Hey, god dammit! (where god dammit = my brother Troy) Next time you're going to be on television, give a motherfucker some warning will you? Out of sheer coincidence, I went through my Tivo Wish List menu, which keeps an eye out for shows with "Minneapolis" as a keyword, and saw a show called "My First Home" on TLC where a couple was arguing about whether to live in the city or in the 'burbs. That sounded somewhat interesting, so I added it to my record list. I watched it tonight, and first recognized the real estate dude as my sister-in-law Danielle's former boss. "Well isn't that something," I thought. Then halfway through the episode, there are Troy and Danielle front and center, convincing the couple to move to Savage. Well for the fuck sake! I thought I had recognized the couple, but couldn't place them. Troy and Danielle returned at the end of the episode sharing champagne with the couple as they celebrated getting the home.

I'm thinking this had to be shot last summer, as T & D moved to Philadelphia back in January. I didn't hear about it then either.

You guys are fuckers.

UPDATE: So apparently this episode first aired IN FEBRUARY!!!!!

Fuck you guys. Seriously.

Love,

Jeremy

One particularly vivid olfactory memory I have of childhood is waking up each school day to the heavy smell of my dad's shit and cigarette smoke. The bathroom he used to get ready in the morning was across the hall from my bedroom. There, he situated himself on the toilet, puffing away on a Winston and uncoiled a smoky grump without shame, door wide open.

For as many striking similarities as I find between my late dad and me in my adult life, we clearly have never seen eye to eye on the issue of openly pooping. Sure, I talk freely and gleefully about pooping, but I want solitude when I'm milling mahogany. Unless I'm in the house by myself, even if it's just Ang and me, I close the door. We pee around each other (in the toilet while in the presence of each other, not like in a circle on the floor while the other sits there Indian style), but pooping is a different animal entirely. Pooping is a time for quiet contemplation and sometimes for struggling with your inner demons in physical, gaseous, and spiritual forms. That's Jeremy time.

Dad did eventually quit smoking, so the smoke disappeared from my mornings when I was in junior high. Eventually the shit smell was gone, too. What I wouldn't give to smell them both again.

Dear family members and friends, please stop emailing me video files. Seriously, is this fucking 1996? And not just little video files but 10 and 20 megabytes worth of long-dead chimpanzees peeing on Big Wheel-riding toddlers who have since graduated from law school. HA HAAAA -- stop it! If a video file is sent to you as an attachment, I guaran-fucking-tee you that it's been circulating around the internet for a decade or more. Ever heard of a little thing called YouTube? I'll bet you can find that video there or on any of the myriad video sharing sites created in recent years. But either way, don't send it to me. Mom, this includes you (even though you will likely never read this since you vowed long ago never to return to my blog after deeming it "just awful").

Even in an animated potty-training video the Japanese have mastered The Cute. I assume some of you already know how to use the potty but don't get distracted before it's over. Put down your chocolate pudding, though.

My favorite moment is the animated representation of a turd. I'd almost like to forget the techniques I've learned just so I can re-learn them with the assistance of this most wonderful video.

(via.)

"I just love what you've shoved into my box!"Well, it's that time of year again, folks. It's finally time to review the best and worst of this year's holiday gift items. Whether you're looking for a tech toy for Dad or the latest fashion accessory for your girlfriend, I've got all the figurative poop on what's bright and what's shite.

Girlfriend or Wife

I've bought Ang a few nice things. But since she keeps a close eye on this blog, I can't really tell you what I got her. But I'll review the items in such a way that won't spoil the surprise.

Gift #1 - My only complaint is that this gift is too heavy. I pulled a groin muscle lifting it off of the store shelf. I can tell you that it's got a quality build, wasn't terribly damp, and that you eventually get used to the smell, particularly if you grew up on a farm or near an oil refinery. Overall I give this gift an A-.

Gift #2 - This one was a little difficult to find. In fact, I had to order it from overseas due to some legal issues surrounding getting caught buying or selling them in the United States. I tracked down a guy selling them online. I gave him my social security number and bank account number. It looks like he took a few thousand dollars out of my account as a deposit. I trust I'll get that back when the item arrives. I can't wait to see the look on Ang's face! B+

Gift #3 - Ronny sold me a couple pounds of this stuff. Kind of looks like oregano. For some reason, he put raw eggs in it. But he gave me a 25% discount and said I was "OK to buy." I'm not sure what that means, but it must be good shit. B+++

Mother

My mom, though she has verbally vowed to never visit my blog again, could be reading this, so again, I can't really tell you specifically what I bought her.

Gift #1 - This one looks pretty good. The box is classy (you could also say that about my girlfriend), and I think there is a button on it. I had to open it up to make some modifications to it, but I think Mom will appreciate that. It also came with a bale of hay. A+

Gift #2 - It's red and shaped like part of my anatomy. I tried to find a purple one to make it more realistic, but the gun shop wouldn't sell it to me. A+

Gift #3 - I bought this one in California. No eggs in this batch, but I was blacklisted from the buy list after I tugged on the dude's tunic. C+

Brother

My brother doesn't read my blog much, but just in case...

Gift #1 - I wasn't allowed to get just one of them, so I had to buy like 5, which is total bullshit. He's getting all of them. I just hope he has enough room in his pants.

Sister-in-law

She reads my blog for sure, so I can't say what it is.

Gift #1 - There was only one of them. There's some sort of button on it, but it didn't do anything when I pressed it (you could also say that about my girlfriend).

Step-dad

I'm still shopping for this gift, but I'm thinking of getting him a CD of trance music or maybe some lavender-scented hand lotion with lilac crystals to keep his hands moisturized when he's hunting deer. I'll bet he'd like that. A+ for my idea and F- for you if you don't agree.

Friends

Mostly your friends shouldn't get gifts if you see them regularly because they get the gift of seeing you so much. I tried to convince Angie that was particularly true for a girlfriend, but then she rolled off of me and told me to go home. She wouldn't even let me collect my trousers and sweater vest first. I don't care: A+

Everyone else

Signed photos of me masturbating. Enough said. A++++++ and a sticky cuddle.

My brother Troy's employer has transferred him to their Philadelphia office. I suggested he leave a set of keys to his ginormous house in Savage (they don't plan on putting it on the market until next spring) so I could check in on it occasionally. So big NYE beer bash at Troy's crib, y'all! Don't bother taking off your shoes, using coasters, using the trash cans, or aiming for the toilet. We are going to fucking TRASH that place! WOOOOO!

Oh, and Troy, I'm also going to need the keys to your liquor cabinet and gun safe.

The night before we left for San Francisco, we decided to take a detour through wine country on the way from Sonora. At first, I resisted, because I wanted us to have as much time as possible in San Francisco. In the end, I agreed that we probably wouldn't have a chance like this for all of us to get drunk together on wine right next to the grapes that made it. After a stop for lunch in Napa, we ventured out into mile after mile of grape vines and vans full of drunken housewives.



