12 Days Until the Move

I will, Alpine. I will. I'm so ready for the cooler weather! Yes, it's the desert, but it's been in the 80s there WITH RAIN. No rain here in Austin and for the past few weeks we've had temperatures around 107. I'm ready to go!

I Sawd a Gowzt

Ah, a lot of memories came up when reflecting on working at the Crystal River Inn - so I thought I'd share some more of them. Many interesting things happened during my duration there. For example, a raccoon died underneath one of the guest houses. Our guests began to complain of a smell, guessing that there was a gas leak or a clog in the pipes. I went out there to investigate, and immediately knew what was wrong.

You see, I was super into my forensic anthropology class and had done some field exercises with my professor. While I cited that as the source for my knowing the smell's origin, it was pretty easy to tell even for a layperson. The guests that had alerted us to the problem were old, and I'm sure they knew. They just wanted me to stumble upon the dead thing and be shocked and saddened. Little did they know they got ME. Someone who majored in dead things and badassery.

I looked all around before deciding to explore the outside of the house, and on my second turn around the property I noticed a small entrance to the crawl space. I went and found a giant flashlight, and then a man. You know, so the man could haul out whatever carcass it was. I may be somewhat of a tomboy outdoorsman, but look - if I can find someone else to fish out an animal carcass I'm going to do it. So I crawled under the house, and here's what I saw:



Only dead, smelly and covered with...well, you know. "Stage 3 decomposition" I proclaimed - and sent my man servant in after it.

Then there is Mo. There were two apartments that were part of the Crystal Inn property that were both rented out. One of the women that lived there had a dog, and the dog had puppies. All of them were immediately adopted, save one. The little puppy that was left behind didn't get chosen because she had some health problems. She was the runt, and needed some sort of gum medication. Well, my roommate Brittany had been expressing interest in adopting a dog for months - and this little pup was perfect, I thought, and presented herself at just the right time. And she was TINY which was good because our apartment wasn't exactly what you would call big. The woman sold her to me under the condition that she would agree to pay for the first two months of medication. I was very proud of myself for that negotiation.

I brought the pup home and Brit was elated. She was so easy to love, tiny and infirm. Adorable. We named her Mo short for Captain Morgan. Because we were college students and alcohol was the coolest thing we could think of to name her after. But Mo quickly grew up and she was the biggest holy terror of a dog that either of us had ever seen. Even the guys we knew hated her, and as I've discovered men have a slightly higher patience tolerance of dogs. They regularly suggested having a barbeque with Mo as the main course.

She WRECKED our apartment. The carpets were ruined, the couches were ruined, she even ate my CHI straightening iron (SWEET JESUS NO!). Her favorite thing on earth was to streak back and forth as fast as the speed of light down our tiny hallway, sending all of my carefully arranged runner rugs flying up on the walls and rendering our artwork askew. I swear some days we'd come home to this:



Then Brittany and I would just look at each other, collectively say "eff this" and go get some cold beer and sit by the pool instead, until we'd gathered up the courage to face it.

However, Mo finally grew up to be a REALLY GREAT - and more importantly - chilled out dog. Though I think she may still feel guilty about her defiant adolescent years...



Without question, the most noteworthy occurrence at the Crystal River Inn I had was the ghost.

Across the street from the main house, were a couple of rooms in a historical house that the CRI annexed. Downstairs there were two apartments that were unaffiliated with us. But when you walked up a very long and narrow staircase there were three small efficiency apartments that shared a breakfast bar. Those were ours, and in constant occupation in the summer. Every year the CRI allows guests to choose a murder mystery party package. It's super fun. They have multiple scenarios they use, and guests and employees and the owners are all involved. There are cigars, chocolates and brandy in the parlor awaiting the guests upon their arrival - the whole act.



Anyway, we had a group due to check in at 4pm. So at 2:30pm I ran over to the annex to make sure the beds were straightened and nice, the rooms scented, and the breakfast bar fully stocked. The first room I went to looked good, so I just freshened it with some potpourri. The second room, I decided, needed some pillow fluffing. So I walked over to the bed and arranged the pillows the way I liked them - and began fluffing. All of a sudden, I saw a gentleman at the door. He was wearing a bowler hat and a suit. He was starring at me, expressionless. Then, he turned and walked from the doorway towards the breakfast bar.



