Happy Birthday To Meeeeeee

Well, today I turned the big 2-6, which is only slightly less underwhelming than discovering on my 21st that the bathrooms in bars I was newly permitted into were just as horrific as those found in bars that had previously admitted my underage ass. I would like to beseech bar-going ladies worldwide to stop decorating the stalls in Early Modern Gastric Violence, and to ask if anyone has ever gotten a call-back on a number scrawled in lipstick across the soap-splattered mirrors.*

I would like to thank everyone who made my birthday so lovely, for ignoring my variety of attempts to downplay my day. It usually surprises people that I don't make a big deal out of my birthday, since I talk a lot (perhaps you noticed) and I like to tell everyone everything that's going on (perhaps you noticed). I just don't like to throw out my princess day to everyone, everywhere,** because I don't want anyone to feel like they have to make a big deal out of me, just because I said so. However, it is perfectly acceptable for me to rub the tiara of my Annual Princess Day all over Lawyer Boy, because he signed up for a lifetime of my ridiculous antics when he said I do. And no, I did not make him. I just told him what to wear and where to wear it and what to say and when to say it, is all.

LB had gotten me my big birthday present, a pink vintage bicycle, a few months ago. I wanted a bike so I could show the whole Greater Richmond Metropolitan Area what an unrepentant dork I am by riding my bike to the grocery store, shiny purple helmet complementing the shiny pink paint on my trusty steed. However, the bike didn't come with a basket, so until this morning, when I unwrapped my present, I looked like this gentleman, trying to cart all my necessities back from Kroger:
Clearly my hair has more volume than his, but the idea is the same. Now I have a basket, which magically compresses my 14 refrigerator boxes full of strawberries and organic milk into a compact load. I feel so much safer traveling now!

Thanks to the firm-wide birthday list, my coworkers knew it was my birthday, and they came out in full force. Particular thanks are in order to Ghost Baker's mom, for the cupcake-art birthday card, Sharon for the alarmingly abundant amount of fresh-baked doughnuts, and Melissa for the pan of gooey, underbaked brownies. (Please note that Melissa is apparently my only friend who is not a hyperlink.) I would also like to thank my boss for walking into my office at 9am and groaning his way through "Happy Birthday," in its entirety, by way of celebration. That is far and away a much better present than letting me leave an hour (or seven) early on my princess day. Totes.

Mom and Dad came over to hug me in celebration of the fact that they spawned me, and to give me my present, which I will tell you about tomorrow, when it will make much more sense. Suffice to say that it is a further extension of my personal rampant dorkery. While they were here we drank wine, stood in my backyard, and freely donated our blood to the local mosquito population. We're so kind.

My birthday dinner was crunchy beef tacos, which LB was more than happy to produce as a surprise for me. I've eaten at some of the best restaurants in the world, I make up my own recipes, and I've even single-handedly catered several events, but few things make me happier than the results of an Old El Paso Taco Dinner Kit. I can't explain it; it's just happiness in a crispy browned shell. Add to that a glass of wine, a cup of ice cream, and the man I love, and that's a recipe for birthday bliss.

I will fill you in on more birthday festivities tomorrow, after the big family celebration at my grandmother's. For now I am too sleepy and happily relaxed to do much more than curl up with the cat, the man, and a glass of Zinfandel. Thank you, thank you, thank you, to everyone who made my birthday so wonderful.

And for those of you who haven't yet found a way to celebrate me--now is an excellent time to start. You still have a few hours till midnight.

*Sidebar to 540-956-2345: You never returned my voicemail.
**Apparently I had forgotten that Facebook reminds everyone, including the unborn and the socially dysfunctional, of the anniversary of my debut.

Tiger Beat, Chapter 3: Questicle's B.S.

Welcome back amigos, for the grand and exciting(ish) conclusion to the Tiger Beat Chronicles, wherein my baby brother gets drunk, gets his degree, and gets drunk again, in that order. Onward!

***

Saturday morning, the dawn of The Day, found the inhabitants of Questicle's apartment less than chipper and hangin' a little lower than usual. I was fully awake, all fidgety and jangly like a six-year-old on Christmas, at 7am--and unhappily so. Have you ever been awake in the single digits of the morning in a college apartment? It's like being hopelessly marooned on a desert island that some previous castaway pre-scented with beer and sorority girl pheromones. I busied myself texting LB and chugging environmentally unsound amounts of water to combat the previous night's chugging calamities, glad that I had abstained from the vodka shots that had been passed around circa 1am.