Grapes grow on vines apparently. I always thought they grew on my ass and could be cured with a tube of Preparation H.


Mom and her boys.


People sure have fancy houses there. This house is up on a hill with a long, winding driveway. I'll bet they built it all the way up there to get away from the rotten smell of grapes permeating the air down below. Seriously, it smelled like someone spilled wine a few weeks ago and never bothered to clean it up. It smells like my living room carpet come to think of it.


I realized that I had no clue where to go, so I sent a text message to Mary. She responded, and indicated we should check out V. Sattui Winery. Our first clue of the clusterfuck to come should have been the fact that their parking lot was full, and we were directed to park in a field along with hundreds of other cars. We couldn't even get to the counter for a tasting, so we got the hell out of there after 15 or 20 minutes.

Our new plan of action was to just randomly select a winery that looked halfway non-shitty, and down some booze. Enter Grgich Hills. It was smaller and nowhere near as busy. Blam. They didn't have as wide of a selection, but it wasn't too bad. Tastes of their 5 wines went for $10, which you didn't have to pay if you bought a bottle. Ang bought one. It was cheap and tasted good. It had hints of oak and warm chest hair with overtones of fish tank water and Flintstones Vitamins. It goes well with steak, pasta with red sauce and Kit Kats (in reality, it was quite good). Here Ang and I enjoy our delicious wine.


Now getting to this delighted, relaxed state wasn't all that easy. I had no problem driving through San Francisco, but once we crossed the Bay Bridge early Saturday evening, I started stressing at the heavy traffic, pedestrians who didn't give a rat's ass about crossing with or against the light, and driving a red fucking minivan up hills with a 5,000 degree incline. Our luggage fell to the roof, and I had to put the van into negative 15th gear. I get nervous in these unfamiliar situations, particularly when we couldn't find where the the parking entrance for the hotel was, so 30 minutes of driving around sent me into a snit. Finally, I had to get out of that fucking van, so we parked in a ramp a few blocks from the hotel and hoofed it with our luggage. We couldn't have looked more like hick tourists, running over toes with our luggage and weaving through crowds, if we had put our belongings in handkerchiefs and hung them from the end sticks slung over our shoulders. But at long last, we dragged our sorry asses through the revolving door of the Westin St Francis, one of the fanciest hotels my uncultured balls have ever rested upon. I mean check out this fucking shower head! You can clean your face and your dick at the same time!


Don't get used to it, Ang. Priceline might put us in the Ax Murder Inn next time.


After a delicious meal and horribly slow service at Santorini Restaurant (I had the Mousaka, and we shared Dolmas as appetizers, almost worth the interminable wait for service and our bill), we retired to our rooms for a good night of sleep. We had a big day ahead of us.

As I showered the next morning, my ass crack was feeling a little buttery, so I decided to use the washcloth to spruce up back there. Hey, I was in a hotel! You gotta live life like it was meant to be lived. And that is by cleaning your ass with a hot washcloth. Imagine taking that hot towel they give you before dinner at a sushi restaurant, dropping your fancy zippered trousers, and treating your chili chute to a pore-opening steam cleaning (don't worry, I won't do it when I shower at your house -- I know the invite is coming). Unfortunately, Ang didn't appreciate the luxury of my self-rooting when she discovered the washcloth on the floor after her own shower. "What the hell?" I heard echo against the marble tile. "Oh, SHIT!" Oops. I didn't expect her to pick up my shitty cloth tucked away in the corner, but I didn't take her neat streak and compulsion to tidy the bathroom into account. When I asked her if she'd found my browned rag, she confirmed my suspicion and told me she first wondered why there was makeup on the washcloth. Good thing she didn't smell it to find out what brand it was.

After the washcloth incident, we headed out for our scheduled tour of Alcatraz. The billowing fog rolling across the bay only added to the mystique.


Warning: Persons concealing shanks betwixt their hairy buttocks are subject to a shower room ass pounding.


Signs of an Indian occupation in the late 60's and early 70's are still visible.


Some areas of The Rock are still closed off to visitors.


Some areas reminded me of the jiggling boobs of Baywatch more than a prison. But I use pretty much anything as an excuse to think about jiggling boobs.


Hey, that looks like my basement bathroom!


This is one of the most brightly lit areas of the prison. Prisoners in this block paid for the sunshine by having to hear the sounds of party-goers on boats in the marina across the bay. On a clear night, the sounds of music, women laughing, and monkeys stabbing each other drifted through the windows. It was a stark reminder of what the prisoners couldn't have. And who doesn't want to check out monkeys stabbing each other? No one, that's who.


Angie follows the audio tour's instructions to step into this cell. She was t3h sad over her brief imprisonment. Also visible is her purse she proudly purchased in Sonora. I think there is the bride of Frankenstein's monster on there and maybe some sort of transient's rucksack(?)


I made the best of a bad situation and perpetrated an undocumented drop-off. I then cried aloud in horror when I realized the prison did not serve hot towels.


The shell of the burned-out warden's house looms over the parade grounds.


Ang, Troy, and Mom heave their Pop Tarts over the railing.


Ang checks out a bird pooping on a tourist.


After returning to the dock in the Fisherman's Wharf area, we had lunch, wandered around and gawked, then noticed movement in the distance. Seals! The horking and barking was unmistakable.


Daylight was getting short by this point, so we took a harrowing cab ride to the Golden Gate bridge with a driver harboring some sort of neurological disorder. Perhaps it was Tourettes or an unfortunate combination of nervous tics, but the man's arms, neck, and head were in constant motion as we approached our destination. These spasms were interrupted by the occasional loud interjection of "HARRRRNNNGHHHHHH!" And when he heard his precious 49ers lose to the Rams on the radio, his tics went into overdrive. "HUHHHNNGUUUUUUHHHHH! UNGH! HOW COULD THEY GRRNNNGGGRRRRRHHH... LOSE?!" He calmed down when an ad for a restaurant came on asking us to try their new wasabi and teriyaki chicken. "GUH-HUNNNNNNGGGHHHHH! WASABI AND TERIYAKI!!!!!" Um, yep, that's what he said dude. After he dropped us off, Troy expressed his fear that he would drive us all off the road to end it all when the 49ers lost. "I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE! BWUH-HAHHHHHNK!"

The fog made it difficult to see the bridge towers, but this ended up being one of my favorite shots from the trip.


This plaque lists all of the workers who ended up eternally lodged in portions of the bridge during its construction.


