Through a Glass, Darkly

I use my own bags at the grocery store. We compost. We have a share in a farm and get most of our produce from there. We also buy a whole lot at the Farmer’s Market. From time to time, we shop at Trader Joe’s. (In fact, we have to drive to Chapel Hill to go to Trader Joe’s. Sometimes we catch an independent film while we are there.) In other words, Mike and I can be, well, pretentious. We know this. We don’t love it, but it’s just how things are these days. We would be crunchy except I’m not really the crunchy type. So we’ll just stick to being pretentious.

This school year, one of my favorite games to play with the band and orchestra teacher was to mention something pretentious Mike and I had done and then look at her to watch her roll her eyes.

“When Mike and I were at the Farmer’s Market this weekend . . . ”

“While we were in Chapel Hill to see Slumdog Millionaire, we stopped by Trader Joe’s and picked up some goat cheese. ”

Now, the band and orchestra teacher would want me to tell you that she recycles and she is for saving the planet. She just likes to make fun of me. She loves to give me a hard time about the Farmer’s Market and the lack of summer blockbusters in my life. And I like her so much that I encourage it. During the last week of school, I happened to see her in the hall as I was eating an apple, and I waved the core at her and said, “Just want you to know, I am taking this home to compost it!” She laughed and asked if that was true. “No. I’m taking it home to Big Bunny. But we compost her litter, so it’s kind of true.” (She rolled her eyes.) (Which, unquestionably, I deserved.)

Since it’s summertime, I kind of miss our interactions. I haven’t done very many pretentious things this summer. So far. Before I tell you about my latest and greatest pretentious move, let’s talk about olive oil. My mom went on a Mediterranean cruise and she brought Mike back some olive oil from Greece. This was The Greatest Olive Oil Of All Time and with it he made excellent hummus. After that, he declared that we must use olive oil from Greece. And we spent some time at the Teeter looking at their giant wall of olive oil. Which was, as I remarked upon at the time, incredibly ridiculous. No one needs that many choices when it comes to olive oil. I just want one from Greece.

Now we know it’s cheaper at Fresh Market, so I went there the other day specifically to pick up olive oil (who runs out of olive oil?). While I was standing in front of their slightly smaller shelf of exotic varieties of olive oil, I had a brain fart about whether we wanted Italian olive oil or Grecian olive oil. I considered calling Mike. I imagined the conversation that my fellow shoppers would overhear. “Dear, do we want olive oil from Greece or Italy?” It sort of made me sick. I looked back at the selection of many different olive oils, and I called anyway. He didn’t answer. After a minute, I managed to remember which one we needed, so I bought it – I had my own bag – and headed out to my car. At which time I called the band and orchestra teacher to tell her the tale. She was appropriately horrified. Here is a snippet from the end of our conversation.

KARI: When I was at the checkout, the cashier said, “I buy my olive oil in a big jug at Costco.”

B & O TEACHER: You know you are pretentious when the cashier at Fresh Market thinks you are pretentious.

KARI: I know. There is pretty much no hope for me at this point.

(I might have needed a break from school, but I kind of miss the other teachers.)

An announcement:

“Edward Cullen, please bring Bella her sunglasses.”

Right, like Edward would be at the pool. His sunbathing would be just a little bit too dazzling.

“Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota” by James Wright

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

When I was little, we gave my dad a hammock. I am guessing it was for Father’s Day. I remember piling into it with him, and my impression has always been that he really liked it. When we moved, we didn’t have a place for it. Although there were plans to get it set up, first at one house and then another, my dad never got around to doing that. There were no trees, and there was no hammock stand, so it spent a great deal of time in the garage. And when Mike made some noise about wanting a hammock last year, my mom let him have my dad’s old one. Which makes me very happy.

Apparently, Mike’s natural habitat is the hammock. He spends every possible minute there. That is not just a thing that a wife would say, either. I have witnesses: The neighbors often ask me how much hammock time Mike is planning on for a weekend. With the implicit assumption that he’ll be spending quite a bit of time there. And, obviously, I have spent some time there myself. I do not deny it. I have no wish to deny it. I do, however, enjoy looking at Mike in the hammock and accusing him of wasting his life. Sometimes I read the entire poem to him. Or . . . AT him. Accusingly.

Today we watched the son of some of our friends, and he and I had some hammock time, too.

If this is wasting my life, well, sign me up.

(P.S. I do know that the poem is about “wasting your life” by not enjoying the beauty around you. It’s just fun to give Mike a hard time.)

This is Hank Green of Nerdfighter fame.

Best line: “I hope someday his child will rip its way out of your womb.” I laughed so hard I had to pause so I did not miss more of the brilliance.

(This is apparently from Follow That Bird. Which I have only really seen once, but I don’t remember this. Grouches unite!)

Okay, to temper the grouchiness, I will tell you a story of something that happened today. I was teaching a lesson on plagiarism and used Michael Bolton as an example, because he had to pay the Isley Brothers a lot of money for plagiarizing their song lyrics. Even though the kids don’t know who Michael Bolton is, they are impressed with how much money he had to pay.

Except this one kid said, “Isn’t Michael Bolton that guy that they make fun of in Office Space?”

Y’all. These are sixth graders. He should not have seen Office Space. At the same time? Totally awesome.

My response? “Yes. In Office Space, they said that they didn’t think he had much talent.”

And then we moved on. Very quickly. But the knowing look on his face when I said that was totally the highlight of my day.

In honor of both Halloween and 30 Rock being back (yay!), I present you with this clip:

And I present the full song for your listening pleasure:

This was posted last week, so maybe you have seen it already, but here is a video from Gizmodo showing the Lego vault, where they keep almost every set that Lego has ever created. The post accompanying it is great, too–I feel the same way about Legos and still get them as presents from time to time. We had to take apart my Hogwarts castle in order to move, and it made me kind of sad. I don’t know what to do with all of my Legos, really, because we don’t really have a place to display them, but I don’t want to take them apart. I suppose I should just disassemble them and put them in separate bags with the instructions so that we can discover them again with our kids one day. If we never have kids, maybe I could just set up one room as a Lego shrine. I am sure Mike would love that.

I actually almost teared up watching the video. I spent a lot of my childhood playing with Legos. They remind me of Grandma’s house, my cousin David, and Christmas. All at once. Together, my brother and I had an awesome Lego town, complete with a house I built from spare Legos at my grandma’s house. He had a Robin Hood set, and we had a few of the knight sets. It was fun to have the knights guarding the town and other strange things. Joseph also had some space Legos, now that I think about it. I got especially excited when the video showed the pirate ship. I didn’t have the pirate ship, but I did have the Eldorado Fortress (I had to do some googling to figure out what it was called). It was definitely my favorite of all my Lego sets.

Mike’s nephew loves pirates and Legos, and I am so sad they don’t make the pirate Legos anymore. They were the best. Bring back the pirate Legos! (Mike’s nephew may be getting Indiana Jones Legos for his birthday this year. It’s never too early to indoctrinate him on the greatness of Indiana Jones. And Legos.)

Mike would like for me to tell you that he beat me at Trivial Pursuit. Which is fine. I enjoy a good friendly competition. My hat is off to him. He should definitely be proud. After all, while I was getting questions about Confederate generals (which I answered correctly) and retired NHL commissioners (which I did not), he was getting questions like the following:

What tune did Jim Weatherly originally pen as Midnight Plane to Houston?

Midnight. Plane. To. Houston. Yeah. He got a pie piece for that. How about this one?

What does the W mean to roving WLAN computer users?

W? Roving? What could that be? Certainly not wireless! Except, yes it is. Another pie piece for Mike.

What fraction of Africa’s rainforests can be found in the Democratic Republic of Congo?

Now, I know what you are going to say here. That could be a difficult question. But let me assure you, as we will discover in just a minute, the number questions are never really that difficult if you are thinking. Unless they are questions for Kari. And this was a question for Mike. And, indeed, the answer was . . . one-half. Another pie piece. This was one of his more difficult pie pieces.

What Democrat cringed in horror at his half-brother’s role in Pumpkinhead 2: Blood Wings?

I actually knew this one from my Quiz Bowl days. Mike guessed correctly, but I thought that everyone knew about Roger and his drug/alcohol problems. Obviously drugs and/or alcohol would lead to one making a movie called Pumpkinhead 2. Another piece of the pie for Mike.

Speaking of numbers and how they work in Mike’s favor, here is a nice little question:

How many winning seasons were fans of the New Orleans Saints able to enjoy, from 1967 to 1986?

Well, let’s see what we’ve got here. Really specific dates? Check. A team not historically known for winning? Check. That can only mean one thing! Zero! And, indeed, the answer was zero. Another piece of the pie for Mike. (Sorry, Scott, for bringing up such a painful subject.)

And, finally, my personal favorite question from this batch:

What U.S. State lost 30,500 hogs to 1999’s Hurricane Floyd?

Hey, Mike, remember when I was in college and there was a hurricane coming through North Carolina and we went to Kelly’s apartment for a hurricane party and then nothing happened to us and then Eastern North Carolina flooded and we felt awful about it later? You do? You mean to tell me you remember Hurricane Floyd hitting North Carolina? Dangit. I guess that’s six pieces of pie, now, isn’t it?

In our house, there is some debate about whether the final question should be selected before or after the card has been perused. Mike insisted that I choose beforehand. So I chose History, often a difficult category, and he got a question about a president of our country who was also, I kid you not, the founder of UVA. He won. But, you know, that’s cool. I’m not bitter.