Questicle, however, had drunk deeply from the pitcher of fun the previous night, including the aforementioned vodka shots, and was not exactly en bonne forme upon the arrival of the morning star. When I finally forced him to peel himself off the sheets and consider consciousness, it became obvious that the only thing that would drag him out of The Land Before Time was a salty greasebomb and strong coffee. In other words, a bag from Bojangles.

Have you ever had Bojangles before? Broadening my search a bit, have you ever had a chicken biscuit before? Somehow, despite a lifetime spent studying the finer points of grits, red-eye gravy, and biscuits with sausage gravy, I had never had one. I was fully prepared to hand over my chicken biscuit v-card, and Macy (both tiny AND fabulous!) was well equipped to punch it for me: She knew how to get to the nearest Bojangles. So off we rode, in search of grease and enlightenment!

And what a mixed bag of victory we brought back. Win: Delicious chicken biscuits for all! Fail: Apparently Questicle wanted a bacon-egg biscuit instead of a chicken biscuit, and apparently Bojangles felt like we only deserved two of the three biscuits we gave them dollars for. My first ever chicken biscuit was actually a demi-biscuit, shared with Macy, while Questicle plowed through his biscuit and attempted to stick the straw in his Diet Coke directly into a vein. After twenty minutes and 6,000 calories, we finally felt ready to shower and mosey over to the Coliseum to watch The University bestow a B.S. on Questicle.

After getting choked up the first of six times watching Questicle process in with the rest of the class, and professors in a progression of sillier and sillier academic hats, I settled in for a graduation ceremony longer than Elton John's career. Clemson has a charming dedication to allowing each and every university graduate the opportunity to shake the hand of the president of the university himself, before snagging his diploma in front of 20,000 of his closest friends. I, for one, would much prefer if the president would make house calls to give out these handshakes, since watching him glad-hand 1,099 graduates, in addition to the one I personally showed up for was, to say the least: boring, mind-numbing, excruciating, tedious, leaden, exhausting, drool-inducing, and in summary, enough to make me (and everyone else in the arena) wish that I could voluntarily slip into a deep, dark coma.

I tried everything to stay focused. I gave up. I tried everything to stay awake. I gave up. I experimented in trying to sleep with my eyes open. I became concerned that if I were able to accomplish such a feat, gnats would land on my eyeballs. I eventually became bored enough to stop caring, only to discover that I am not capable of sleeping with my eyes open, gnats or no gnats.

Finally, at long last, Questicle mounted and crossed the stage to shake the hand of the president of the university. He later said that when he got there, he was smiling so big that the president said to him, grasping his hand, "It feels good, doesn't it?" Questicle grinned even bigger and replied, "yes sir, it does!"

Damn, little Questicle, I'm so proud of you I'm tearing up even now. How awesome! But, if I may request, please don't graduate again. I seriously can't sit through another Festival of REM Sleep.

After three more hours, much more unnecessary academic hoopla, and the conferring of degrees on people I don't care that I don't know, we were released again into the wild. Mom and Dad had brought a giant amount of pork barbecue and all the fixins for a dinner at Questicle's apartment, so we headed back to celebrate, making a pit stop for beer. Macy and I, dazed and hungry from camping out in the arena for four hours, made the mistake of going into the grocery store with Questicle, and we stumbled deliriously upon the chip aisle. We set upon it like buzzards on a dead lamb, eventually dragging six different bags of random-ass chips, including one made with real live olives, out of the store behind us.

What? Going comatose burns calories!

Back at Questicle's apartment we ravaged the chips and food that Mom and Dad had brought, oggling Questicle's diploma and working hard to ensure that no barbecue survived the night. Questicle and Macy were gearing up for another vodka-infused pong-fest, and were lobbying hard for me to stay another night so I could smack more of their friends' faces with stanky pong-balls. Everyone loves the party girl!

Ultimately, because I am old, lame, and nowhere close to as cool as you undoubtedly think I am, I decided to spend the night on the floor of Mom and Dad's hotel room, where I fell asleep at 10:15 watching Dr. Gregory House harass his staff into solving another epic medical mystery. I wished I could have partied another night with the Questicle crowd, but as the responsible older child, I knew I had to be back at work bright and early Monday morning.

***
Thanks for tuning in for the conclusion of the Tiger Beat Chronicles! Now I can start telling you all of the other words that have been rumbling around my head while I tried to stop procrastinating and just finish the stupid Tiger Beat Chronicles, dammit. Tomorrow. I will tell you tomorrow.

Tiger Beat, Chapter 2: Let Me See That Pong

Welcome back, amigos, and thank you for opting, possibly against your will, to come back after the last chapter's epic Ode to T-Bell! Today's installment of the Tiger Beat Chronicles promises to be at least that exciting, and hopefully less nauseating.