Because of how he was dressed, it was obvious he was one of the murder mystery crew... and he was an hour and a half early. Somewhat exasperated, I sat the pillow down and began talking. "I'm so sorry your room isn't ready sir..." was as far as I got. I was going to tell him that the brandy and chocolates were waiting across the street in the parlor... but he was nowhere to be seen. I would have heard him going down the staircase, I thought to myself. I'd only seen him seconds ago. There's no way he could have already left.

The hair on my neck began to prickle, and I felt like I was about to have a heart attack I was so scared. I left everything - including the room keys and bolted for the main house. I couldn't find anyone. Finally I went to the laundry room, where I found Alicia from the previous blog entry loading sheets into the washer. Sputtering, I told her I thought I just saw a ghost. I set up the scenario, but she cut me off. She said "did he have a bowler hat on?"

......


I lost my balance and fell into the laundry room wall.

Me: what?
Alicia: he had a bowler hat on, right?
Me: yes....
Alicia: he's a regular.
Me: a REGULAR????
Alicia: I've seen him too, we all have. We just don't tell new employees.


I went directly home after Alicia consented to finishing my work at the annex. I never went over there without having another person with me, but I thankfully never saw him again.

....and I probably won't sleep tonight.



YOU STAY AWAY FROM ME GOWZT!!!!

Tom Selleck Jr.

When I was in college, I had a work buddy named Alicia. She and I worked together at the Crystal River Inn Bed and Breakfast in lovely San Marcos (or San Marvelous, as we called it - a joke, because it was anything but).



I loved working at the Crystal River Inn. My mom and I actually stayed there multiple times before I started working there when we came to tour Texas State University, where I went to school. It also afforded me the opportunity to learn a lot about cooking. I still use recipes I learned there.

Anyway, the CRI was also responsible for throwing me in league with Alicia. Alicia was from Columbus, Texas, and her father (as she told me) was a "coon ass." I had no idea what that meant, and it terrified me. I didn't even inquire as to what a "coon ass" could be, because I didn't want to know. All I knew was that Alicia had to be from .... interesting stock. In addition to the "coon ass" remark, she had her own sense of language. She said "fet-ew-cee-nee" instead of fettucini. She said "dij-ih-cul" instead of digital. Despite my having corrected her about a hundred times, she persisted.

Now I knew all of these things - but after being initially shocked by them, I came to embrace the diversity. Thus, when she invited me to her homeland to attend a crawfish boil (which she boasted would involve 1,000 pounds of crawfish) how could I refuse?

After work, I ran and packed and we headed aft towards Houston. When I arrived, I was thrilled to discover what I had pictured was absolutely spot on. She lived in something resembling The Burrow where the Weasleys from Harry Potter live. Her parents' house, I believe, had initially been 2 bedrooms, one bathroom and a kitchen. However, as they had children I believe they just began piling things on. By things I mean rooms. And a screened in porch. There was odd Louisiana relics all over the place. It was as if I stepped out of Texas into a bayou swamp house. Nets, fishing rods.... Alicia even joked that we were having possum for dinner. I didn't think she was kidding, but luckily she was. I also discovered what a "coon ass" was - and it's someone who is cajun. Slang for a very cajun person.

Her dad arrived the next morning, having just made a run to Louisiana in a TRUCK. That was now COMPLETELY FULL OF CRAWFISH. I went out to the backyard to observe the crawfish activities. They had GIANT - and I mean GIIIIIIIANT vats in which they were planning to throw the crawfish in once they reached a boil. I'd say that they were the size of a large wading pool. And there were three.



Bigger than that, actually, if memory serves.

So the boil began at 6am. I watched the beginning, and went back to bed. When I awoke, there were a freaking billion crawfish, ready for the eating. Alicia's dad planned on selling two of the vats, and eating the third. So we got started. And I don't think I've ever been more full in my entire life. After all, they were prepared by a coon ass. And we all know how good coon asses are at preparing crawfish.

The next morning, we prepared to leave. I was so SO ready. But I decided, last minute, to go back and look at the vats. I just had to see them one more time - in awe of what they had produced. As I was observing, I looked down and saw him. One sole survivor of the crawfish genocide. A tiny little dude.

Naturally, I immediately decided he was mine. Out of the billions of crawfish that had been cooked, there was only one who was mischevous enough to escape and survive....and STAY next to what would have meant certain death for him. I decided he needed to be kept and cared for. He was a badass, after all. Next to-do, he needed to be named. So I named him. Tom Selleck Jr.