If you need me, I’ll be on a midnight plane to Houston. (MIDNIGHT PLANE TO HOUSTON, YOU GUYS. HE GOT A PIE PIECE FOR THAT! HURRICANE FLOYD! I will have my revenge.)

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson
done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the
themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.

—

Happy National Poetry Month!

Random House is re-releasing the Sweet Valley High series, with updated references (this means cell phones and Elizabeth writes for the website instead of the newspaper) and character descriptions (this means “perfect size four” rather than “perfect size six”). In honor of this glorious event, I would like to share a treasured photo with you. I had the Sweet Valley High board game, you see, and it was a point of contention between me and my dad. I am not completely sure about the details, but I am pretty sure that he did not approve of Sweet Valley High in general (though he did let me read them), and he wasn’t really a board game kind of guy. Card games, yes. Board games, not so much. And, finally, the game required that you steal other players’ boyfriends as you collected all the things you needed for your big date. There was no way he was going to play a game like that.

But. We had a habit of betting things for the Carolina/Duke game. At some point, we made a wager that, if Duke lost, he had to play Sweet Valley High: The Board Game with me. Duke did, in fact, lose that game. He had to play Sweet Valley High with me, complete with boyfriend stealing. And I took a picture of it. With my polaroid camera. Which I now share with all of you.

Stealing boyfriends from other players gave him physical pain. But I made him do it anyway.

Obviously, I was quite excited to read the updated version, if only to revisit good old Sweet Valley High. The Dairi Burger, a site that is rereading and reviewing old Sweet Valley High books, thinks that maybe the 80s yuppie culture won’t translate to today’s audiences. The site specifically talks about the obsession with the rich and how that won’t really translate to today’s youth . . . to which I say, “Have you SEEN how popular Gossip Girl is?” What is Gossip Girl about other than class issues and spying on the lives of rich people? And there’s the Clique series (rich private school girls) and the It Girl series (I don’t know what that one’s about, but I am going to guess people who are rich and/or famous), and . . . you get the idea.

In case you don’t know, the Sweet Valley High series features beautiful twins Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield, who are 16 and attend Sweet Valley High with their beautiful friends. Jessica is the “bad twin,” who is inconsiderate and selfish and boy-crazy, while Elizabeth, the “good twin,” works on the newspaper (excuse me, website) and is responsible and considerate. (I always liked Elizabeth better.) They like boys and go to parties and there are hints of sex but nothing ever really happens. Well, this one time, Bruce Patman untied the top of Jessica’s bathing suit, which I found racy at the time. But now I look at the things going on in Gossip Girl, and the bikini top seems kind of tame. Because of that, I think it’s a good choice for middle school – it has the high school drama without some of the material that makes Gossip Girl and its ilk inappropriate for that age.

Because the girls at my school love the Clique series, I have read some of them myself, and I was bothered by the way the girls in that series treat each other. When girls ask for it, if it’s not checked in, I have been known to say, “Wouldn’t you rather read a series where the girls are nice to each other?” and give them The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants instead. Because of my discomfort with some of that, I wondered how Sweet Valley High would measure up now that I am a little bit older. After reading Double Love and Secrets, I have to say that they are pretty much just as I remember them. Though Jessica is catty and selfish and conniving, she often gets her comeuppance. Additionally, the presence of Elizabeth balances out the story a little bit more, and I would be much more comfortable giving these to my middle schoolers than the Clique series, where everyone is just mean to each other all the time.

I hope, as they are updating Sweet Valley High, that they give the series more diversity. The Dairi Burger was right in that one of the major themes was class, which was a little bit more applicable in the 80s . . . I hope that can be expanded so that the series also deals with race and ethnicity as well. Overall, though, I enjoyed this trip down memory lane. I enjoyed it so much that I got out the old board game.

Much to Mike’s chagrin. Well, that’s what he said at first, but then he got into the spirit of it. He played as Jessica, the “bad twin,” and he really embodied the character. He took what used to be a simple game and added some serious scheming.

OMG! He stole my boyfriend!

And, uh, then he won. I am filled with shame. I will distract you by posting that picture of my dad again, just because I can.

The rest of the Sweet Valley High pictures are here!

Seriously, you guys. I have confessed to a lot of quirks here. And those are just the entries in which I was specifically talking about quirks. I think we all know that I have revealed more strange/quirky things than that. Like that time I ate the mint chocolate chip ice cream to keep the peace, or the way I eat pizza rolls and popcorn for dinner when Mike is out of town, or how irate I get when Mike kicks his socks off in the middle of the night and leaves them in our bed. Or how I read while I dry my hair in the morning. Just, you know, some examples.

But, in the interest of friendship, even though Melissa is deserting me to move to Seattle (where, according to this movie I saw, people do not sleep), I will try to come up with seven more strange things about myself.

1. I do not like to answer my phone when I am at home. I like to talk on my phone in the car (I’m a hazard to myself). But when I am at home, I am kind of done with the phone. Usually I do answer it, because I am such a people pleaser. But I often do so with reluctance. (Except when YOU call. I always want to answer when YOU call.) (Please don’t take this personally, anyone. It’s my own issue with needing boundaries, not about not wanting to talk to anyone.) (Look what a people pleaser I am and how hard it was for me to confess that.)

2. My fingernails don’t break. They bend. Under extreme duress, they tear. When I was in middle school, I discovered that this really grossed some people out. I’m still not exactly sure why. And I can’t imagine what it would be like to have really brittle nails.

3. I’m not sure if I have ever talked about our engagement here . . . Mike and I got engaged without ever having been on an official date. Sometimes we discuss this and say things like, “We were so young. What were we thinking?” (In the best possible way, of course.)

4. Mike thinks it is strange that I call wool caps “toboggans.” He thinks that word is reserved for sleds. I also use it for sleds, but AS YOU CAN SEE HERE, MIKE, it is considered American English colloquial to use it that way. So, officially, this should probably not count as a strange thing. But it may garner some discussion, so I am going to leave it.

5. I have never read Of Mice and Men or The Grapes of Wrath. A student asked me the other day, about The Grapes of Wrath, “Was this book good?” and I had to confess to him that I had never read it. I don’t like to pretend that I have read something when I haven’t, because that’s dishonest, but it’s hard sometimes when people assume I have read everything. I have never claimed to have read anything. And, to be honest, there are authors a whole lot higher than Steinbeck on my list. (I did read The Pearl. In case you were wondering. It was fine.) Maybe one day I will post a list of Important Books I Have Not Read And Do Not Plan On Reading just to shock everyone and lose everyone’s respect. Good times.

6. Mike and I talk about poop an inordinate amount. That’s all I have to say about that.

7. It is quite possible that t-shirts are one of my primary love languages. This dates back to my two (TWO!!) Star Trek t-shirts that I wore, without shame, in middle school. I had dozens of band t-shirts in high school and college. And now I wear nerdy/bookish/librarian shirts. I have stopped buying t-shirts for Mike, and instead just send him the link to whatever t-shirt I would buy him except he has a drawer full of shirts I bought him already. Also, he said I am not allowed to buy any more coffee mugs.

I am not tagging anybody. “I take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your mother. You deserve no such attention.”

Yesterday the fragrance of baking filled our home. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, Super Bowl weekend can only mean one thing: the Male Bakeoff approacheth!

Let’s review our Male Bakeoff experiences, shall we? The first year that Mike participated, he made a Chocolate Irish Cream Cake and won “Best First-Time Entry.” The second year, he made the infamous Foreskins Hill Cheesecake and won “Most Biblical.” And last year, he made Whore of Babylon Red Velvet Cake and won “Muy Macho.” How would he top those shenanigans? What would he make? And would he win anything?

Thankfully, I am here to answer your questions.

Mike had a hard time settling on a dessert or a theme this year. He made Cranberry Caramel Almond Tart as a trial run, and it was freaking incredible. Seriously. But while he liked the flavor, he wasn’t sold on the presentation, so he ultimately decided to go another direction. But I still expect him to make me that tart again. Because, oh my goodness.

Anyway, may I present Jesus’ Favorite No-Crumb-Wasted Pie. A peanut butter cup cheesecake pie. When they had all had enough to eat, he said to his disciples, “Gather the pieces that are left over. Let nothing be wasted.”

Competition was stiff again this year, as expected.

As you can see, we are not so much about the Patriots at church. Go Giants!

Here is the table full of trophies.

And many of our friends walked home with trophies, including David, who won the “Weirdness Cup” for his “Holy Poop!” Dark Chocolate Bread Pudding, Peter winning “Judge’s Choice” for his Spit-in-the-Mud Mousse, and Matt, who won “Best in Show” for his Grizzly Cake (seen above). (There’s a whole ‘nother story about that, but I won’t get into it here.)

And, yet again, Mike walked home with “Most Biblical!” I mean, hello! If it’s Jesus’ favorite, who are you to argue!?

(Aidan was also a fan.)

Mike really played it straight this year, and his presentation was remarked upon by many people. I am really proud of him yet again. (Also, I am a happy lady because he made two pies, so there is one just for us!)

Let’s get one thing straight. Having a Roomba doesn’t make me lazy. I am a very busy woman, with a job and church commitments and also I am taking two classes this semester! Also, the Roomba gets under the bed. I never vacuumed under the bed. Our standard of living is actually higher now. (Okay, fine, I’m a little bit lazy. I don’t even care. Being lazy is awesome. A robot cleans my floors!)