That night, Troy and I took everyone out to dinner at The Slanted Door, an upscale Vietnamese restaurant. He had heard of it the last time he had been in San Francisco on business and had the foresight to make reservations before our trip. The food is served family style and the presentation is almost as stimulating as the food itself. I highly recommend it, but it gives you kind of stinky farts as this guy in the park across the street found out. And his buddy was none too happy either.


Near the sculpture there was an ice rink, where we saw the most four-syllable fahhhhh-bu-luh-uhhhsss display of figure skating by a gentleman in a Superman t-shirt. Video will be posted.



The next day, Troy and I relaxed in our respective rooms as the women shopped. Angie almost saw two homeless people get into a race war, and she bought a bunch of shit. We ate at In-N-Out for lunch and flew home. The end. Well, it's not really the end. I have a feeling Miss Angie will have plenty more to add about the flight home and have her own commentary on the pictures I'm awaiting from Danielle. I hope she deleted the one where I had a boner in the lingerie department at Sears.

On Monday night, we returned to Minneapolis from San Francisco. Our trip started early Wednesday morning with a convoluted vehicle exchange. My mom flew in from Devils Lake, ND on Tuesday night and stayed with my brother Troy and his wife in Savage. The plan was for them to come to my place in Troy's gigantic Yukon to pick up Ang and me. My friend Mary came over, rode with us to the airport, then drove Troy's vehicle, the only vehicle we had access to that could fit 6 people, back to leave at my place and get her own car. It worked perfectly and saved us the cab fare. With an expensive trip like this, every little bit helps. I even hired a hobo instead of a professional bag boy to carry my luggage. That's called making your money work for you.

Sonora is a small tourist-friendly town about 2.5 hours from San Francisco and is home to my cousin Kellae and her husband A.J. This year, we decided to have ourselves a little family reunion in the form of an early Thanksgiving at Kellae and A.J.'s house. We rented a minivan at the airport (a shiny, red one at my brother's special request) so we could comfortably haul the 5 of us and our luggage from SFO to Sonora. And with very little convincing from the rental counter lady, I also rented a nifty Garmin GPS that would prove to be equally handy and aggravating.

Right out of the gate with the GPS, we had ourselves a problem. I blindly followed the hot GPS lady's voice (I'm assuming she's hot -- she sounded pretty hot), which instructed me to go in the ass-opposite direction on 101, a fact we didn't realize until we realized the GPS screen wasn't updating with our location. Suspicious, Ang checked the Google Maps printout and confirmed that we were on the wrong path. Multiple fuckerings with the GPS just resulted in the same command. "Drive ahead and and turn right." Turn right? We're on the god damn freeway you piece of shit! Finally Ang got the thing working by turning it off and turning it on again. Who knew? After that, it was good as gold, and by the time it directed us to Kellae's doorstep, I knew I had to get me one of those things.

On Thursday morning, Ang, Troy's wife Danielle, and Kellae went shopping in the many, many stores full of shoes, glittery yarny things, hats, ceramic kitties, and other things that the vagina-laden folk seem to like. Troy, A.J., and I dutifully followed our women around for a while, then broke into a sprint down the street when they suggested we head down the the bar for a few beers. It wasn't quite 11 am.

I was excited by all of the shopping opportunities that Sonora offered to Ang.


A.J. and Troy (background) discuss what excuse to use to get away from all of this shopping.


They couldn't think of anything, so we just went to the bar at the aforementioned suggestion of the girls. In the bathroom there, I was glad to have Protecto watching over my whizzing penis.


Ang bought a jaunty little chapeau and cool purse in one of the shops, and I had to agree that they were just to die for... on me. Better buy some for yourself, too, angel pie.


I'm supposed to say the hat looks better on Ang. But I won't until she gives it back to me (and even then, I'll still say it looks better on me). Give it back!


Danielle has herself a drink at the Iron Horse, aka the "Iron Lung," known for being one of the few bars that have managed to get around California's strict anti-smoking laws. You can smoke in there. For serious and for true. It smells like road work and cancer in there.


Later at the house, we had several (a shit ton) of additional drinks. Danielle shows Kellae a photo that she took. "I just took a photo of you drinking. Should we review all further drinking-related photos before continuing?" Kellae said that wouldn't be necessary, as we'd just spend the rest of the trip looking at photos of us drinking instead of actually drinking.


Red cups are for booze.


Kellae gets all up in there. I think she touched herself in the mind.


Marlboro Lights have one-third the calories of Marlboro Chunky Style.


Aunt Joanie's (Mom's sister) flowery Crocs.


Photos are cool. They just capture the looking part and not the sound and smell part. That way you can't tell that Ang is filling her trousers with shame.


On Friday, we went to nearby Columbia, a town that preserves its history by closing off one street to automobiles and only allowing pedestrians and horses. Why horses need to be wandering through Blockbuster and the superette and shitting all over is beyond me, but whatever the fuck, dude.

This place wasn't what I thought it would be.


Tourist pose #1,559,298,284


I'll tell you one thing the Assay Office doesn't need, and that is goods of the dry variety. I like my goods pre-moistened, thank you very much!


These guys know what I'm talking about. "We fix your cracks." They had just come from the Assay Office with a banker's box dripping with cloudy moisture.


Up in Pinecrest, we visited the lake.


And the low water levels gave me an opportunity to prop my camera up on a normally-submerged boulder to take this photo of all of us.


That night, we went into Jamestown for dinner at Azzo's. If you're ever in the area, I highly recommend it. I can only fault them for putting fucking cucumber in their water. I hate cucumber almost as much as racism and slightly more than unfettered fucknuttery and unrequested diddling.

After dinner, we did a little more shopping and came across Yoda. After he wiped his face down, he yelled at us and used the force to throw rocks at our balls.


Saturday morning, we woke up, and Kellae made us a fitting breakfast. In honor of the theme of the weekend, which was "Poop and Fellowship in 2007," she made us shit on a shingle. It was the best shit on a shingle I've ever had. While she was making breakfast, I discovered she had herself a fresh ant infestation on her washing machine.


I hope it's not because I smeared my P.B. & J. all over it the night before.


Ants also eat corpses.


Kellae has been remodeling her house for about 5 years, and in one fell swoop, much of her work was ruined when a water pipe burst a few months ago. Right up until the days before our arrival, she worked frantically to restore the house to a livable condition. Sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures. Here is the doorknob and improvised latch on our bedroom door. We were hesitant to bone in there.


Mom and her sis at the hotel. They like doors inside of doors that open independently of the doors they are inside of.


After gathering Mom and her things at the hotel, we bid Kellae and Joanie adieu (A.J. was at work) and hit the road for wine country en route to San Francisco. I was driving, so I would get to watch everyone else drink. Poor, poor Jeremy.

To be continued...