Tom Selleck Jr made the trek with us from Columbus Texas back to San Marcos, and lived in my sink for 2 months before I decided he needed larger grounds. Especially considering that in that time, he'd grown to nearly the size of the sink itself. I had cared for him well, obviously, giving him minnows and adding some plant life. Why did I not get an aquarium??? I'll never know. For some odd reason, it simply never occured to me. I guess it was because imagining a crawfish as a long-term pet is somewhat ridiculous.

So I headed down to the Guadalupe, said some words, and let Tom Selleck Jr. go. He was the man. I imagine he's still alive today, because that's what he does. Survives with badassery. He's probably struttin around some popular crawfish hang out right now, pickin' up chicks.



I miss you TSJ! And...you're welcome. Alicia invited me back to her house, but I never accepted. I'd had enough coon ass for one lifetime. And enough pet crawfish as well.

A Practical Guide to Battling Road Trip Boredom

Hey! You there! Yes, you! Do you have a 70 hour road trip to embark upon for the summer? If you dwell in Texas, I'm sure you do. Because 70 hours is how long it takes to get anywhere in Texas, due to it being as large as all of the other states in the Union combined. Plus one of the Koreas.



Here's the thing - if I have somewhere to go in Texas, I usually drive. It makes the trip so much more fulfilling. Flying is annoying. Driving is calming, and you make the rules. You don't have someone telling you when to board, you don't have to be packed in some random vehicle (that you don't know whether or not is mechanically sound) and if you ARE packed in like a sardine, at least it's with people you KNOW.

Now naturally, there are some pitfalls with road tripping as well. One can only listen to so much of the Insane Clown Posse albums before a road trip becomes monotonous, bland and sometimes even maddening. But I have some ideas for you that will really put some excitement into a lackluster road trip. Aren't you excited? And grateful?

I'm taking you from this


To THIS!



That's right, you saw that. Weird drawing of walking a long and lonesome road to driving a maserati (not pictured - but just imagine it) while awesome celestial happenings pepper the sky.

So clearly the solution I have in mind is having super fun games in order to keep your fragile mind from collapsing on itself like a black hole. So without further adieu...

1. Go get a post it notes pad.
2. Put two post it notes on the passenger side window.
3. Label them Roadkill and Trucks

Roadkill: The Game
What you do, is count every dead animal you see. Is it gross? Yes. But NOT cataloging it isn't going to make it any easier to endure. HELLO - you're going to notice it! Why not document? Plus, if you actually save the statistics you'll know what time of year you're likely to encounter the most dead animals, and thus you can avoid it. Isn't that fun?

Trucks
Just get as many as you can to honk. And document that. PASSENGER VERSUS DRIVER!!! Winner gets...whatever. Recognition? A coke? Whatever you want.

Finally, we come to the best game which requires no documentation.

BLIND
Blind is a game I invented on road trip when I was alone, very tired and feeling a bit sadistic.

Some things to know about Blind: 1. Blind can only be played at night, and 2. It's a delicate art.

Here you are, driving down one of those lovely lonesome two lane back-woods Texas highways. You have your high beams on, because you do. Then, you see a car coming. What you do, is (as you would normally do) when you encounter another driver at night you turn off the high beams as a courtesy. BUT! Just as they are about to pass you, you hit them with the high beams and laugh diabolically.

That's it! The rules are simple, but the payoff is both huge and complex. It's a thrill ride of deliberate cruelty and rule breaking! And it keeps you awake!

Here's the best part - Blind won't get you in trouble. Why? Because it could be an accident. You could have ACCIDENTALLY turned on your brights again just a liiiiiiittle too soon. So the other driver may be pissed, but not pissed enough that they're going to go all 'brutal road rage' on you.

Have a great summer everyone!

Another Time in Mexico...

As you know, recently I went to Mexico. This was in Baja California Sur - by and large the nicest part of Mexico I've been to. I've been to Acuna and Nuevo Laredo (Lisa's 20th birthday whaaaaaaat!), but those are border towns and not an accurate reflection of the entire country. For instance, this is where you encounter 'pharmacies' on every corner, strange bodies of water on the streets that may or may not be milk, trash bags on streets that may or may not be filled with severed heads... you know, that sort of ambiance.

Great margaritas though.

Anyway, those are the border towns. But I went to a very different sort of border town in the summer of 2001, right before my freshman year in college, that I'd wager that .0001 of the population has been to. Probably less. It's a tiny little town called Boquillas in Chihuahuan desert.

Here's a picture of the thriving metropolis that is downtown Boquillas...