By “our” I mean my standard of living and Mike’s standard of living, because Big Bunny? She HATES the Roomba. They are mortal enemies in her mind. When she is in the cage and we start the Roomba, she freaks out, as if she is being mistreated in some way. But when she is out of the cage and we start the Roomba, well, that’s when things get awesome, because she hops around, approaches Roomba, and then, when it turns to vacuum in her direction, as it inevitably does, she freaks out and hops away. Lather, rinse, repeat. Do they make Roombas for rabbit cages? Maybe that would win her over.

Speaking of how it turns around, seriously, I am a little bit frightened of the Roomba. Because no matter where I am in the room, that is where it decides that it needs to be. It always turns and comes STRAIGHT FOR ME. So Roomba either has some serious codependency issues, or it is plotting to kill me. You decide. I have this irrational fear of vacuum cleaners coming alive ever since I saw this one episode of Tales of the Crypt in which a vacuum cleaner SUCKED THE LIFE OUT OF PEOPLE. I like you, Roomba, but you stay away from me. At least one room between us at all times.

We want to name our Roomba, but we have had a little bit of trouble choosing a name. I keep saying that Roomba is a boy. Because a robot that cleans my floor, well, that sounds like a boy to me. But Mike says, no, Roomba is a girl, and he constantly refers to Roomba as “she.” Fine, if Roomba is a girl, I want to name her Rosie. But, no again, Mike says that’s too much of a cliche. Our Roomba has no name. And is of unspecified gender. Poor little Roomba.

I have to go now. I am going to watch him/her clean our floor again while eating bonbons. It’s a hard life, but someone has to do it.

Over the weekend, we flew to Florida for my uncle’s surprise 70th birthday party.

Now, when I tell you that we flew on a private plane to go to a surprise party at the yacht club, you know that’s not how my life normally goes, right? But it was nice to pretend that it was. What are you doing this weekend, Kari? Oh, flying to Florida in a private jet. What are you doing?

We stayed in a nice inn right in downtown Naples, which was fun. My huge disappointment, however, was that I thought we were going to have a suite, with me and Mike in one room and my mom and my brother in the other room. I spent many hours envisioning the pajama parties we were going to have: watching movies, teaching my mom to knit. That, I am sad to say, did not happen, because we were down the hall from each other. No one knows where I got the idea that we were going to be in a suite. Apparently I made it up. But doesn’t my brain sound like a fun place to be? Don’t you wish you could have gone to that pajama party?

Anyway, we ran errands and went out to eat and went to the party (he was very surprised, not least that we were there). And then on Monday, when we could finally hang out with my aunt and uncle, my aunt went with us to Cheeburger Cheeburger, because I was demanding hamburgers and onion rings. Don’t ask why. There is no reason. I just WANTED A HAMBURGER. We chose Cheeburger Cheeburger even though we know that their service is consistently appalling. Both of the locations I have been to in Naples have had terrible service. In fact, there were only about four tables that had people, which should tell you something. And there were at least five different people serving tables. But we still didn’t get our onion rings until we had almost finished our burgers. What were they DOING back there?

Anyway, as you can see from their menu, they have a 20 oz burger. And so begins our story.

Sometimes we all say things without thinking. I think this was the case when my aunt said, “Who’s going to eat the pound burger?” You would think she hadn’t met Mike and Joseph, both of whom can put away some food. Normally volume eating isn’t something she approves of, but since this she had asked, she couldn’t take it back. They were both up for it.

Joseph’s eyes frighten me here. He is seriously intense about that burger.

I stuck with a 7 oz burger. Because I am not interested in volume eating, and I have nothing to prove to anyone. (I can’t claim to be worried about my girlish figure, since I was like: ONION RINGS! MUST HAVE FRIED FOOD AND RED MEAT!)

Anyway, as expected, neither Mike nor Joseph had any trouble whatsoever devouring the burger. And also some onion rings. (And later that afternoon, they each had a bowl of ice cream. Joseph also had an ice cream cone. My mom and my aunt began to turn green just looking at them consume food.)

The good news, though, is that eating this large burger really means something. If you finish it, you get to wear a silly hat and also your picture goes up on the wall.

Wow, that face sums it all up, I think.

Still hungry, I see.

The great thing about these pictures is that you get to write a meaningful sentiment at the bottom to be posted for all to see. It’s practically the Pulitzer Prize of eating. You probably saw these pictures in the paper (how could such a momentous occasion not be written up in the paper?), but just in case you didn’t, let me repost them here for you.

Truly, it was a day to remember. Joseph and Mike achieved what mere mortals only dream of.

After that, to finish off the day, we drove around in our limo and drank champagne in our hot tub.*

(*We did not do either of those things. Instead, we flew home on the private jet. Why can’t that be enough for you?)

I don’t normally link videos, but these have given Mike his silly laugh, and that means they really should be shared.

First, we love our epic films. We’ll be going to see this ASAP. (HT: Alissa.)

And we are a little bit afraid of how much this actually seems like us. (Seriously. I don’t want to spoil the joke, but this morning we did actually go to the Farmer’s Market and then to brunch. Yikes.)

For her 30th birthday, my friend Melissa had a murder mystery party. I was an archaeologist who believed that hieroglyphics hold evidence that UFOs have come to earth. Here are some pictures from my expeditions!

Here I am with my friend Indiana Jones. Perhaps you have seen some of his documentaries. We went together on a trip to recover some artifacts. He’s just as nice as you would imagine.

Here I am at Stonehenge. That was a really great time for me, communing with the heavens and those not from our world.

Here I am with King Tut. This was my most recent trip to Egypt. Soon my work will be published and the world will understand the truth about these ancient writings and what they teach us about other planets.

And, finally, here is another picture from Egypt. It was a lovely trip.

Mike was an entomologist. Here is a picture of his costume:

Those are shorts that he had on. And also knee socks.

Here is a partial picture of my costume. I do not yet have on my glasses or my foil hat. But, behold my awesome bone! I got that bone at school. And check out my t-shirt. I had a fun time with this costume.

I don’t want to give away the ending, but, apparently, when I say that I will date anything, I mean that I will date anything. Even vicious murderers.

Here are Emily’s pictures. In which you can see my tin foil hat. I know that’s what you’ve been waiting for. (The one of my hat floating in the background makes me laugh very hard.)

Speaking of Emily, here she is with her husband John. I mean . . . here are Amanda the movie star and Bud the sleazy lawyer. (Amanda and my character had a few, how do you say, issues with each other.) Bud’s jacket/tie combo was a thing of beauty and a joy forever.

I had never done anything like this before, and it was very fun. People were in character and got into it more than I thought they would, which made things especially awesome. Like Emily (Amanda) telling everyone how awful I (Carly) was all night (which, to be honest, was basically . . . true. hee hee). We weren’t supposed to know about each other’s characters beforehand, but since I was helping Mike with his costume, I knew he was an entomologist. And I knew from the information that I was given that the entomologist and I were not going to get along. At all. Because the entomologist was a terrible person who had done something awful (conveniently, the entomologist didn’t know about the awful things that the archaeologist had done. Three words: Cask. Of. Amontillado.). We spent all day Saturday “arguing” about what a terrible person the entomologist was. I choose to believe that this only enhanced our scenes at the party. Happy birthday, Melissa. And also, can Mike and I send you our therapy bill?

(Special thanks to Brian for his photoshop skills. Those pictures were even more awesome than I dared to imagine.)

My dad would always change this “NOEL” to “EL NO,” so my mom set it up that way for him this year. Dwight approves.

For some reason, this one makes me laugh a lot. I think it’s the look on Dwight’s face (which makes no sense . . . he has the same look in all of his pictures because he is A PLASTIC BOBBLEHEAD) combined with the fact that he is slightly taller than Santa. Though he is much more fit.

I said, “You won’t be able to balance that on a bobblehead.” So then of course my brother had to.

Brooklyn Bridge Park.

Author’s note: Keep in mind that our upstairs heat is not working.

MIKE: It’s going to be cold in here in the morning.

KARI: You know what would be awesome?

MIKE: No.

KARI: If we got the coffeepot ready and then brought it up here so that, in the morning, we could turn it on while we were still in bed. Hot coffee while we’re still in bed!

MIKE: Really?

KARI: Yeah, what’s wrong with that?

MIKE: Sure, while we’re at it, why don’t we get a George Foreman up here? I enjoy having breakfast in bed. I like waking up to the smell of bacon, sue me.

KARI: That’s not really the same thing.

MIKE: Yes it is.

KARI: No, it’s . . . totally . . . different.

MIKE: No.

KARI: Oh my lord, I’m Michael Scott.

MIKE: Don’t expect me to help you when you burn your foot.

KARI: I will probably scald my hand on the coffeepot instead.

MIKE: I’ll have the plastic wrap ready.

Sweaters with apples on them: 1.

Sweaters with apples on them worn by me: 0. (I hope you knew this already.)

Times I sang the “Jeans Day” song this morning: At least 5. (I got to wear jeans! To work!)

Times before this week I have been jealous of Mike getting to wear jeans on Friday: However many Fridays there have been this semester, times 100.

Number of kids I gave copies of A Wind in the Door to: 2.

My happiness about getting kids to read Madeleine L’Engle: 1,000,000 times infinity. I use my powers for awesome.

Middle school books I am excited about reading: At least 20.

Things I broke: 0. (I think.)

Things I blew up: 0.

Things I accidentally set on fire: 0.

Number of kids I overheard saying, “She’s nice. I hope she stays.”: 2. (sniff)

Times I was asked, “And how old ARE you, anyway?”: 3.