Tomorrow morning, my mom, brother, sister-in-law, Ang, and I leave for a trip out to California to visit my cousin in Sonora for a few days and do a couple days of sightseeing in San Francisco. I just got off the phone with Mom to confirm the plans for tonight and tomorrow. She flies into Minneapolis from Devils Lake, ND late this afternoon (it still floors me that you can fly out of DVL to MSP).

Me: We'll plan on meeting at my place tomorrow morning at 6:30. Mary will take us out to the airport. Then we can have plenty of time grab some breakfast, and have a cup of coffee.

Mom: That sounds perfect. We can just relax that way. Oh, I'm so excited I could just crap myself!

Me: I already have! But I don't think it's related to the trip.

I spent this past holiday weekend in North Dakota. My brother Troy, his wife Danielle, Ang, and I piled into Troy's gas guzzling, yet mercifully roomy Yukon for the trek to visit Mom and her husband. Troy had his 10 year high school reunion, and since my original plans of flying up to Toronto this weekend fell through, I decided this was a great opportunity to visit the family, otherwise I probably wouldn't see many of them until Christmas.

We finally hit the road around 5 on Friday, agreeing that we would stop to eat at the Subway in Monticello. Unfortunately we arrived to find that it had been torched by an arsonist. Perhaps some pissed off former sandwich artist wanted to see myriad posters of Jarrod and his crooked smirk melt into a pool of oblivion. With our first choice at risk of structural collapse, we ate at the DQ Grill & Chill next door. I haven't eaten an actual meal at a DQ in years, so I thought I would use this as an opportunity to try one of their Flamethrower Burgers they've touted on television so much. I love hot and spicy food and hoped the grease and spices would loosen my stubborn stools that had been backing up for a couple of days. The burger was tasty, but I'd rate its heat somewhere between black pepper and a moistened towelette on the Scoville scale. Unfortunately, it loosened up nothing more than my noxious gases. The rest of the ride to Mom's place, I filled the Yukon with the most horrid cloud of ass imaginable. It smelled of fried meat, spoiled eggs, and a trash can topped with fruit-filled vomit on a hot summer day. Poor Ang attempted to retaliate later with her own contribution, but there simply was no comparison to my putrid colorectal emissions.

We rolled into Mom's around 11:30 pm. More accurately, we shuddered into Mom's. It was no surprise that driving the many miles of heavily traveled, winding gravel roads leading to her house was like rolling over a washboard in a Radio Flyer on triangular wheels. This, however, was the worst condition in which we had ever found these roads. The roads lead to several popular fishing spots on Devils Lake. Add to that a new lake home development, and it makes for an excessive amount traffic for a gravel road to handle, regardless of how often it is graded. Smooth the road, and two days later, it's a washboard again.

We were all exhausted when we got to Mom's, so after staying up briefly to chat, everyone went to bed. Ang and I retired to one of the very private spare bedrooms in the basement, but there wasn't even any boning. Now that's pretty damned tired!

On Saturday evening, after spending a lazy day relaxing and catching up with Mom, we headed to Cando (pronounced CAN-doo), about 60 miles away to catch up with our cousin Ryan and check out the drug and alcohol rehab center where he works just outside of town. At the center, Ryan cooks meals, takes residents on outings and leads various activities, and in typical Ryan fashion, is a general smartass. Afterward, we had a beer at a local bar, after which Troy and Danielle left for the reunion. Ang and I drove separately in Mom's car, so I drove her around town. Five minutes later, we were done. Actually, we tried to track down my uncle, but he apparently was out riding his Harley with his wife.



Before leaving town to drive past the farm I grew up on (Mom sold it about a year after Dad died), we realized we were starving. Dining options are limited in Cando, so we stopped at yet another DQ. Across the parking lot from the restaurant is a faded sign shouting Cando's quarter-century-old motto, "You Can-Do Better in Cando." I've taken issue with this slogan from its inception. First, why the dash in "Can-Do?" "Can" and "do" are two completely distinct, unhyphenated words last time I checked. I would accept it if the slogan was "We have a can-do attitude in Cando!" But it's not, so I must stamp it as WRONG!



Also, I would like more specifics in that motto. What is it I can do better in Cando? Can I play the piano better? Be better in bed? Run faster? Increase my fire-to-kill ratio? I'm not making any plans until you provide to me in writing a bulleted list of things I can do better there. I don't want to quit my job, rent a U-Haul, pack my shit up, and drive 7 hours just to find that I can knit 5% faster and improve my dried cow shit tossing accuracy.

Not being in any particular hurry, we took the meandering back roads running past our old farm to get back to Devils Lake. Not that Ang didn't believe me, but I wanted her to see just how far in the middle of BFE I lived throughout my childhood. We chatted with Mom and her husband for a while and were in bed by 11. Since my phone was roaming, I had turned it off, so I missed a series of text messages from my sister-in-law that are amusing now, but would have been progressively alarming at the time.

12:07 AM: Where aree you guys? You're not doin it are you?

It's distinctly possible we were.

2:14 AM: I think troy is getting a dui. I'm not even sure what I should be doing. I'm sitting in the car while he's in the cop car. Should I get out?

State patrol officers and cops in general love it when the plastered significant other stumbles out of the car toward the squad. They enjoy playing a guessing game as to whether you are coming over to shoot them or not. It adds unexpected spice to the situation. And as the saying goes, spice is the spice of life. Um... no, wait...

2:28 AM: Just in case, we are fine. Troy blew ok. Cop loved it!! Well be home soon.

Whew! I should also note that I simply can't come up with a better joke than she did there. It turns out that Troy was pulled over for having a tail light out. He had enjoyed several spiritous beverages throughout the night, which he admitted to when asked (though "a couple of beers" were actually "a couple of six-packs of beer"). Thankfully he had slowed down as the evening progressed, and was under the limit. The lesson learned is that if you have a tail light out and KNOW you have a tail light out (he had known it was out for quite some time), it's probably not a good idea to be drinking any amount of alcohol and getting behind the wheel, particularly at 2 in the morning during Labor Day weekend. Or anytime for that matter.

Sunday was yet another lazy day of visiting, reading, and watching TV. Troy and Danielle took off for another reunion-related event and returned in time to head into Devils Lake to meet our uncle Doug and his wife for dinner at Pizza Hut. Just what I needed to calm my quivering, quacking sphincter. But first we stopped so Mom could pick up a few groceries. I realized I need to wander through the bulk aisle more often.



Monday night we arrived back at Troy's place around 9 pm, far later than I had anticipated or hoped. By the time Ang and I got back to my place and took care of some pressing business, she didn't get home to feed her lonely kitty (her literal kitty, not a euphemistic kitty) until 11 or so. It was great to see my family, but I was relieved to sleep in my own bed (well, in my own home -- I fell asleep on the couch again). And next time, I'm bringing some matches for the car ride.