As a precursor, I'm going to tell you something you already know. From the ages of 18-24, I thought the greatest thing in life was to grab up a few friends and drank. Not drink. Drank. There's a difference between drink and drank that you may not know about.

Example: Let's go grab a drink.



Drank, on the other hand, is different. I could call you and say....

"Oh my gosh whozits...."


"It's been the (insert literally any word here) DAY EVER. Let's go drank!"




....which leads to



You understand.

Now, this takes place the summer after my senior year...and as such, I was ready to get to college and live it up like Animal House styles. However, an entire summer had to be spent prior to living the dream, and I spent most of mine in Alpine, Texas with my dad and step mother. My dad, at the time, was the editor for the Alpine Avalanche - the local paper. And it just so happened that there was a rather exciting story that he wanted to report on, but unfortunately didn't have the man power (ie, reporters). Or did he?



Eventually dad thought "Hey, why not send Mary? This will be a great life experience for her." Well, he was right. And when he broke mention of it to me, I was like "Oh I'm gonna get mah drank on, because I can. In Mexico you don't have to be 21 to drank." Actually, I'm pretty sure in this little patch of Mexico you don't even have to have started teething to drink. (of course I didn't ACTUALLY say this to him... because that would be a guarantee on being pulled from the project immediately)

Anyway, the story I would be working on, in my opinion, was nothing short of fabulous. A conservation biology (me) nerd's dream. Mexico had decided to set aside some land in the Chihuahuan desert to use as a wilderness preserve in order to restore the area to it's natural state. Flora, fauna. All would be kept in pristene condition in order to maintain the integrity of the indeginous majesty. The story would be full of exciting facts...and oh the photograph potential!

So two days before the dedication of the preserve, Christina (a bilingual Avalanche employee) and I loaded up in the company suburban (like.. a suburban ala 1990) and headed aft through Big Bend National Park to the border for Boquillas. On the way down, Christina filled me in on some deets.

1) The only place remotely close to where this dedication is taking place is Boquillas, which describes not only a small town, but rather an area of Mexico that is largely uninhabited.
2) Boquillas is a town of less than 100 and has no running water or electricity.
3) We'll be staying at an "American" bed and breakfast that has access to natural hot springs for bathing. I put American in quotes because it this place was run by expatriates and because usually American implies 'safe' in other countries as well. This is what I assumed she meant.

When we arrived at the border, we had to cross the Rio Grande. This is how we were transported:



Then, we got to the B&B. Bed and Breakfast was a very... complimentary way of describing this place. Or at least my experience of it. For starters, because the town had no phone lines (or cell service) you couldn't call to make a reservation. And of course, due to the dedication, the place was full. This translated to me and Christina having to sleep on cots on their screened in porch. I don't think I need to remind you that this was the middle of summer...in a Mexican desert...

The next morning we woke up and bathe in the hot springs. Thank GOD no one was there but us. Then, we treked out into the desert with the other folks attending the dedication via 1970s SUVs. If the cars had broken down, I swear I'd just be a pile of bones being used as a perch by buzzards. But finally, after an hour and a half of travel in the blinding white scorching sands, we arrived and...

IT WAS AWESOME.

There were all sorts of dignitaries, biologists, Mexico City socialites and the like. I felt very under-dressed, but suddenly all of that melted away when I saw about ten troughs full of corona. I excused myself post haste from Christina and raided the troughs. Then, I set out with my camera. In the misty haze of fabulous Mexican beer, I found many things to photograph. OH LOOK (said I) A SPIDER'S WEB! NeVer hAAAve EYE seeeen SuCh a glorious MajEstic Web!! AND LOOOOOOOK tHiS yucCa! Nature thou arT FuLLLl of SpLenDOR!

Midway through my photographic reverie, Christina tracked me down because the dedication was beginning. I giggled the whole way through because the translator, I kid you not, sounded exactly like Cheech Marin.

THEN - ADVENTURE TIME!!!!!!!! Helicopter tours, front-mounted seating range rover tours.... we had a grand old time. I felt like I was in Mexican Jurassic Park!

...and I slept the whole way back to Boquillas.

The next morning, a lovely Sunday morning, we prepared to depart for Alpine. Again whe hit the hot springs. Then? We hit the bar while the town's church service was being announced over the town's loud speaker - a giant speaker mounted on a pole. (you know, in case you were working... or drinking... (which I guess is pretty common for Boquillians) you could hear the service.) Yay!