Times someone said, “I’m sorry, I thought you were a student!”: At least 10.

Times someone said, “You look 15 minutes out of middle school yourself.”: Just 1.

Age I am: 28. I am 28, okay? hehe.

And, most importantly . . .

Times stabbed: 0

In an age in which fortune cookies are more likely to give lame advice than actual fortunes, my brother recently received what is, without dispute, the greatest fortune of all time. No, seriously. That’s not hyperbole. What did it say?

“God will give you whatever you want.”

Oh my gosh, you guys. It was his fortune! In a fortune cookie! That means it must be true! Now all I have to do is convince my brother that he wants good things for me, and . . . voila! I also get whatever I want! I bet you all wish you knew my brother. Well, I’m not sharing him.

We keep trying to convince him that he should play the numbers on the back of that one. They seem guaranteed to win. If that’s what he wants.

If bookstores and websites can put out books full of Harry Potter predictions, why can’t Mike and I get in on that game? Well, we don’t have a publisher, but other than that, why can’t we get in on that game? So, here is our giant post full of our best Harry Potter predictions. You don’t have to pay to read our post. And, when we are more right than all those books, we will laugh in their faces. Laugh, I say! And so, in no particular order, here are the predictions of Mike and Kari, sometimes with the added bonus of percentages that mean very little. You may notice that we don’t completely agree on everything. I should go ahead and confess that this post is less about gloating over Borders or MuggleNet, who would care very little. That’s right, it’s about eternal Harry Potter gloating rights. We’ll revisit this post after Deathly Hallows to see who is the most right.

Gentle reader, I desperately want to be the most right. But I am sure you know that about me already.

QUESTION: How many times will Kari cry?

MIKE: Twice per chapter.

KARI: Are we including the party? Because, embarrassingly enough, I have had to fight back tears at midnight when all the kids are cheering. Kids cheering! For a book! I love that! So, once at the party, three times during the book itself. And then, after finishing, for the rest of the day.

MIKE: Three times during the book itself? Know thyself! I amend your answer for you. Ten times at the very least.

QUESTION: How many times will Mike cry?

MIKE: Five. I mean this is it. The end.

KARI: Mike will only cry if something happens to Ginny.

Actual speculative discussion of theories and ideas below the cut. If you don’t like thinking about this stuff, beware. (But we don’t know any spoilers. It’s all speculation from the books and from things she’s said.)

(more…)

At least, not if you’re a librarian. Check out this Amazon review of Pride and Prejudice.

Would you rather hear about the M. Ward concert I went to last night, or the awkwardness I had at the grocery store this morning? Both? Really?

Okay.

I’ll start with the awkwardness. I am well-known for awkwardness at the grocery store, what with the apple-lanches and the having to ask tall people to get things off the top shelf for me. But today, today was the beginning of the tote bag revolution. I want to stop consuming so many plastic bags. So I took tote bags with which to carry home my groceries. (If you have tote bags you aren’t using, and you don’t want to join the tote bag revolution, will you please send them to me? I need more tote bags.) But let me get to that in a second. First let’s talk about how Mike hates certain scents so much that I had to stand in the dish soap section and sniff Palmolive until I could find one that I thought he would tolerate. Yes, that’s not embarrassing at all. Back to the tote bags now. I had several tote bags, and as I approached the cashier, I caught her eye and said, “I brought my own bags.” She . . . just kind of looked at me. And nodded. Now I am the crazy dish soap-sniffing, tote bag-carrying lady at the grocery store. Fantastic. When she started ringing up my groceries, she . . . put them in the plastic bags. So then I had to take them OUT of the plastic bags and put them in my bags. Not only do I sniff Palmolive, now I am crazy militant tote bag lady!

The cashier finally caught on to what I meant and started handing me my groceries for me to bag myself. She said that she had never seen anyone bring their own bags before. But . . . even Oprah is in on this bag thing! Surely I cannot be the only person at my grocery store who brings her own bags! (Apparently I am the only person at my grocery store who brings her own bags. And I only started today.) I told the cashier that I was trying to save the environment, and she seemed to like that. I also apologized for any inconvenience. I bet she will be telling people all day about the crazy militant tote bag (Palmolive-sniffing) lady. Oh, well.

How about M. Ward? Do you want to hear about M. Ward?

I am not the M. Ward fan in our family. In fact, I kind of have a problem with his voice. I have less of a problem than I used to, because Mike has worn me down. He has played M. Ward until my defenses collapsed, and there are times I almost think I like him. I KNOW! I hardly know who I am anymore!

Mike and Alisa went to see M. Ward back in September, but I didn’t go. This time, though, Mike insisted that I had to experience M. Ward live, so we drove to The Orange Peel in Asheville to see him. Here is the thing about me and Asheville. There’s part of that crunchy/earthy thing that appeals to me (see above, with tote bags). But I also like wearing makeup and tailored clothing. So I don’t think that I completely fit in in Asheville. Also, I like bathing. I decided last night that I am getting too old for the concert thing because I don’t like standing for that long, especially in a large crowd of unwashed people. Give me a concert with assigned seating, I say. Also, I like to go to bed much earlier than this concert allowed me to. Because I am old.

Since we were the first people in, we managed to score seats during the opening band. But we wanted to be closer for M. Ward, so we gave up our seats and made a move toward the stage. I should tell you that before and during the opening act, we entertained ourselves by playing games such as, “What in the world is she wearing?” “Look at that awkward first date,” and, “Why are there twelve-year-olds at this concert?” Did I mention that I am old? Because I am. So old. There were mere children at this concert. There were also women wearing tapered pants who should not have been wearing tapered pants. No one should wear tapered pants that look like that. Our favorite game, though, was, “Drunk or stoned?” The guy directly in front of us was, we believe, both.

So, finally, M. Ward came on to the stage, and we were really close to him, and he played really nice music. He is incredibly talented. AND! Most importantly, his voice didn’t bother me so much in concert. I felt kind of bad for being so close, because we were surrounded by people for whom the concert was apparently a spiritual experience. That was how into it they were. I, however, only knew a few songs. I was an interloper.

I think I would have enjoyed it more if he’d had the full band (especially because, without the band, he did not play “To Go Home”), but, at the same time, when he was the only one making music, it was easy to see how talented he is. I definitely came away with an increased appreciation for his music. I might even let Mike put his CDs on my iPod.

My favorite part was the last song, “Rollercoaster.” M. Ward said that he needed someone who could play piano to come up on stage with him. I think we all thought he was joking at first, so we all kind of stood around awkwardly. But then, finally, a guy named Brian made his way up to the stage and M. Ward taught him the part he needed him to play. I have long told Mike that we need to make sure our children, especially our sons, know how to play piano. I feel that this vindicates me, because every time Brian played the piano, the crowd erupted. The whole concert had a very intimate feel, not just because I was one person from the stage, and Brian getting to play the piano on stage is a perfect example of that. Good times for all.

Anyway, I am glad I went, even if it was a late night (I’m so old). I am sure Mike and Alisa can give you a better review of what was actually played, but this will have to suffice from me. I am very busy, you see, planning my next awkward adventure at the grocery store.

Mike and Trey dance with a pickle.

Luckily Brandi caught this moment (from the greatest day of my life) on film.

I’m currently reading Ken Jennings’ book (don’t look at me like that. How can I resist a book with blurbs from both Will Shortz AND A.J. Jacobs?!) and I’m enjoying it. It’s about his time on Jeopardy and also about the history of trivia, specifically trivia competitions. The two topics merge together well – people who would care enough about Ken Jennings (and Jeopardy!) to read his book are probably going to be the kind of people who care about trivia. It’s not, after all, the tale of his torrid affair with Alex Trebek. (I guess that’ll be his next book.) From watching the show, I knew he was a geeky sort of guy with a sense of humor, and that definitely comes across. He seems like a likeable guy.

Speaking of Ken Jennings, Glarkware (creators of many fine shirts) recently featured this shirt as one of their “Now or Never” deals:

I saw it, showed it to Mike, laughed, and promptly forgot about it. This week, though, Glark linked to a picture of Ken Jennings himself wearing it, which came from Ken Jennings’ own website. And to that, I say . . . HEE.

(And just because I can . . . here’s my favorite Ken Jennings moment. Again. I hope he mentions it in the book.)

KARI: What are you doing?

MIKE: I’m looking up what the principal at this school looks like, in case I see her tomorrow.

KARI: That’s smart. So you’ll be at the school tomorrow?

MIKE: Yes. Now I have to try to remember her name. Principal Brady.

KARI: You need a mnemonic device.

MIKE: I was thinking, Brady like the guy who was hurt when Reagan was shot. The Brady Bill.

KARI: Wow, that’s . . . a lot more complicated than I would have gone. Have you heard of a little thing called The Brady Bunch?

MIKE: I bet she doesn’t want GUNS IN HER SCHOOL.

KARI: I bet she is A LOVELY LADY.

MIKE: Look at this woman. Do I want to imagine her in day-glo bellbottoms? I think not.

KARI: Oooooooh, good point.

MIKE: The Brady Bill it is.

KARI: . . . Surely there is something better.

MIKE: Oh, I don’t know . . . what about that quarterback?

KARI: *gasp*

MIKE: You know, the really handsome one.

KARI: Take that back!

MIKE: What’s his name again? Oh, that’s right, TOM BRADY.

KARI: The foul besmircher!

MIKE: Is that really the appropriate insult?

KARI: Do not speak his name in our house!

