I'm back and full of refined sugar. Me and the Busted Tyrannosaurus spent our week in Michigan inhaling my dad's cookies and ice cream made in my home town.
The secret to the ice cream is the horrendous child labor that goes into each scoop. (A good friend who worked there back in the day was told she'd be fired if she kept demanding her government-mandated break. She got some carpal-tunnel kinda affliction from all the cranking. But they make the creamiest mint chip you ever. Ever.)
The secret to my father's cookies is that each one has a quarter stick of margarine stuffed in. This is why my body again has secondary jiggles and my wife came home complaining that "This afternoon I got the fat girl sweats." Sad married Slim Fast types are we.
That said, check out my dog:
Her name is Calamity. She is 120 pounds of American Bitch. She is also the new editor of the blog, and as such she has informed me that righteous indignation is an increasingly cheap commodity in the era of the blogosphere, and I should make it my mission to not confuse things that make me sweat and mutter with things that make a readable blog entry. Whenever I do post some "Ooh, this link'll make you mad" crapola, she will bite me on the chinstrap.
And this is Jen:
When I stayed with her and Jan in Philly she had the third best idea I ever heard from her. When she dies, she wants to be chummed and tossed to sharks. It will take you more than two hours to realize the perfect genius of this. We can steal this idea to San Francisco and make stacks of California cash. Vamanos!
