this little Trattoria down the street from our hotel, and we ordered some wine and cheese.

What ended up happening, is my mom got drunk. My mom rarely drinks, and when she does, she gets sort of tipsy after a glass or so of wine, but after splitting a giant bottle between us, my mom was flat out drunk. On the stumbly walk home, I had to support my mom and guide her back to our hotel, like she was a freshman coming home from a frat party. On the walk home my mom laughed and slurred "Thank god you're here, because I wouldn't have made it back. I'm what you might call.....hammered?" followed by mad cackles.

Eventually and safely we made it back to the hotel. I put my ipod on, and was reading a book, and my mom went into the bathroom. A long time later my mom came out of the bathroom and looked kind of embarassed.

"what?" I asked. My mom turned red and said:
"Well, I was intruiged by the bidet, so I decided I'd use it to see what it was like, but....I fell off. And then I didn't want to call to ask you for help because I was SO embarassed, but I thought I was going to die. Right there on the floor, because of falling off the bidet."

Needless to say, that night was the last night my mom tried to use a bidet, and the last night she drank more than two glasses of wine.

Calling the Rocks to Bear Witness

I'll admit, I've been very neglectful as of late regarding this blog. I feel bad about that, so here's a treat for you dedicated people who check my blog (read: bored people at work.)

A few weeks ago, my family and I went on our annual LEAF TRIP, wherein we make a sad adventure across minnesota to view the visual delights of autumn.

The reason it's sad, is we ALWAYS mess up. We go to early, and don't see any trees chaning color, or else we'll go to late and not see any trees with leaves. So this year, my mom decided to consult LeafWatch.com or something, to figure out where we should go.

Despite Duluth being 60% changed, my mom and dad mutually decided to go to Stillwater, where the change was at 20%. So despite the aid of statistics, my family still managed to mess up.

Anyways, my dad gets really introspective on trips like this, where there's a lot of nature and hours of sitting in the car. And he tends to say some really great things. The following are some of the past few year's Leaf Trip Bests:

"Man. Just look at those rocks. Those rocks are millions of years old. Just imagine what those rocks have seen. Man." (said as we drove by a small cliff next to the highway.

"Man is a plague on the earth, you know? We're just a cancer." (said while driving past a soybean farm)

"I would like to have a hobby farm I think."(dad)
"Yeah? You'd have to wake up early." (me)
"What?! Why?! It's just a hobby farm."(dad)

And the best one ever said, while my dad was at a scenic overlook looking out over a lake:

"Look at that lake. Doesn't it just look like a big hole, that's filled with water." (pause for a few minutes) "well, I guess that's sort of what it is."

And that's all you get for now my loyal readers. But don't worry, I'll stop neglecting this blog, so check back.