This is where Christina introduced me to the wondrous world of Mezcal. Here's some history on Mezcal:

Mezcal, or mescal, is a distilled alcoholic beverage made from the maguey plant (a form of agave, Agave americana) native to Mexico. The word mezcal comes from Nahuatl melt and ixcalli which both mean 'oven cooked agave.'

The maguey grows in many parts of Mexico, though most mezcal is made in Oaxaca. There is a saying attributed to Oaxaca regarding the drink: "para todo mal, mezcal, y para todo bien también" (for everything bad, mezcal, and for everything good, too.)

Despite the similar name, mezcal does not contain mescaline or other psychedelic substances.

And oh yeah. It has a worm in it.



The worm: It is a misconception that some tequilas contain a 'worm' in the bottle. Only certain mezcals, usually from the state of Oaxaca, are ever sold con gusano, and that only began as a marketing gimmick in the 1940s. The worm is actually the larval form of the moth Hypopta agavis that lives on the agave plant. Finding one in the plant during processing indicates an infestation and, correspondingly, a lower quality product. However this misconception continues, and even with all the effort and marketing to represent tequila as a premium—similar to the way cognac is viewed in relation to brandy—there are some opportunist producers for the shooters-and-fun market who blur these boundaries.

Recently a company had the idea to put a scorpion in the bottle instead of the traditional worm. They do not recommend eating the scorpion, but the stingers are removed for those willing to try.

No thanks. The worm was enough!

Christina handled the stuff like a well-oiled machine... but after two shots of worm tequila, I was toast. I didn't even want to make the 15 minute walk back to the lovely canoe awaiting us at the Rio Grande. So Christina, forlorn and no doubt very frustrated, found an alternative option to waiting. She left the bar for a quarter of an hour, and came back gesturing for me to step outside. When I went outside, I found my chariot awaiting...




That's right. Christina hauled my ass back to the Rio Grande on a donkey.


...then we crossed the river....




Once we reached our 'burb, I reclined my seat to the lovely white noise of Christina repeating the phrase "don't tell your dad" about a hundred times. And once again, I slept the whole way back.

I wish I had a copy of the story Christina and I wrote for the Avalanche about the trip, but unfortunately I don't. And apparently the Avalanche doesn't keep stories dating back to 2001 on their website. Needless to say, quite a bit was omitted.... but I know in my heart of hearts that it was a GLORIOUS story based in fact with a few patches sewn in to cover spots where our memories were slightly fuzzy... or our handwriting was too difficult, even for us, to read.

You may be like "hey, that sounds... pretty dangerous actually...."

Yeah, well, you have no idea. I left out the part that the Mexican Militia was out, in great numbers, everywhere we went. EVERYWHERE! And one militia man told me "Maria, you are the most beautiful Maria...I have evah seen." (you have to say that in an Antonio Banderas accent)

But you know what? Keep calm and carry on. And then judge. And then embrace.

Miasma Update

I have several metaphor vehicles that I routinely employ in illustration of how I regard my life. My favorite happens to be, apart from a miasma that is, that of an airport. I picture myself blundering about this figurative airport, encountering cancellations, gate changes, delays, transfers and the like. Perhaps one day I'll get out of it, but in the mean time I'm in a perpetual state of being in transition from one place in life to another without having found a place to drop my bags and unpack.

Having said that, I'm coming to yet another major junction in my figurative travels. In August, I will be moving to Alpine. Sound familiar? If not, you are welcome to go HERE to see my first miasma post or to refresh your memory. In October of last year, I decided to (as if this is unusual) run a life evaluation to see where I was in my scale of success. As usual I was falling short - and I'll do you the honor of illustrating. If you would have asked me as a senior in high school, here's what I would have told you my life was going to be like.

2001: Graduate high school


2005: Graduate college magna cum laude


? Years of study in the WILDS of some rainforest collecting LARGE QUANTITIES OF GROUND-BREAKING IMPORTANT BIOLOGICAL DATA!


Marriage (approx age 26)


Babies


More working and getting LARGE AMOUNTS OF FOLDIN' CASH

=



Age 50 = retirement and touring Europe with friends smoking fancy cigarettes out of those long tubes like Audrey Hepburn uses in Breakfast at Tiffany's and drinking white wine spritzers.




Sounds pretty great, right?