Obviously our grandparents grew up in a completely different era with a different vernacular. Certain words and attitudes were acceptable when they were growing up, words and attitudes that today are outdated and, in some cases, downright offensive to modern sensibilities.

I grew up in North Dakota near a town of about 1,200 people. In rural North Dakota, African American people were far and few between. They were such a rarity that once my grandmother looked out the window and was heard to proclaim with amazement, "There's a NEGRO walking down the street!" I'm sure I rolled my eyes, perhaps even mildly chastised her, but she's Grandma. What can you do? You love her and try to gently correct her, despite knowing that you aren't going to change an attitude built over the long, winding course of seven decades.

Grandma's eyesight wasn't the best in her winter years. She'd had cataract surgery. That and her less than latent racism led her to believe that every person of color on television was one of two people. When a younger person would come on TV, she would squint her eyes and ask, "Is that Urkel?" When an older person would make an appearance, she would do the same squint and ask, "Is that... Flip Wilson?" I would let out an exasperated sigh and either ask who Flip Wilson was or respond, "No, Grandma, that's not Flip Wilson, that's Danny Glover."

If Grandma were still alive today, I would be far more patient with her than I was in my surly teenage years. I would still try to gently correct her when she called people "Negroes" or said things like "If Jesse Jackson ever became president, he'd have us all out in the fields picking cotton." Really, she actually said that. I also probably would have long since given up trying to correct her when she thought she saw Urkel or Flip Wilson. I think part of it is because they were both people who made her laugh. If the thought of Flip Wilson gave her a moment of joy, then my response should have been, "Yes, Grandma, that's Flip Wilson. And see that kid walking down the street in the background? It's totally Urkel!"

Grandpa Art and I (left) in 1982. Visible through the window, a garage full of dynamiteA couple of summers after my maternal grandfather died of cancer, Dad and I loaded up the pickup for a very special father-son road trip. We were men on a dangerous mission. For decades, Grandpa Art had stored 30 gallon drums of arsenic in a dirt floor pole barn on his farm near Hettinger, North Dakota. Now the state of North Dakota was holding an amnesty collection of hazardous chemicals in Bismarck, and the time was right to properly dispose of the drums without legal or financial headaches. We just had to fetch them ourselves.

Arsenic is a poison that was widely used as an insecticide on crops well into the last century. Once the dangerous effects on human health were made public, Grandpa heeded conventional wisdom and the rule of law and stopped applying the poison to his crops. The proper storage and disposal of his arsenic, however, were apparently of little concern to him.

Dad was one of the most safety-conscious farmers you'll ever meet. No piece of machinery or container of chemical on our farm was to be touched by the uninitiated until every technical detail and horrible result of neglectful operation and handling had been described in lurid detail. Once he had completed his lecture, he would often give specific example of people who had paid horrible prices for failing to follow proper safety procedures on other farms. "You know old Coot Simonson who worked a couple seasons on the Miller farm? The guy with two half-arms and a glass eye. Well, he got that way when took the safety guard off one of these augers and got a sleeve caught in it. Now he eats his sandwiches with two metal claws and a lack of depth perception. THAT'S WHAT HAPPENS, GOD DAMMIT!!" Grandpa Art's far more relaxed style of farm safety practices, which included keeping old, nitroglycerine-oozing dynamite in a garage a few dozen feet from the house, drove Dad up a tall tree.

Including stops for lunch and fuel, the drive to Hettinger, situated in rolling ranch country in southwestern North Dakota, took about 8 hours (Mr Safety was also a stickler for the speed limit). We pulled into town in the early evening. Since the farm house had been rented out, we stayed at the fleabag hotel next to the nursing home. After a big, greasy dinner at the cafe downtown, we watched some television at the hotel and went to bed early. Temperatures were going to be in the triple digits the next day, and we needed to get an early start to beat the heat.

At dawn, dad roused me from a deep slumber. I was so groggy that I barely knew who or where I was. When I said we went to bed early, I really meant that he fell asleep early while I laid awake for hours listening to him snore like a pissed off mountain gorilla running a leaf blower. This was going to be a long fucking day.

After breakfast, we drove out to the farm and announced our presence to the renters so they wouldn't become unnecessarily concerned over who was dicking around out in the barn. The temperature had already climbed into the 90's, and you could practically see the steam in the air. We backed the pickup into the barn, and immediately spotted the notorious barrels sitting in the corner. It was worse than Dad had remembered. The barrels sat with the lids loosely propped on top. Piles of spilled powdered arsenic sat on the dirt floor surrounding the barrels. This shit had probably been seeping into the groundwater for 30 years. We couldn't just leave that crap behind on the ground. It wasn't until then that I started to have questions over why my presence was necessary for retrieving these barrels. We only had one Level C hazmat suit and mask between the two of us, and there was no way Safety Dad would ever allow someone without proper protection near the arsenic.

"Ok, son, why don't you throw that suit on and move those barrels. You're going to have to dig up that dirt." Oh. Now I get it.

Inside the sun-baked aluminum pole barn, the temperatures were a good 10 to 20 degrees warmer than it was outside. And I was covered head to toe in a heavy disposable hazmat suit with a spade in my hand. The moment I pulled the hood and mask over my head, sweat gushed from every pore. I gingerly moved the heavy metal drums, trying not to spill more poison in the process. My mask was fogged with sweat, so Dad had to guide me by voice. "No, no. A little to the left. More. More. There you go. Just scoop that into the barrel. What are you doing, god dammit? You spilled half of it on the ground again!"

Finally I finished shoveling up as much as was feasible, but I needed a break. "Dad, I don't feel so good. I gotta sit down."

"Ok, ok. Let's get that mask off and get some water into you."

I felt a little faint. I felt like I'd just sweated off 20 pounds of water into my boots. They squished as I walked to the pickup. I took the mask off and WOOOOSH! The muggy 90 degree air felt like a blast from the Arctic Circle. I already felt better, and the water was an added godsend. After a brief rest, I cursed under my breath and pulled the mask back on. With tightly sealed lids and copious layers of trash bags and duct tape for good measure, the drums were as ready for transport as a couple of saps like us were ever going to get them. Using the edge of the pickup's tailgate as leverage, I pushed, grunted, lifted, and strained to get the barrels into the back. At long last, I had everything loaded, and I desperately stripped off my stifling shackles of safety and sealed them in another trash bag.

I fumed quietly for the entire ride to Bismarck to drop the drums off. I felt like I had been suckered into coming on this trip to act as slave labor. This was total bullshit, man! The outrage!

It wasn't until many years later, years after my dad had died, that I realized the true purpose of dragging me to Hettinger that summer. Dad just wanted some quality one-on-one bonding time with his increasingly temperamental teenage son, the son he was slowly losing to hormonal outbursts and moodiness. Sure, having me do all the work and avoiding exposure to toxic powder was a bonus for him, but he also knew that I was a lazy, shiftless bastard who could use a little extra hard work under his belt. I've lived over a third of my life without him now, but he's still here, yelling his god-dammit-peppered expectations at me when I can't see through the steam of my own sweat.