MIKE: What, TOM BRADY?

KARI: Take it back, take it back!

MIKE: No.

KARI: We hates him! Take it back, precious!

MIKE: I should never have gotten you to start watching football.

KARI: TAKE IT BACK!

MIKE: Good grief. I take it back.

Much later.

KARI: What was the principal’s name again?

MIKE: Ummmm . . .

KARI: Principal Beaver?

MIKE: NO! Principal BRADY!

KARI: Yikes. Sorry about that.

MIKE: Yeah, thanks a lot.

KARI: You? Are so screwed.

I am notoriously bad at Scrabble. What I have figured out is that I am not great at games where there is a lot of visual information to take in, like Nerts or Scrabble. I can’t see all of those things at once. In Scrabble, that means that I create words that start or end with one of the letters on the board, because I can’t “see” it quite as easily when the letters are in the middle.

I also get really irritated when I suck at Scrabble, which is pretty much always. But, come on. If you had to put up with Mike turning your “CAT” into “CATASTROPHE,” you’d get irritated, too. (That didn’t actually happen, but it could have happened. Because Mike is excellent at Scrabble. Similar, equally humiliating things have happened. On a triple word score.) I have gotten so irritated in the past that Mike put a ban on Scrabble at our house. I don’t think we have played since the great ice storm of 2002.

An aside: the first time I remember playing Scrabble was with my grandma. I was probably in late middle school or early high school. My grandma does crossword puzzles constantly and watches Wheel of Fortune every day. She is good at word games. This game of Scrabble was momentous because it’s the first time I remember being utterly humiliated by my grandma in a game. She had stopped letting me win a long time before, but that game of Scrabble was the first time I remember that she didn’t go easy on me. It was not just a loss, it was a devastating defeat that shook my Scrabble confidence.

That changed this weekend, though. A few weeks ago, we bought a cute table to play games on, and we had planned to play Scrabble when Mike got home from youth camp. I am not sure what made him change his mind about playing Scrabble with me, but I was determined to do better, both in the actual game and in my sportsmanship. And so, on Saturday, after going to the grocery store and doing some laundry, we played four games of Scrabble, ate cheese nips, and forgot to make dinner. Here are some interesting facts about those games.

-Mike got the 50 point bonus for using all his letters in one turn. I have never ever gotten the 50 point bonus. (I didn’t even know there was a bonus for using all your letters.) The word, for the record, was “INERRANT.” The last “T” was already on the board.

-We do allow some use of the dictionary, mostly for checking the spelling of words before we play them, but occasionally to see if something is actually a word before we put it down. We are aware that these are not official Scrabble rules, but there’s something to be said for keeping the peace.

-The dictionary we use is the only dictionary we own – a Webster’s that my mom owned when she was in college. It’s always fun to threaten to challenge a newer word that could not possibly be in that dictionary.

-My favorite word that I made was “JIHAD.” Come on, that’s an awesome word. I should be commended for it. I turned Mike’s “HAD” into “JIHAD.” Brilliant. And the “J” was on a triple letter square.

-I got the Q every single time. I am now brilliant at Q-without-U words like “QAT” and “QAID.”

What you want to know, though, is whether I won. At least, I hope you are rooting for me a little bit. The good news is that I finally won the last game we played on Saturday, and won it by quite a lot. The bad news is that it was not a sustainable victory, because we played two more games yesterday, and I won one by two points and lost one by two points. Statistically, those games were a draw. I have not yet gotten to the point where I can pound Mike into the ground on a regular basis. And, let’s face it, I probably never will. But at least I am now spelling words like “JIHAD” and “QUARKS” instead of “CAT.”

I still get really irritated when I am playing badly, and there’s some debate about the way I play the board (Mike says I’m too concerned with making sure the board is opening up, which causes me to sacrifice points instead of letting it open up on its own), but I think there has been some improvement. If I don’t feel so completely insecure about my Scrabble playing (often fed by comments such as, “I would expect you to be better at Scrabble”), I don’t get so upset. So my one victory went a long way in helping me be a better Scrabble player. And Mike swears that he didn’t let me win.

Right after we got married, we noticed that some of our friends had a continuous Scrabble game going on on their coffeetable. That’s the idea we’re going for here, because our new table has little drawers we can keep our letters in. Of course, continuous Scrabble is going to require that we stop a game in the middle, and if this weekend was any indication, I’m not sure that we’re going to be able to do that. And, really, don’t you think balanced diets are overrated? Cheese nips are where it’s at. We’re feeding our minds instead.

On the way to my parents’ house last night, we were passing through Liberty, a small town close to where I grew up. As we were driving through downtown, I noticed a few dogs on the other side of the road. Suddenly, the four dogs darted into the road and into our lane! There were two big dogs and two small dogs, and they were all barking at us and standing in the road! Every time they moved from in front of the car, Mike would try to move forward, and they would run in front of us again. This happened several times for a couple of minutes. We honked the horn and kept trying to move, but nothing happened. The pack of wild dogs had surrounded the car! We were trapped!

As we sat there trying to figure out what to do, a line of cars formed in the lane behind us. Growing tired of our antics, first one car and then another moved into the turn lane and passed us! That’s right – not only were we surrounded by dogs, but no one cared! It was around this point that I looked at Mike and started laughing uncontrollably. I was afraid that he was going to be upset, so I tried to hide it. Luckily, he finally got free of the dogs and was able to proceed, and he started laughing as well. “We were just attacked by a pack of wild dogs!” I said in between hysterical laughter. “It was like Kujo!”

This, ladies and gentlemen, is one more reason I don’t like dogs. As I told Mike, I would have reached a point where I was like, “Hey, survival of the fittest!” and just driven on, hitting whatever dog was necessary to get out of there. I mean, we weren’t on a dirt road! We were in downtown! There was a turn lane! For the record, Mike says the only reason he didn’t hit them was because he didn’t want to hurt his car. And Mike loves animals. (He did say that if the dogs had started throwing themselves at the car like Kujo, he would have driven on regardless.)

My favorite part of this story was something I didn’t find out until later: When we were telling my parents, Mike confessed that, as the dogs surrounded the car, he reached over and locked his door. That was his natural instinct. I didn’t see this, so go ahead and imagine it with me: A pack of wild dogs surrounding the car, and . . . Mike reaching over to lock his door. Safety first. (Before you ask, my door was already locked. No need to worry about me.)

On the way home, I was secretly hoping that the pack of dogs would attack us again, just to make the story even better. “There’s a pack of dogs running wild in Liberty,” I would say. “The streets just aren’t safe anymore.” However, no such luck. Around the same place where we were attacked, I saw a single large dog standing in a yard. Mike didn’t think it was the same as the ones we saw before, so I’ve decided it was standing guard for the others, looking and listening for unsuspecting cars to attack. As we drove by, it ran to the back yard, no doubt to rally the rest of its gang.

On the 4th of July, I found myself standing by the side of the road (under an umbrella) watching two sets of fireworks go off, one to my right and one to my left. The car stereo was cranked up, patriotic music was playing, and, oh yeah, the two guys I was standing with had patriotic bandanas draped on their shoulders. For whatever reason, people driving by were looking at us kind of strangely. Go figure.

And that probably wasn’t even the weirdest thing that happened this weekend. After all, the setting off of fireworks is enough to make an entire city come to a screeching halt. We weren’t the only car parked by the side of the road, even if we were the only car on that particular road. One of the things I love about the 4th of July is the relentless pursuit of fireworks. People angling for the best spots, people camping out for hours beforehand. Why do people (except Dawn) love fireworks? Why do we drop everything to watch them?

Fireworks make me feel like a kid again, like the last day of school before summer break. Like catching fireflies by the trees at the edge of our yard. Like homemade ice cream at my grandparents’ house. Like I do on my birthday, which is one of the reasons that fireworks and I have such a great relationship. In middle school and high school, we stopped going to see the fireworks quite as much, but I am glad Mike has helped restore the tradition of cheesy music, patriotism, and angling for the best possible view.

You don’t care about any of that, though, do you? You just want to know what could possibly be more strange than standing by the side of the road blaring “America” by Neil Diamond while people drive by giving you pitying looks. There are a few candidates:

It could have been when my shirtless next-door neighbor offered to let me, Adriene, Andrea, and Alisa (Kari and the Three A’s) get in his hot-tub. We declined. Actually, I declined for everyone else, finished playing with sparklers, and told the other three when we got inside. Much squealing ensued. Which was exactly why I didn’t tell them when we were outside. Sure, we can mock him, but we have to do it in the safety of my four walls.

Perhaps it was the real fireworks that people in our neighborhood were continually setting off all weekend long, much to the chagrin of whoever lived next door to them (or so I gathered from the yelling). I remember people setting off fireworks at their houses, but never big real ones. It was especially exciting when one apparently went off while still on the ground, and the yard was sprayed with colorful sparks. There was an extra-special bout of yelling after that one.

But it was probably the proliferation of glowsticks (that almost kept Mike out of the amphitheater), American bandanas (that helped Scott make friends in Target and Mike make friends at the grocery store), and embarrassing dancing that took place at the Kelly Clarkson concert. I very rarely go out in public and act foolishly on purpose, but apparently Kelly Clarkson brings out that side of me. We sang. There was dancing and jumping. There was no way for people to know that . . . we don’t always behave like that. Nor do we always wear glowsticks to concerts. Or accost little children and demand to have our picture taken with their Kelly Clarkson posters. So I’m pretty sure that everyone around us thought we were a truly weird group of people who are freakishly obsessed with Kelly Clarkson. Hence all the, “KELLY CLARKSON, WOOOOOOOO!” yelling. Instead, I think we are a truly weird group of people who are mildly obsessed with Kelly Clarkson. And Adriene, the photographer who does not judge us. At least while we are in earshot.