Well, it totally didn't happen that way. Between 2001 and 2005 I encountered a lot of really difficult obstacles (not of my own design) that threw me into my airport jail that's lasted until 2011. But I'm about to embark with my few successes (Kevin and Amelia) to Alpine to finally finish my stupid degree. Don't get me wrong, I'm enthusiastic, but finishing like 10 years behind what you had anticipated is pretty disappointing no matter the excuses. And you might think that (what, with all of the spare time I have had to plan out where I'll end up in the future) I'd have it all figured out.... but I don't. I have absolutely no idea what to do after this degree business is finally finished.

Plan as of now: finish in 1 year and throw a billion resumes out to the wind and hope that it blows me in the right direction.

I was pretty sure I wanted to move back to Amarillo, but really I just don't know. Is it a great place to raise a family? Yes. Does it maybe have too much of a tie to my past and therefore might hinder my ability to continue to grow as a person and allow me to dwell on things that have caused me great sadness in the past? Yes. Do I have some stellar friends there that I would love to be around and watch our children grow together? Yes. But at the same time would that be depressing to see all of their families surrounding them there, where I no longer have any? Yes.

So here I am (as Kaki would say in her blog post titles).... having no idea whatsoever.

All I know is that on August 21st I'll be in a new place. Wish me luck! And send me ideas about where I can live afterward...

Also - I'll be posting another story next week that's vastly more interesting (and scandalous) that this and my previous post.

The Blues

Man, is it hard to come home from a trip in paradise. Going to Cabo San Lucas for Whitney's wedding was the best thing ever! Now I'm in a slump. Whaddup with all of this structure during my day? Why is everything here covered in cement? Why does everything smell of gasoline? Yuck. Also, how the eff did I gain seven pounds in Mexico? Oh, that's right. I was at an all inclusive resort with 24 hour room service and four different restaurants. Blah. BLAH. Here's a picture of the ocean taken from where we stayed.



I've found one thing that's cheering me up today, and that's Jack Handey quotes. My uncle Bill recently commented on a Gandhi quote that my aunt Mary posted with a Jack Handey quote and it made my day. Here's the thread:

(Aunt Mary says) Three-fourths of the miseries and misunderstandings in the world will disappear if we step into the shoes of our adversaries and understand their standpoint. I offer you peace. I offer you love. I offer you friendship. I see your beauty. I hear your need. I feel your feelings. My wisdom flows from the Highest Source. I salute that Source in you. Let us work together for unity and love.

(Uncle Bill says) “Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way when you criticize them, you are a mile away from them and you have their shoes.” Jack Handey

(I say) YES. YES UNCLE BILL. Jack Handey is my Gandhi. Good quote though Marrrayy. True. I just identify more with ole Jack, I think.


Now? The whole family is in a full tilt Jack Handey quote war on facebook. Take a back seat Gandhi! Here comes Jack Handey, the great Texan philosopher!

"The funniest thing to a great white shark must be a wounded seal trying to swim to shore, because, where does he think he's going?!"
— Jack Handey
Exactly. This is why I refuse to snorkel.

"When I was a kid my favorite relative was Uncle Caveman. After school we'd all go play in his cave, and every once in a while he would eat one of us. It wasn't until later that I found out that Uncle Caveman was a bear."
— Jack Handey
I had an Uncle Velociraptor.

"Sometimes when I feel like killing someone, I do a little trick to calm myself down. I'll go over to the person's house and ring the doorbell. When the person comes to the door, I'm gone, but you know what I've left on the porch? A jack-o-lantern with a knife in the side of its head with a note that says "You." After that, I usually feel a lot better, and no harm done..."
— Jack Handey
If only I could do this to every single person I'm stuck in rush hour traffic with.

"The wise man can pick up a grain of sand and envision a whole universe. But the stupid man will just lie down on some seaweed and roll around until he's completely draped in it. Then he'll stand up and go, "Hey, I'm Vine Man."
— Jack Handey
Literally, this is now my mantra.

"I think that a hat that has a cannon that comes out, fires, and then goes back in is at least a decade away."
— Jack Handey
And thank Christ for that.

"Whenever you read a good book, it’s like the author is right there, in the room, talking to you, which is why I don’t like to read good books."
- Jack Handey
I read the Twilight series. I don't think I need to say anything else.

"It's true that every time you hear a bell, an angel gets its wings. But what they don't tell you is that every time you hear a mouse trap snap, and Angel gets set on fire."
— Jack Handey
JUST YOU REMEMBER THAT! Mouse traps are inhumane anyway, even though mice are gross I still wouldn't use one. I'd just tie a cat to a long rope in my basement. If I had a basement that had mice in it.

That's all today folks. Ideally I'll come up with something a little more interesting in June!