Dearest brother Troy,

After spending a good 16-20 hours working on the problem, your computer is fixed. I manually restored portions of your registry, scanned and repaired a shitload of bad data, and am currently installing all sorts of operating system, antivirus, and other updates. I say this not to make you feel guilty, but to let you know that's how much I love you, bro. You, Mom, and possibly chicks I'm trying to nail are the only people I would do this for. You my boy, bra. You my boy.

-Jeremy

P.S. Tell your wife's little brother if he downloads shitty games off the internet and fucks up your computer like this again that I'm going to hunt him down and kneecap him with a bookend.

My brother hates cats. Maybe it's because one died in our ceiling once when we were growing up (for the record, the girl mentioned in that linked post is long gone, vanished into the dating ether). Me, I like cats, but I don't own one because I don't want to be responsible for one on my own. Yeah, they're low maintenance, but I'm all about reducing my responsibility load. Sometimes I sprinkle my responsibility load onto others. It's gritty and gets in your shoes and socks. You'll probably be picking my responsibility load out of your nice wool socks for the next several months.

If you are a hot girl and own cats, don't worry, it's cool. You can live with me and bring your one to two cats (but no more than that). I'll enjoy your cats and help care for them as long as I can bang you one to five times a day (but possibly a lot more than that). And you have to let my friend Rocko bust a nut in your eye on St Patrick's day. It's tradition. We'll talk about the Veteran's Day tradition later. I can only tell you that it involves Sriracha and a Brazilian.

Save the dead, stinky ceiling cat in his face, I don't recall our dad having much of an opinion of cats one way or another. I'm sure he enjoyed our roving band of farm felines because they kept the buildings free of mice and rats. Plus every once in a while, they'd inbreed and you'd end up with a litter of funny little bastards that walked backwards and shat vanilla soft serve and miniature paper clips. Hilarious!

Dad often told us stories of how they disposed unwanted kittens and puppies on our farm when he was growing up. The more humane sounding method involved putting them into a barrel, running a tube from a car's exhaust pipe in the barrel, sealing it shut, and firing up the engine. G'night, sweet kitties! The other method was to fill up a burlap sack full of writhing, mewing kittens, throw in a rock, tie the sack shut, and throw it into the coulee (it's like a creek) that ran through our property. The least humane method wasn't really so much as a way of getting rid of them as kids fucking around. They'd climb to the top of the windmill, probably a good 4 stories high, tie handkerchiefs to the kittens like little parachutes, and toss them into the air. The chutes never opened. There were no survivors.

During my formative junior high and high school years, one of my great joys was watching Saturday Night Live. This was during one of its rare upswing periods where it usually was more funny than not. I remember many a dateless, friendless (aw, poor Jeremy!) Saturday evening snickering quietly at Dana Carvey, Dennis Miller, Adam Sandler, et al so as not to alert my parents in the other room. It wasn't that I would get in trouble for watching it, but I certainly would be mortified to have them walk into the room to find me laughing out loud at the "penis sketch."

In the late 80's, my grandmother caught wind of my love of SNL and informed me that we were related by marriage to one of the cast members. "PleaseletitbeDanaCarvey PleaseletitbeDanaCarvey" No, she informed me, it was Phil Hartman. Who?? At the time I had no fucking clue who Phil Hartman was, as he hadn't yet really risen to any level of prominence on the show. But apparently his mother-in-law was my grandfather's first cousin. Oh.

During the Christmas season that year, Grandma produced a handwritten card from Grandpa's cousin in Thief River Falls, MN. Nestled snugly with the typical family blah de blah was a paragraph cooing about how much Phil and Brynn (her daughter, his wife) loved living in New York, how much Phil enjoyed working on SNL, and that they were estatic to have just had birth to their first child, Sean. Meh. I found it mildly interesting but for the most part, was unimpressed. Send me X-Rays of Phil Hartman paddling Jon Lovitz's balls with a cricket bat, then I might raise an eyebrow of intrigue.

As Phil Hartman proved his talent and rose in the ranks on SNL and especially after he left to do movies, voices for some of the most hilarious characters in the history of The Simpsons, and his hilariously assholish character on NewsRadio, he easily became one of my favorite comedic actors. So when a coworker at my on campus job during the waning days of my senior year at UND told me that "Troy McClure died today," I didn't quite process it right away.

"Huh? Troy McClure? So they're killing that character off on The Simpsons?"

"No, the dude that did his voice got shot today. What's his name?"

"Phil Hartman died?!?" I was incredulous.

"Yeah, that's it! Phil Hartman. Somebody shot him I guess."

From that description, I pictured him walking down the street, being accosted by a mugger, and catching one in the chest when the transaction went sour. Then it came out that this was in his home. A home invasion? A crazed fan? Finally came the crucial details that his wife had shot him and hours later killed herself. So my grandpa's cousin's daughter murdered one of the best comedic minds of our generation. Fuck 'sup with that?

Until I was 7 years old, my family lived in a trailer house on my grandparents' farm right next to their house (not a trailer house). During the day, while dad farmed away out in the field and mom slept after working the graveyard shift at the hospital, Grandma would keep an eye on my brother and me (Grandpa also farmed and was out in the field during the day). My brother and I were extremely close with our grandparents, so even after we moved into an actual house of our own a few miles from the next town over, we frequently visited Grandma and Grandpa, often staying overnight for a day or two.

Grandma had had one those yippy little dogs, which I believe was a pomeranian and poodle mix. Mitzi the yipping dog was rather skittish, didn't much care for kids, and went absolutely Vietnam flashback apeshit at any hint of a loud noise. Mitzi also liked to sleep under Grandpa's well worn easy chair with the squeaky springs. During one of our regular overnight stays, Grandpa popped a massive bowl of popcorn in the air popper for everyone to munch on, plopped down in his chair, and unleashed the most massive fart God has ever bestowed upon a humble servant's colon. The fart left the springs in the old chair vibrating violently at a low E flat, which scared the unleavened shit out of the dog. She rocketed out from under that chair as if she'd been launched from a t-shirt cannon.

I've spent my life trying to recreate that fart. But no manner of popcorn, bean, or taco meat has ever resulted in that perfect pitch and timbre let loose on that warm summer evening. So far I only scare women away, and the tiny little dogs stay around to hump my leg. How I wish it were the other way around.