***
After seven and a half hours of Donna Summer-themed ear rape and several verbal assaults from the haughty GPS madam who became i-freakin-rate when we turned off the prescribed Yellow Brick Road to stop for gas, Mom and I cruised into Clemson, Scarolina, home to the Clemson Tigers, Death Valley, and more Bojangles chicky-huts than I have pairs of shoes.*

We dressed for dinner and met Questicle and his girlfriend Macy, who is both tiny and fabulous, for dinner at a restaurant called The Blue Heron. Since Clemson is a small-town college joint, and since it was being invaded by at least 20,000 proud parents that weekend, we had set the bar for food pretty low, expecting glorified bar food served by mumbling waiters in restaurants crammed with t-shirt-wearin' rednecks whose crowning glory was their NASCAR belt buckles with real light-up parts. Like Applebee's with a side of cheese grits and indignity.

All my regular snarkasm aside, oh my dear Lord, The Blue Heron was one of the single best meals that I, or anyone else at the table, had ever had. And we, a group of die hard foodies, are a hard sell. At the end of the meal, my dad actually wanted to summon the chef to our table so we could (I am not making this up) give him a standing ovation. The thought of this mortal humiliation horrified me in a way that could only be eclipsed by my dad trying to give the DJ at the "Rainforest Romance" middle-school dance a standing O for his really bitchin' remix of the Macarena.

Fortunately for my reputation, the chef was busy, either cooking for other patrons or laughing so hard at the suggestion that he peed his balsamic reduction-stained pants.

After dinner Mom and Dad headed back to their hotel, and I headed to Questicle's apartment to pretend I was a college student before I would eventually crash for the evening on my air mattress in Questicle's spare bedroom. In honor of the solemn commencement rituals of the weekend, Questicle and his roommate had invited everyone they knew to show up with shitty beer and belly up to the spray-painted majesty of the plywood beer pong table that crowned their apartment.

When I was in college I was terrible at beer pong, in the same way that I'm terrible at any sport that involves throwing things, unless it's throwing bullshit at my boss, a game at which I am the office Michael Phelps. Pong always annoyed me because I was so bad that I never made it past the preliminary rounds, and it seemed vaguely inadvisable to drink beer that had just incubated a ball that had been on the floor, in peoples' hands, and in some rare and special cases, in their mouths, which had in turn usually been on, or in, the mouths of other party-goers.

Don't even try to tell me there is enough alcohol in beer to bulldoze that germ jungle.

But since I'm out of college and therefore Magic At Life, I decided I would show the students how it's really done before the night was over. While I waited for my turn at the table, I mingled with the graduates. I told Macy how much I love her, repeatedly and with the emphasis that can only be conveyed after four vodka lemonades. I bonded with Questicle, laughing about the ridiculous things we did when we were kids/last week. And in one of the greatest moments of the evening, I met my SameName! She not only had the same name as me, but was also a redhead with a wicked sense of humor. We had a great time comparing the nicknames we get from our SameName, and sharing fashion tips for what matches our SameHair.

Finally, it was my turn at the table, and for my personal World Series of Pong, I had been paired with a guy named Kevin, who agreed to drink all the pong-beer while I continued to slurp vodka lemonades. And who should appear on the other side of the table to play me for ultimate pong glory, but SameName! Oh, it was on.

And how quickly it became apparent that I was very, very off. Not only were SameName and her partner sinking balls more expertly than cheerleaders after the prom,** but none of ours were even coming close to the gold. Mine weren't even clearing the midpoint on the table. After a few airborne failures, Kevin decided to coach me.

"You've got to throw the ball higher, so it clears the tops of the cups."

"Like this?" I said, raising my elbow and preparing to cock my wrist.

"Right," he said. "And throw it harder. Like, a lot harder, so it actually, um, gets to the cups."

Across the table, SameName was talking to her partner, laughing about something. Her partner pointed out that I was about to take another failure-riffic shot, and SameName turned back to the table.

She turned back to the table right as I decided to show Kevin just how hard I could throw. And I threw hard. And I have no aim.

I accidentally hit my SameName. I HIT MY SAMENAME IN THE FACE!!! With the wet, stanky BALL!!

She was, to say the least, stunned, and not surprisingly, my ball did not make the cup. I immediately fell all over myself, partly from the vodka lemonades, and partly in trying to apologize my face off. SameName shook it off gracefully, but I suppose it's easy to overlook a minor battle wound when you beat your opponent six to zero.

*So, countless.
**I HAD TO SAY THAT.

***
And that concludes this chapter of the Tiger Beat Chronicles. As we barrel towards Memorial Weekend, be sure to check back for the next episode: Questicle's B.S.