Having been to see Coldplay with a similar group of people (Susan, that was supposed to make you feel sad twinges. Did it work?), let me say that the overall crowd was much more fun at this concert. And by “much more fun,” I mean “much less drunk” and “much less crowded.” Which made it much more fun. No drunk frat guys looking for diamond rings they dropped. Nobody walking through our huge pile of snacks. Just good times with friends and fun pop music.

Scott pointed out that the weekend was all-American: baseball games, American Idols, and, well, I didn’t make apple pie, but I did make peach cobbler. Close enough, right? I made flag cake! Surely that should count for something!

Last year after Birthday Weekend, I thought a lot about how great my friends are, and the only thing I can do this year is repeat that sentiment. I had such a great time this weekend – my only regret is that there weren’t more hours in the day so there could have been more sleeping. But there was so much I want to remember about this weekend – the quiet night in with the girls where we played with sparklers and talked. Going to church with Scott, where we had an excellent discussion about Elizabethtown. The cookout that was attended by so many people I care about and who care about me, which made it much more fun than stressful. Seeing different parts of my life integrate pretty successfully (but how could they not when two adorable little girls were involved?). The s’mores we made as we initiated our new fire pit. Shopping with Dawn and Adriene. Going to Target for snacks (per our concert tradition). The sheer volume of fun of seeing Kelly Clarkson with a bunch of 13-year-olds. Taking Adriene to the airport (and being hungry for pizza at 8am). Watching The Office with Scott and Mike (Dawn was asleep) while baking a cake. Yelling “WAFFLES” with friends who don’t think I am ridiculous for doing so – and having Adriene on the phone when the Waffle House Strikeout Victim actually struck out. And wrapping up the weekend by watching fireworks by the side of the road. It went by so fast, and I’m so glad there are pictures to tell parts of all the different stories that took place. I’ve sort of gotten to the point that this entry has said all I can say right now, even though it’s not everything that could be said by any means.

Mike asked me what I was going to title this post, and I said, “Just ‘Birthday Weekend 2006.’ Should I subtitle it something like ‘This much fun is impossible to top?’” And Mike’s face suddenly looked both happy and sad, and he said, “Yeah, I don’t know if we ever will.” Thanks to all of you who came and made it such a fun time, or sent supplies and presents or called or just enjoyed the many pictures. You are greatly appreciated.

KARI: At work today, they said my eye looked better.

MIKE: Really?

KARI: Yeah, you don’t think so? It’s a little red, but that’s because of my cold.

MIKE: Oh, the redness is better. It’s just more purple underneath.

KARI: My makeup has worn off.

MIKE: It looks like I hit you.

KARI: That’s what I tell people.

MIKE: Well, I made the stuffed pablano peppers for dinner, and the sauce will help open your sinuses.

KARI: Great! Let me taste!

MIKE: Just get a little. It’s really spicy.

KARI: *tastes* Wow! That’s good. It’s really spicy!

MIKE: I know. I’m surprised at how spicy it is.

KARI: But the rice will cool it off.

MIKE: There’s a lot, too. This is supposed to be for four peppers.

Later, while eating dinner.

KARI: This tastes really good. But . . . I like spicy things. I don’t know how you’re eating it.

MIKE: It’s not that spicy.

KARI: Right. *gets more water*

More time has passed.

KARI: So, on the recipe, did it say it was going to be this spicy? Did it have lots of flames or chili peppers next to it or something?

MIKE: No.

KARI: I didn’t know that chipotles were this spicy. Can I look at the recipe?

MIKE: Yeah, it’s in the book over there.

KARI: It doesn’t say it’s this spicy. That’s so weird.

MIKE: *gets refill*

KARI: Will you bring me a tortilla or something so I can cool my mouth off?

MIKE: That’s a good idea.

KARI: I’m just surprised . . . hey, Mike?

MIKE: Yeah.

KARI: How many chipotles did you use?

MIKE: How many does the recipe call for?

KARI: One canned chipotle in adobo sauce.

MIKE: One canned?

KARI: Yes.

MIKE: Not one can?

KARI: Oh, my.

MIKE: …

KARI: How many did you use?

MIKE: *gets can out of trash, laughs uncontrollably*

KARI: HOW MANY DID YOU USE?

MIKE: 18.

KARI: *cackles*

MIKE: I didn’t actually read the recipe. I just used the stuff I bought.

KARI: Well, this has been a very informative meal.

MIKE: There’s a big difference between one can of peppers and one canned pepper.

KARI: My whole mouth is burning.

MIKE: But are your sinuses open?

KARI: My sinuses will never close again.

MIKE: We’re going to have to pour it out.

KARI: I would like to disagree with you, but . . . I’m dying.

MIKE: Farewell, spicy sauce.

KARI: We can use salsa on the rest of the peppers.

MIKE: I really like chipotle flavor.

KARI: It’s kind of hard to tell the flavor when your taste buds are being scalded.

MIKE: Don’t touch your eyes. Now my mouth and my eye are burning.

KARI: This was a dangerous dinner.

MIKE: You’re going to write this up, aren’t you?

KARI: I think people need to know. For safety.

MIKE: Read the recipe. Learn the difference between “can” and “canned.”

KARI: Your mouth will thank you.

KARI: Where’s the guacamole?

MIKE: It was turning brown on the top.

KARI: Sooooo?

MIKE: . . .

KARI: So, where is it?

MIKE: I ate it.

KARI: All of it?

MIKE: Yes.

KARI: You ate the whole container of guacamole?

MIKE: Yes.

KARI: The whole container? That my aunt flew up from Florida?

MIKE: Yes.

KARI: The whole container that my aunt flew up from Florida for both of us to share?

MIKE: It’s the only thing I had to eat today.

KARI: I didn’t even get to taste it.

MIKE: You don’t like guacamole.

KARI: Yes I do! I introduced you to guacamole!

MIKE: It was in the house at least . . . eight hours. You had your chance.

KARI: I was sleeping then! We brought it home last night!

MIKE: And then you left me alone with the guacamole.

KARI: And then I went to work! To make money!

MIKE: I have lost weight since yesterday. The guacamole diet. Just eat chips and guacamole, and you, too, can lose weight.

KARI: What about cholesterol?

MIKE: My diet is for those Hollywood stars who don’t care about cholesterol. They only care about being thin.

KARI: I am pretty sure that your diet is not going to make anyone thin.

MIKE: Look at the scale. You can’t argue with results.

KARI: You are trying to distract me. But I will not forget that you ate the whole container of guacamole. And I got none.

MIKE: You snooze, you lose.

KARI: I was sleeping, yes, but I don’t think I should be penalized for sleeping at night instead of eating guacamole.

MIKE: Those are the rules.

KARI: Did you eat all the salsa, too?

MIKE: No. You like the salsa.

KARI: I LIKE THE GUACAMOLE, TOO.

MIKE: I thoughtfully left you the salsa.

KARI: Did you have any?

MIKE: No.

KARI: If you eat my salsa, I will cut you.

MIKE: It’s just food.

KARI: Says the man who ate an entire container of guacamole.

MIKE: It went really well with the piece of cheese I stole from your bag.

KARI: . . .

MIKE: Please don’t cut me.

Many days I bring a Granny Smith apple and some cheddar cheese for lunch. When I am packing my lunch, I take the block of cheese and cut four slices from the short end. Lately, though, the past few times I have brought apple and cheese, when I have gone to eat my lunch there were only three slices. At first I thought, you know, perhaps I am misremembering how many pieces I brought. Perhaps I left one on the counter at home. Perhaps one fell out in my tote bag.

Or PERHAPS someone is eating ONE PIECE OF MY CHEESE. Every day.

Today, I was absolutely sure that I had cut four pieces of cheese. And when I pulled the bag out of the refrigerator, there were only three pieces. I went on a cheese rampage. I went around to different people saying, “Could you just let everybody know that the cheese and apple in the refrigerator are my lunch? That’s what I bring for lunch most days.” And, you know, now that I know for sure this is happening, I will bring my lunch in a grocery bag. To hide the cheese.

But this is not enough. I’m going to go all Veronica Mars on everyone. I’m going to interrogate people. I’m going to set a cheese booby trap. I’m going to find the person who is eating one piece of my cheese. What kind of freak eats one piece of cheese from someone’s lunch?

However, I am not Veronica Mars. So I don’t really have a plan. Help me think of a plan. Help me save my cheese.

In books, it’s funny how dreams always mean something. If I thought my dreams actually meant something, I would have dumped Mike for Napoleon Dynamite. Yes, it’s true, I did have a dream in which Napoleon was my boyfriend. He was a good boyfriend, very sweet. Also, in that same dream, I was an astronaut. Again, not so much with the meaning. I’ve dreamed I was pregnant (according to the dream dictionary, that means I have a lot of changes coming), I dreamed I was dating Ryan Seacrest and we were on Survivor together (that dream may actually mean something: that I watch too much TV) (and can I just say that Ryan got REALLY SKINNY on Survivor), that Adriene wouldn’t tell me one of her secret ingredients for her sweet potato recipe (I woke up mad after that one until Mike reminded me that . . . it was just a dream), that I was on Gilmore Girls (again, too much TV). Sometimes I can tell from my dreams that I’m really stressed out, but that’s usually it. They’re usually too crazy to mean anything.