Every family and group of close friends has its share of inside jokes and unique phrases that developed over the course of years. They're part of the bonding process in that they are a constant reminder of a shared and fondly remembered experience. For example, when my brother and I were in grade school, I spotted him chowing down a bowl of cereal and asked him what he had. His mouth overflowed with Cheerios and milk as he garbled a response that sounded to me like "dry boys." From that day forward, Cheerios were Dry Boys. Aside from sounding just plain goofy, the concept of eating Dry Boys and the phrase itself hinted at something dangerously dirty without setting off alarm bells with any adults in the room. I even made a fake television commercial for Dry Boys cereal for a group project in high school many years later. "Dry Boys cereal tastes great with cheese!"

Then there is the phrase that has driven my brother and I insane all the way into our adult lives because we can't trace its origins. The scenario: one of us is dropping a deuce behind closed doors in the bathroom (as opposed to the potted plant in the living room, I guess), then from outside comes the knock on the door and the query, "Are you cooking some pie in there? Can I have some?" The wording has to be, "Are you COOKING some pie..." because apparently "baking" the pie in the bathroom would not be feasible. There also must not be a the slightest pause between the first and second question such that it is ostensibly a single question. "Are you cooking some pie in therecan I have some?"

Neither one of us can remember where in the fresh hell the pie bit came from. There are vague memories from both of us of a similar line in a movie or television show, but no brainstorming session or google search has ever born closure. Are we quoting something verbatim? Was there a movie where a guy was taking a dump and his buddy asked him if he was cooking pie and willing to share? Or is this just something one or both of us concocted from atmospheric vapors? I fear both of us will be dead in the grave without ever knowing the truth. But if you'll excuse me, I need to go cook some pie now.

Happy 28th cakesnackin' birf-day to my favorite (and only) sibling, Troy. Here is a photo from his 4th birthday in 1983. Pictured is our late dad, me hamming it up, and lil' Troy. Click to make it big (rub to make it even bigger).

A little while ago, I dropped my mom off at the airport. She flew here from Devils Lake, ND. Yes, they actually have flights out of Devils Lake. I've taken the flight myself a handful of times but I usually drive home. Mom, on the other hand, is too timid of a driver and does not care to drive in "the big city" or even just outside of it. My brother and I have offered several times to meet her up in Monticello, one of us driving her down, and the other driving her car down, but she doesn't seem too keen on that idea, either. So she usually flies down a couple of times a year. She seems content to make the flight, despite the cost, and we are happy to drive to the airport (I live maybe 15 minutes from there) to pick her up.

On Friday, her flight got in around 4 pm, and my brother fetched her since I knew I would need to stick around work until 5 to wrap a few things up (unfortunately a minor work-related emergency needed my attention throughout the day Friday, so I never got to wrap those few things up anyway). We had a nice dinner at Axel's Bonfire in Savage, watched Garden State on DVD with my brother and his wife at their house, and Mom stayed there that night.

Saturday we decided to finally take Mom to Psycho Suzi's Motor Lounge for a late afternoon lunch after a failed attempt to take her there for dinner a couple years ago. I had not been there prior to last summer (a tragic mistake I shall remedy by going there time and time again until my credit card and liver are sore), so I was not familiar with the route. I printed the directions, grabbed a page off the printer, then halfway there realized I had grabbed directions to something else, perhaps the destination of where to meet an erstwhile date. We ended up getting lost, collectively saying fuck it, and went to Brit's Pub for dinner and a few beers. It ended up being memorable for its own reasons, namely me eating a huge ass serving of pot roast with a Guinness, then betting my sister-in-law another round if I couldn't down a second Guinness in under 10 seconds (fast Man Show style beer drinking is a not-so-hidden talent I possess). I won the bet, but slammed the glass down, and immediately groaned, "Ohhhh, I didn't think that one through!" I made a beeline to the restroom where I hardily vomited pot roast and Guinness. My vomit could only have been more brown and murky if someone had switched my intake and outtake pipes. Mom was surely proud of her older boy that night.

But back to Saturday. This time--this time!!--I had been to Suzi's several times, and knew exactly how to get there by heart. Now keep in mind that Saturday was cold, as in below zero. Pick your trite expression to convey the arctic nature of this cold. Colder than a witch's titty in a brass bra. Colder than a witch's titty in a wind storm. Or some other saying indicating that witches must have very poor circulation in their titties. As we drove into the tiny parking lot at Suzi's, we noticed perhaps a couple of dozen bicycles parked outside the front door. What I was seeing didn't even register until some mustachioed fucker in his spandex arctic ball huggers came prancing out the front door, hopped onto his bike, and pedaled away, clouds of breath billowing behind him. Let me repeat so that it may sink in. He rode away on a bicycle. It was about 5 degrees below zero. And did I mention I'm measuring this in degrees Fahrenheit? So not only did Nose Mop Attenborough ride his double-breasted unicycle to Suzi's, many others has well. Perhaps there is a club for folks who like to have the sweat between their ass cheeks freeze them together, only to thaw with a sudden THHHHHWOP! when they enter a warm building. Luckily we apparently were arriving as the Tour de Prance was breaking up, meaning the joint would not be packed to the gills with shrink wrapped ball sacks and camel toes. We had a nice meal, conversed for a while, and hit the road.

Our original plan for Saturday evening was to head out to Harriet Island to check out the ice sculptures and other St Paul Winter Carnival attractions, but re-dickless deep freeze put the stink finger on that idea and then waggled it around under our cold noses. Instead, we decided to see Babel at the Regal in Eagan along with my friend Mary. I think everyone else's opinion of it was far less favorable than mine, but I thought it was just ok. I understood the message, and the theme, but it was just too long and meandering. Though it would have been more enjoyable had the 350 lb man behind me, breathing wet and wheezily with what sounded like thick gazpacho in his lungs, hadn't apparently fallen asleep through a huge swath of the move, only to awake to play 20 questions with his wife to catch up? "Who's that guy?" "Where did they go? Are they in Mexico?" "Did that lady die yet?" Then when his wife finally stitched it together to his satisfaction, he put on his professor cap and brilliantly summed up the plot amidst crackling mucousy coughs, "Ohhhhh! So it's a movie about how hard it is to communicate when people don't speak the same language--HAAAAACCK HORK COUGGGHHHHH! SNOORRRRK!!!" His wife then started in with her own assessment, but Mary had had even more of her fill of this than I had and whipped her head around to give them the evil eye. They seemed to get the hint and shut their yaps for the rest of the film. After the movie, we headed back to my brother's place, watched the news, and some SNL, and I drove home to hit the hay.

Sunday was even more bitterly cold. To make matters worse, the wind was whipping fiercely, driving down the wind chill into the negative 20's. This means that if you couldn't make it to the bathroom and had to pull over to the side of the road to urinate, the wind would blow your urine up into your face, the cold would freeze the arc solid, and the coroner would have a handy little icey pee handle to carry you by after a polar bear found your frozen corpse on the side of the road 3 minutes later. Mom, my brother, and his wife were out looking at open houses in ritzier neighborhoods just for fun, which held little interest to me, so I worked out and ran a few errands before having lunch with them back at their house in Savage.

