Off to Cleveland
We’re taking off for a night in Cleveland with the Pepper Paints family. In my absence, please enjoy this video. It’s an oldie, but a goodie.
See more funny videos at Funny or Die
Archive for the ‘I very rarely go places’
Slow-Moving Sleepy Zombie People
We’re back! And we are tired. Lots (but not enough) of friends and relatives, a funeral and a wedding, some camping with the inlaws and lots and lots of driving. I feel like a zombie so, instead of posting, I’m going to give a you a link to a zombie dating site because it’s my blog and I can do what I want with it. And then I’m going to watch Shaun of the Dead and go to sleep in my very own bed. It’s funny if you like that kind of thing (the movie, not my bed). I swear you’ll like it even if you don’t like zombie movies. If you don’t, you can have your money back.
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I’m Not Reading 347 New Blog Posts
I missed you the most, Google Reader.
I don’t like my inbox to be full and I don’t like my Google Reader to tell me I have more than, like, five new blog posts to read so when I opened up the reader this morning and it told me there were 347 new items to read, I had a mild panic attack and then I hit “mark all as read” with enough force to shatter my mouse. So if somebody blogged about something super important, let me know because I so hate to be out of the loop. What if Dawn fell in a well or something? It would suck if I called over there and was all, “Hey, Brett, Lemme talk to Dawn; I missed that bitch!” and Brett burst into tears. Awkward.
We got back home last night and I’ve been grocery shopping, laundering, yoga-ing and just generally freshening since then. I suppose I eventually have to pick the hamster up from Kristen’s house. Maybe. We’ll see.
Chesaning was lovely. I make fun of it a lot, but there’s really nothing like feeling like you have two homes. My nephew’s party was tons of fun and look at these awesome centerpieces:
And look what my nephew made:
Yeah, he made that. Cool.
My sister’s youngest daughter is staying with us for a little bit so I have to go pretend like it’s fun around here so she doesn’t get homesick. More catching up later.
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Don’t Break into My House
I’ll be doing this today:
It’s true.
I’ll be gone for a week with very slow internets that make me feel like I might experience a brain bleed from the trauma of watching the hourglass spin while I try to force lots of thick and juicy information through the narrow inter-tubes. I’ll miss you. If you know where I live, don’t break into my house while I’m gone. I don’t have anything to steal because we’re taking all of our expensive stuff (like Lena and Liberty’s DS games) with us. Also, you’ll never find where we hide our p@rn, so don’t even try it. Ha, I’m kidding! It’s right where you’d expect it to be. Kidding! God, take a joke.
That reminds me, when I was around 8 or so, I broke into my neighbor’s house to steal blueberry p*p-tarts because we never, ever had those in our own house and I really, really wanted some. They were soooo yummy, but then the guilt made them taste bad. My brother and sister love to make fun of me for doing that, but they used to break into the other neighbor’s garage to steal pop on a regular basis. And they wouldn’t share with me. I don’t know why I never told on them. I’m going to have to remedy that when I get to Michigan tonight.
Anyway, we’re taking our junk food with us, too, so just don’t even bother.
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My Baby Nephew is a Grown-Ass Man
And we’re going to Chesaning this weekend to celebrate him and his high school graduation. He was born a day before my 15th birthday and he was every bit the adorable pudgy little doll baby. I loved driving him around in my sweet muffler-less Chevette and feeding him Happy Meals while he yelled out, “Putt-putt!” every time he saw a tractor in a field or “Who dat?” every time I waved at a passing car. He called me Aunt Babby and liked to play with my big, permed hair. And I don’t mean he liked to twirl a piece around his fingers while drifting off to sleep. He would say, “Can I hode your hair Aunt Babby?” and I would sit on the floor while he stood behind me and played with my hair. With his face. And his drool. He was endearingly odd in that way, but I let him do it because he was my sweet little first-born nephew. He also used to use his eight thousand toy tractors (which he still has) to make elaborate farms and if you happened to need to walk through his play space, he would screech, “DON’T STEP ON MY FIEEEELD!” Very serious business, carpet farming. Sometimes we would have to pole vault over his precious farmland in order to get through to the bathroom.
And now he’s all grown up and only calls me Babby if he’s trying to get me to do something for him, which works every time. He doesn’t drool in my hair anymore while piling it on top of his face. And maybe he doesn’t play with his toy tractors anymore (that’s a big maybe), but that would only be because he gets to drive the real ones with real crops, which is no different than playing. But he’s still my nephew and I still adore him and I’m so looking forward to seeing who he becomes in this next phase of life. And I reserve the right to make him call me Aunt Babby for the rest of my life.
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We’re Back, Y’all!
And I have to admit that the whole time we were in West Virginia, I’m the only one who walked around affecting a southern accent and saying things like “Let’s get us some grits, ya’ll!” Berkeley Springs is only about 8 miles into WV, so it’s pretty much Maryland. Not that you couldn’t get yourself some grits, but still.
As promised, my brother and sister-in-law took us to see the Weber Brothers and they were fabulous with their 2 drum sets and their stand-up bass and their way cool original music plus Johnny Cash and Rolling Stones and Bruce Springsteen and stuff. They even invited my brother to go up and sing Sympathy for the Devil with them, which was nice because Mike knows how to do that kind of thing. Plus he’s their #1 groupie. I love them, love them, love them and I’m pretending they’re moving to Columbus to play every night at Victorians’ Midnight Cafe. Let’s start a letter-writing campaign. You won’t be sorry. They had 2 drum sets! And the one brother plays a stand-up bass! And the other one reminds me of Rufus Wainwright only way cooler! And they rock! And stand-up bass! I even love them when they’re playing songs I don’t know, which for me is kind of a big deal. If I can’t sing along, then I’m all, “This is too loud. Can’t they turn it down?” but not with the Weber Brothers. They could play Enya and I’m pretty sure I would drool.
They played at a place called the Troubadour, which was waaaayy out there on some narrow, winding, hilly roads that really looked like what you think West Virginia should look like. It’s the kind of place that has a sweet 72-year-old owner (Joltin’ Jim McCoy) and a barbecue grill in the shape of a six shooter. And they raffled off 10 pounds of bacon. Twice. Yes, they did. I bet it was good bacon, too, because my brother ordered a steak there and it was the best tasting steak I have ever had in a restaurant. It tasted like the cow had been killed that morning after a breakfast of grass grown by angels. I’m not kidding. I’m a beef snob and that was some good beef. I imagine the pork would be nothing less than heavenly. Not Jewish or Muslim heaven, obviously, but definitely one of the other ones. One little piece of advice just in case you city folk are ever thinking of visiting the Troubadour: Don’t think that just because it’s way out in the country that they’re going to let you get away with fast and loose behavior. The rules are posted and it says right there that you may not sleep in the booths or your vehicle. Got it, y’all? They will cut you off before you reach that point. For real.