Last night, I dreamed that I was on an Amazing Race-type show, where we had to do all these tasks in a certain order so we could advance to the next round. One of the tasks had something to do with baking, one had something to do with doing certain moves on a swingset (I have no idea), and one had to do with getting a bunch of items from Sears. Again, no idea. Somehow, I got the host (who was some weird combination of Phil and Ryan Seacrest) to allow me to do fewer tasks than everyone else, but then it seemed like that changed and I still had to do everything. So I was working hard on my swingset moves, and getting all the ingredients for baking, and then I was at Sears. There was another girl there, who reminded me of someone I went to high school with, and we were both at the back of the pack, but we were working hard. And then. Who else is in this competition but Taylor Hicks? (Full disclosure: I am not so much a fan of Taylor Hicks. In fact, if he’s in the final two, I plan on voting. For whoever he’s up against. I have never voted before. Look what Taylor has made me do!) And what was Taylor doing? He was CHEATING. He was cutting in line and parking where he wasn’t supposed to. He was breaking a lot of rules. Taylor is a CHEATER.

I woke up and laughed and laughed. Now, I think that this dream could mean that I am frustrated with some things in my life, where I try to do everything right and play by the rules, but it’s still not working out like I think it should. But I also think that it means that I have a serious problem. This is the second dream in which Ryan Seacrest has appeared. And Taylor Hicks? I haven’t even watched American Idol in a few weeks. Ryan Seacrest is now a recurring theme in my dreams. What does Ryan symbolize?!

If this was a book, well, I’d probably end up with Ryan Seacrest. Or I would finally realize my attraction to Taylor Hicks. But . . . neither of them are really my type. So I really hope that’s not the case.

Let me set this first one up: Last week, Kelly and I had a freak-out conversation about how we are going to be 27 this summer. Actually, I am the one who was freaking out. She was relatively calm. In fact, she was the one who kept saying, “27,” while I kept screeching, “Stop saying that! Stop saying that!”

Of course I know that 27 is not old, but it does sound really grownup. I do not feel grownup. Also, back in the day, I had kind of thought we’d start having kids when I was 27, but that looks very unlikely at this point. So, 27 has a lot of baggage. I am not yet ready to be 27. In preparation, though, I’ve started declaring my age to be “almost 27.” Surely I can get used to 27 before my birthday if I keep saying that. I hope.

On Saturday, I went to Wal-Mart to do our grocery shopping. I decided I would like to have some Mike’s Hard Lemonade. I was wearing jeans, a t-shirt, Mike’s Diet Coke hat, and I had my hair in two braids. It was not my most mature looking outfit. Here is the conversation I had with the (very very young) cashier:

GIRL: I’ll need to see your ID.

KARI: *gets out ID*

GIRL: *tries to read age, has difficulty because of the little plastic thing it’s in* How about you just tell me your birthday?

KARI: 7/5/79

GIRL: *types that in, looks confused*

KARI: I’m almost 27.

GIRL: *in a voice of disbelief, indicating that I am lucky to be alive at such an advanced age* Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaw. You don’t look it.

KARI: *smiles*

As soon as I left the store, I called Kelly and left her a ranting message about how even my Wal-Mart cashier thinks that 27 is old, and I tried to accept the 27 but I just don’t think I can. I don’t want to be 27 yet! Someone make it stop!

At least I can take solace in the fact that Mike is almost 31. mwuhahahahahaha!

——–

On Sunday at church, I was passing an older member in the hall after the service, and she stopped me and said, “What do you do?” However, that is not what I heard. Let me back up for a second. On Sunday I wore a shirt I don’t often wear, because I just can’t decide if the bottom hem makes it unflattering. I had ironed it in a different way, though, and i was pleased with it. I felt cute and springy. But when the lady asked me, “What do you do?” what I actually heard was, “WHEN are you DUE?”

Two things went through my head at that point:

1. How embarassing is it going to be for me to have to say, “Oh, I’m not pregnant?”

2. I’m never wearing this shirt ever ever again.

Luckily, I said neither of those things, and I just said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.” And when she repeated the question, it turned out to be much less offensive than what I had originally heard. But for about two seconds, I thought I was having one of the most awkward conversations of all time: the one where you think a woman is pregnant . . . and she’s not.

Why is it that every time I pass the Lifetime or Women’s Entertainment channels and Dirty Dancing is on, I have to stop and watch? There are plenty of movies that are shown all the time – I rememer The Princess Bride being on TBS a lot. That’s a respectable movie. But, no, I have to watch Dirty Dancing. (And I realize this is not exactly new material here, because I talked about watching it back in October, too. I have watched it several more times since then.) I have to watch Baby come out of her shell and learn how to dance, and I have to watch Baby’s father learn to accept Johnny, and I have to watch them do their dance at the end to “I’ve Had the Time of My Life.” And I have to sing along with all the songs. Including the “How do you call your loverboy?” song. Stop looking at me like that. The soundtrack is good. Except for that song that Patrick Swayze sings. And it’s good in an “I can’t believe anyone actually let him record this” kind of way.

Mike and I had an argument on Saturday night about Dirty Dancing, which I will recreate for you here.

MIKE: This is not a good movie! Stop watching it!

KARI: Take that back! It deals with important themes like . . . class dynamics and . . . abortion! And putting people in corners!

MIKE: Seriously? That’s the best you can do? What if you were sitting by a window and I walked up to you and said, ‘Nobody puts Kari by a window!’ Is that impressive at all?

KARI: Can you dance like Patrick Swayze?

MIKE: No.

KARI: Then it’s not impressive.

The first time I saw Dirty Dancing was at my friend Leslie’s house. She had seen it about 100 times, but I had never seen it (it is rated PG-13, and I was just 10), so we checked it out of the video store and she was so excited for me to see it. At the end of it, I remember feeling like I had maybe missed something. Now I know that “something” was “the entire abortion subplot.” I had no idea what was going on. I just liked the dancing. And yay for true love! I was ten, okay? I had similar feelings when I saw Grease as a college student – they rereleased it in theaters, and a bunch of girls from my hall decided to go. The remarkable thing about seeing the rerelease of Grease in the theater was that the girls I was with were not the only ones doing the handmotions during Greased Lightning. No, no, we were not. There were other groups of girls doing them as well. We all kind of waved at each other. This, I believe, is what college is really about – making a fool of yourself in public places. I learned that on 90210, when Donna and Kelly were pledging a sorority and had to walk around in their pajamas and cold cream and of course Kelly saw Dylan . . . or maybe it was John by then, but of course it didn’t matter, because, who are we kidding, she looked cute despite her pajamas. And whoever the guy was, he agreed. Anyway, the first time I saw Grease was in a basement, hanging out with my parents’ friends’ kids while my parents were hanging out with their friends. What I remember about Grease the first time is this: “Yay, singing! I love movies with singing!” What I remember from seeing it in college was: “How come I didn’t remember the pregnancy scare? And, wow, there’s a lot of talking about sex.”

There are just some movies that, no matter how bad they are, the memories associated with them are so good that you have to love them anyway. I haven’t seen Leslie since I graduated high school, but I always think of her when I see Baby and Johnny dancing. I don’t know exactly what all those kids from the basement are up to, but I always remember how the older ones had a little bit better idea of what was going on, because they kept trying to convince their parents that Grease was perfectly clean. Plus, I think there has to be some kind of clause or loophole regarding movies that you watched before a certain age. Let’s say 15. If you watched the movie (or *cough*90210*cough* television show) before that age, there’s no shame in admitting that, when you see it on TV, you just want to sit and watch for a little while.

Besides, where else would I have learned such gems as, “She leads me through moonlight, only to burn me with the sun . . . She’s taken my heart, she doesn’t know what she’s dooooooooooone?” (I remember, in high school, that our lunch table would spontaneously burst into that song from time to time. Leslie was, in fact, part of that lunch table.)

Before the UNC/George Mason game, they showed the clip of George Mason’s coach saying, “Their fans think they’re Supermen. Our fans KNOW that we’re kryptonite.” I was like, “Haha, shut up.” And then, as Carolina played like crap, the announcers kept repeating it. Deliberately, I believe, to enrage me.

However, while watching George Mason play yesterday, I have decided that I’m a believer. They are kryptonite. But, of course, the coach had to come up with something different to say. The kryptonite thing is so last week. Here are our ideas for what it could have been.

MIKE: Their fans think they’re Wonder Woman. Our fans know we’re the Invisible Jet.

KARI: Or the lasso of truth.

MIKE: Neither of those make any sense.

KARI: Do they have to make sense?

MIKE: It would help.

KARI: I don’t think they need help getting fired up. I think it just needs to be catchy.

MIKE: True.

KARI: Their fans think they are the internet. Our fans know we are a virus!

MIKE: Do they want to be a virus?

KARI: If viruses win basketball games.

MIKE: Their fans think they are Hummers. Our fans know that we are . . .

KARI: Nails on the road!

MIKE: Their fans think they are gods.

KARI: Our fans know we are their Achilles heel?

MIKE: Their fans think they are Al Capone.

KARI: Our fans know we are the IRS.

MIKE: hehehe.

KARI: Their fans think they are Brokeback Mountain, but our fans know we are Crash.

MIKE: The underdog prevails.

KARI: Although their fans probably don’t think they are the gay cowboy movie.

MIKE: Details.