For reasons of which I understand the logic, but still wrestle with the resulting decision, my sister-in-law decided we should go to Hooters in Burnsville to watch the Super Bowl. Basically the reasoning, which I am not questioning in the least, was this--Hooters would not be as packed to the gills hours in advance of the game as a sports bar like Joe Senser's. I would have preferred to just watch the game at home, but if we were to go out, then I far preferred an environment that wouldn't be shoulder to shoulder with apeshit fans. And if I get a little boob jigglage with my beer and wings, am I going to complain? Hells naw, slim!

Or so I thought. We arrived about 30 minutes or so before kickoff to find the place hopping, but certainly not anywhere near full. Most of the traffic came from people getting huge takeout orders of wings. I was first surprised, especially given that this Hooters location is maybe 2 or 3 years old, that all of the televisions were small, old school jobs. Not a single big screen plasma or lcd to be found. I wasn't bothered by this, but I just found it rather odd. Whatever. We'll have some beer, gnaw some spicy chicken wings down to the bone, and chill.

Then it happened. A jarring screech of feedback over the speaker system followed by a loud, distorted female voice that sounded like it was being amplified by a microphone lodged so far down her throat that the end was poking out of her asshole. "[SCREEEEE] HEEEYYY SUPER BOWL FANS. WELCOME TO HOOTERS! WE'RE GOING TO HAVE GREAT TIME TODAY. WE'RE GOING TO HAVE SOME TRIVIA, GAMES, AND LOTS [CRACKLE] OF PRIZES [ZZTTZZZTZT]." All of us at the table looked at each other with a look of pain that said both, "Ow, my ears!" and "What the fuck was that???" Danielle, my sister-in-law, actually asked them to turn the PA system down, which they kindly did. Then the game started, they turned the speakers up louder, and it wasn't long before Hooty McEmcee busted in during the first commercial break with, "WOOOOO! LET'S HAVE ANOTHER TRIVIA QUESTION [SPZZZTTTT]..." It was then that we decided we would leave after the first half was over. We were Tivoing the game, so we weren't going to miss anything.

Throughout the first half, Hooty McEmcee's timing on her trivia questions and eating contests grew increasingly disruptive to the viewing of the actual game itself. I thought destroying our ability to enjoy the Super Bowl commercials was enough, but the contests spilled further and further into actual game play time. At one point, she crackled in with "HEEYYYY! IS EVERYBODY READY FOR MORE SUPER BOWL TRRRIVIAAAAA!!!!" About a half dozen people, including myself (I had a little over a pitcher of beer in my system by this point), responded with a loud, clear, and admittedly rude "NO!!!!" It fell on deaf ears. TRRRIVIAAAAA would happen with or without my approval.

At last, half time arrived, and Hooty seemed to have clamped it for the time being, so we decided to stay long enough to catch Prince's half time show. How often do we get to see a Minneapolis boy play to that huge of an audience in such a cultural mainstay? I am not a rabid Prince fan, but the guy as got some unquestionable talent, and definitely was in full control on that stage. He hammered out a few classics, and just as he was handed his glyph guitar, the PA cut in again, so they could break in with--I shit you not--the fucking hamster dance song! The Hooters girls did some sort of mesmerizing, jumpy, jiggly dance to it, and then the half time show, and the dance were both over. We piled into the car and went back to Savage.

Since Troy and Danielle both had to work today, and I had taken the day off, Mom stayed with me in Eagan last night. We spent the morning lazily sipping coffee, chatting, reading, watching tv, and all around enjoying the day without too much pressure to get much of anything accomplished. Though I did want to run to Ikea to get some wooden venetian blinds for my bathroom and kitchen and look for some new heavy duty winter gloves at the Mall of America, just across the street from Ikea. So we had a late lunch at Jimmy John's (I discovered one a dangerously close 2.5 miles from my house), wandered in the rat maze that is Ikea, and went over to the MOA. Mom bought some charms for her charm bracelet, and I found a great pair of winter gloves on clearance for 4 measly bucks at Marshall's.

Before heading back to the car to go back to gather Mom's stuff and meet Troy and Danielle for dinner, we decided to stop at Caribou for a coffeelicious treat. Caribou typically has a trivia question posted, which if answered correctly, will get you ten cents off your total. At this location, someone evidently decided to be promotional about it, and the question was, "What is the name of one of the flavors of our new Northern Lights sugar free syrups?" I correctly gave an answer of Kahlua. The Penn Gillette wannabe behind the counter snorted and asked incredulously, "Is that seriously the trivia question?" I pointed to the board behind him. Upon verifying I was not pulling this out of my ass, he snorted again, shook his head, and replied, "Man, that is a STUPID trivia question. Morning shift picks the dumbest questions. I'm changing it!" This guy's snotty attitude was starting to irritate me. I rattled off my usual order of a large skim no whip mocha, and mom, not as familiar with the nuances of cappuccinos and lattes, asked me for some suggestions, wondering what was in cappuccino. "Basically that's just strong coffee," I said, not knowing the precise answer. "What about your mocha? Is that a cappuccino?" she asked. "No, that is a latte." Mini Penn Gillette snorted even more loudly, and snarked, "Noooooo...a mocha is a MOCHA!" His tone could have just as well appended "fucktard" to the end of it. I glared at him, appending my own fucktard with my eyes, knowing his dumb ass was as wrong as Scientology (a mocha at Caribou IS a latte, but with chocolate syrup and chocolate shavings added). I held my tongue, as I really don't care to get into an argument when someone is about to prepare food or a beverage for my consumption. I prefer my treats to be spit and semen free.

Mom offered to pay, and I gratefully accepted. She handed Penn the exact amount of the total to the penny. I don't know if she did that because she isn't used to coffee shops with baristas where it's customary to tip, or if she had caught a few of the waves of attitude off this guy, or what. Normally I might have quietly nudged her about the tip or waited for her to walk away and discreetly tossed a dollar into the cup outside of her view, but I didn't like this prick. I'd piss blood in his cup before I'd put a tip in it.

By this time, it was getting late, so we decided hoof it and use our steaming drinks to warm our cores in the frigid parking ramp. We made the quick drive back to my place to gather her suitcase, threw it into the car, had dinner with Troy and Danielle, and I dropped her at the airport with a few parting hugs and kisses. All in all, it was yet another fun and relaxing weekend with dear Mom. I look forward to getting back to visit them out at the farm, hopefully in early to mid-spring.

Oh, and I already put up the blinds for the bathroom. I'll have to do the kitchen later in the week when I have more time. Here's a before and after pic. The Roman shade thing I had up before