KARI: Their fans think they are Russell Crowe. Our fans know we are Joaquim Phoenix. And we have a knife.

MIKE: Their fans think they’re Russell Crowe. Our fans know that we are the fiesty concierge.

KARI: I guess being Joaquim Phoenix in that instance implies that we are dirty cheaters, which we wouldn’t want.

MIKE: Their fans think they are Tyler Durden. But our fans know that we are Tyler Durden.

KARI: Their fans think they are Tom Cruise. Our fans know we are Oprah’s couch.

MIKE: Their fans think they are the Fighting Irish. Our fans know we are the potato famine.

KARI: Their fans think they are weapons of mass destruction. Our fans know no such weapons were ever found.

MIKE: Their fans think they are Royales with Cheese. But our fans know we are the Hamburglar.

KARI: Their fans think they’re Bill Clinton. Our fans know we are Monica Lewinsky.

MIKE: Their fans think they’re The Usual Suspects. Our fans know we’re Keyser Soze.

KARI: Their fans think they are a really great ship, like the Titanic, but not the Titanic since it is a symbol of failure. And our fans know that we are an iceburg.

MIKE: Their fans think that they are Star Wars. Our fans know that we are George Lucas.

KARI: Their fans think they are the Beatles. Our fans know that we are Yoko Ono.

MIKE: Their fans think they are Apollo Creed. Our fans know we are Ivan Drago.

KARI: Their fans think they are the Berlin Wall. Our fans know that we are David Hasselhoff

MIKE: Their fans think they are Snakes on a Plane. But our fans know we are Samuel L. Jackson.

KARI: You win.

After last year’s Male Bakeoff, Mike figured out that the real glory lay in giving your creation a title. He came up with a name for his entry almost a year ago, so he’s been planning the best way to put it all together for quite some time. Whenever anyone from church asked what he was going to do, he’d get a silly grin and say that he couldn’t tell them. Now that the contest is over, though, I can reveal his plans: He decided to make a chocolate cheesecake and to put some whipped peanut butter topping on it and then chocolate shavings on top of that, and use the verse Joshua 5:3 “So Joshua made stone knives and circumcised the People of Israel at Foreskins Hill.” Yes, that’s right, Mike made a Foreskins Hill cheesecake.

The only problem was that, well, we don’t have sons, so we weren’t exactly sure what a circumcized foreskin would look like. Mike tried Googling it, but that did not go so well. We thought about calling someone to ask, but who would we call? We didn’t want to call my parents or his sister, because who wants to talk about foreskins with a relative? My closest friends have girls, not boys. We do have friends who have two boys, but we don’t talk to them regularly, so we couldn’t exactly call them out of the blue and say, “When your sons were circumcized, what did the foreskin look like?” You can see the problem there. Ultimately, I did the only thing I could do: I called Susan, who can now claim that I have actually run her out of the state by calling her on a Saturday morning and asking her what a circumcized foreskin looks like, and whether it would be better to use shavings or chocolate chips to represent it. She said that shavings would be our best bet. She was very helpful. I’m just passing that on to the rest of you in case you find yourselves in that same position.

Yesterday afternoon, I hung out with Susan and Andrea and Susan’s friends Brenna and Ari. We watched chick flicks and did crafty things like scrapbooking and knitting. While I was gone, Mike made his cheesecake. He also made a side cheesecake so we could taste it, which was good for me because it meant I could bow out of actually eating the one with the “foreskins” on it. I love Mike, but, EW. I thought it was really good, especially with the peanut butter topping. This morning he got up and did the shavings, and then it was off to church.

In Sunday School, we talked about the Male Bakeoff, and Mike’s entry was discussed with horrified/disgusted looks. Just as we expected. When we got into the sanctuary, one of our friends who is known for always entering something disgusting actually came up to Mike and said, “You are a sick man.” From him, that is high praise indeed.

After the service, we all went downstairs into the fellowship hall, where I got to see some of the other entries. After lunch and dessert, we finally got to the awards. We knew that Mike had a chance at three: the Weirdness Cup, Most Biblical, or Muy Macho. When our friend Seth got Muy Macho for his “Death of Herod” cake, I felt sure that he would win something. And, indeed, Mike did win Most Biblical.

Even better than the trophy, Mike’s dessert was completely eaten. We weren’t sure if anyone would eat something like Foreskins Hill Cheesecake. I’m not sure what it says about our church that no one seemed to care.

Once again, this was a great event, and it was so fun to see everyone from the little boys up to the older men contributing and getting awards. Some of the guys who are a little older than us do get really competitive, so there was a lot of shaking trophies at one another that went on. It’s fun to see men competing over baking, and it’s fun to see some of the guys who are obviously very skilled try to duke it out for the top spots each year. Now Mike just has to think of something to top this year’s entry.

And, as Mike said on the way home, “I’ve never heard people say ‘foreskins’ as many times in my whole life as they did today.”

KARI: Yesterday Jason linked to some pictures from Snakes on a Plane.

MIKE: How did they look?

KARI: There were snakes.

MIKE: What were they doing?

KARI: They were on the plane.

MIKE: And Samuel L. Jackson?

KARI: Was being his regular badass self.

MIKE: I wish I had known that he just likes working, that he doesn’t care so much about whether the movie is good. Because, after Pulp Fiction, I wanted to see a lot of his movies. And many of them are not good.

KARI: Snakes on a Plane.

MIKE: You’re going to make me see Snakes on a Plane on opening night, aren’t you?

KARI: Scott suggested that we have a .net get-together. Just to see Snakes on a Plane! I should suggest our house as a place to stay. We should have it here.

MIKE: That would be fun. And also a little crazy.

KARI: I’ll suggest we have it here.

MIKE: You’re going to buy me one of those shirts, aren’t you?

KARI: Maybe. Maybe I’ll get it for myself.

MIKE: We should all get them to wear to opening night. And we can get our names put on the back. Smith, Windsor, Gerace, Morris . . .

KARI: Not Morris. Geof hates snakes and planes so much he had to block the whole movie board.

MIKE: Wow.

KARI: I know. We kept posting in it and it was giving him the creeps. I love saying “snakes on a plane.”

MIKE: I noticed.

KARI: If we have the get-together here, we could have party favors of plastic snakes and plastic planes.

MIKE: That’s not predictable at all.

KARI: Instead of spin the bottle, whoever gets the snake and the plane have to kiss.

MIKE: That’s slightly more original. How about: We could have a bag full of pieces of paper, mostly blank, one with a snake and one with a plane. The two who get the snake and the plane have to go to the closet for five minutes.

KARI: That’s good!

MIKE: I got it from Teen Wolf.

KARI: Oh. I don’t remember that.

MIKE: What do you remember?

KARI: Um, him flipping on the top of the van. And he scared that one guy so much that he made him pee on himself.

MIKE: And the basketball game.

KARI: Was that Teen Wolf or Teen Wolf Too?

MIKE: I think it was the original. For our get-together, we can eat gummy worms. They look like snakes. We could sneak gummy worms into the movie and scare people with them!

KARI: There was a cake I saw on a blog about the movie. I’ll just need a Mace Windu action figure.

MIKE: If there were other movies about snakes on planes, we could rent those.

KARI: But there aren’t. This is the original snakes on a plane movie.

MIKE: Snakes.

KARI: On a plane.

MIKE: They’re no match for Samuel L. Jackson.

KARI: SNAKES ON A PLANE!

Last night I read Richard Roeper’s 10 Sure Signs a Movie Character is Doomed & Other Surprising Lists. One chapter made me think of you. I’d like to share it with you here.

5 reasons why George Bailey isn’t such a wonderful guy in It’s a Wonderful Life.

1. When George learns that Uncle Billy has lost the $8,000, he roughs up the kindly, absentminded old fellow, grabbing him by the lapels (that’s assault and battery right there) and screaming, “Where’s that money you silly stupid old fool? Where’s the money? Do you realize what this means? It means bankruptcy and scandal and prison. That’s what it means. One of us is going to jail–well it’s not gonna be me!”

Great. The guy’s going to sell his own uncle down the river for a perfectly innocent mistake.

2. After the money is lost, George goes home and terrorizes the entire family without explanation. When dear sweet Mary asks what’s wrong, he bellows, “Everything’s wrong! You call this a happy family? Why did we have to have all these kids?”

Some family man. The first sign of financial crisis and he’s lamenting the birth of his children.

3. Continuing his streak of verbal abuse, George berates Zuzu’s teacher over the phone, calling her “stupid, silly, [and] careless.”

4. When Mary asks, “George, must you torture the children, too?” his response is to run out of the house and head for the nearest bar, Martini’s, where he behaves rudely and slugs down drink after drink before getting punched by Zuzu’s teacher’s husband and staggering out of the bar and into his car.

I smell a DUI!

5. Sure enough, the inebriated George forgets to turn on his headlights and is soon swerving through the streets of Bedford Falls before crashing into a tree. And what does this drunk driver do when the homeowner comes running out to see a car on the front lawn? He leaves the scene of the accident.

So when the story comes to its happy ending and George says, “Attaboy, Clarence” while the townsfolk sing “Auld Lang Syne,” consider George’s life after the movie. He’ll have to take up another collection to cover his legal expenses on charges of driving under the influence, improper lane usage, reckless driving, criminal damage to property, and leaving the scene of an accident.

I guess Mr. Potter put it best when he said, “And a Happy New Year to you–in jail!”

Tee hee. (Of course, I think we all know that I don’t mind George beating up on Uncle Billy. But that’s not really the point, is it?)