Tiger Beat, Chapter 1: Road Trip Necessities

And now, at long last, with great fanfare and much squealing of kazoos, I bring you Chapter One in the Tiger Beat Chronicles, an epic tale of my trip to Clemson, Scarolina to watch Questicle embark upon adulthood, drink my weight in Frathouse Special brew, and eat my Very First Ever Chicken Biscuit.

Now what, I ask you, could be more exciting than tales of the loss of my chicken biscuit virginity?*

Thus we begin on Thursday morning, when Mom arrived ten minutes ahead of schedule to collect my duffel bag, tote bag, garment bag, shoe bag, food bag, handbag, giftbag, windbag, bagpipe, and self to cart down to Scarolina. As usual, I was running no less than fifteen brain cells behind, so I fluttered about like a hummingbird trapped in a shoebox, simultaneously drying my hair, packing my makeup, and hugging the cat goodbye. Finally, twenty-five minutes and six Mango scratches behind schedule, we were off, guided by the comforting voice of the GPS who assumed, from the moment we lumbered off the curb, that we were complete morons in need of guidance, both geographically and philosophically.

All was well in the Tahoe powered by disco music and girl talk, until we both became hungry enough to consider eating at some roadside establishment whose kitchen output was rivaled only by its bathroom intake. Scanning the blue signs that littered the interstate like tattoos on a hairy redneck, I had an epiphany of epic proportions: WE SHOULD EAT AT TACO BELL.

Something I may have never disclosed, but which is a huge part of my personal being, is that I'm an obsessive foodie. There are three things in life that I take very seriously. The Three Fs. They are:

• Food
• Family
• Fart jokes
  

I think about food more often than thirteen-year-old boys think about boobies, and I spend about half of every weekend playing Dr. Jekyll/Chef Hyde in my kitchen, flinging spices and hoping to strike culinary gold before I accidentally puree my own knuckles. So for me to suggest we eat at Taco Bell sounds as strange as Jessica Simpson asking Marilyn Manson if she could open for him while slaughtering a family of pigs. But when I suggested T-Bell tacos, Mom must have been delirious from watching 350 cow-speckled miles of our lives bump past us, and figured it couldn't be half bad. Or at least, we likely would not die.

And oh, it was so good, good like cheese fries on a hangover, or aloe on that sunburn that you kind of want to heal, but kind of want to peel because peeling sunburn is so grotesquely delightful. You might have lost respect for me after this Ode to Fresco-Style Crunchy Beef Tacos, but I just don't care. T-Bell and I are tight, and there's nothing you can do to come between our love, unless our love results in my contracting the herp from T-Bell's special parts.

Fueled up in an ominous way that would ensure we drove as lightning-fast as possible to our destination, Mom and I hit the road again. We had gone about a hundred miles when it became crucial that we stop again: There were forces at work that we, mere mortal women with fabulous handbags, were powerless to stop. Did the car run out of gas? Did a rock hit the windshield? Did T-Bell come roaring to the gates in a way that demanded we screech to a halt immediately and dart behind the nearest tree?

Would you believe me if I said I saw a sign for an exit that had a HomeGoods AND a TJ Maxx in one giant building, and I shrieked like a middle schooler at High School Musical On Ice until Mom pulled over out of fear for her life? Smart lady, my mom.

I don't know if you've ever been to one of these magical Meccas, but there is nothing more wondrous to me than a store where I can buy both tart pans and tarty sandals, both with matching earrings. Never mind that Mom and I had each packed six pairs of shoes. Never mind that we only had two dressy events to attend that weekend. I am powerless against the song of the Shoe-Sirens, and I've got the overstuffed shoe rack, shoe bags, and eye-rolling husband to prove it!

Half an hour later, after happily stuffing six completely necessary and in no way superfluous shoes in the back of the magic Tahoe, we were on the road again, racing against time to Clemson to make sure we'd have enough time to choose the perfect shoe for dinner.

***

Thanks for tuning in to the first installment of the Tiger Beat Chronicles! Stay tuned for our next episode, coming soon: Let Me See That Pong.

*This phrase banned in countries run by theocracies, monarchies, and common decency.

Strawberries and Champagne...For One

Well, after two days away from home, hoping to be mistaken for Questicle's younger sister so that I could play with the 21-year-olds without anyone calling me Mrs. Thoreau, I have returned from Clemson, Home of El Tigre, to the mayhem that I call my everyday life.

And Lord, what mayhem I returned to. But first, to quench your obvious and borderline insatiable thirst for tales of my fumble-tastic exploits south of the border: I have to explain all that to you in several separate posts, because frankly, there is so much that is worthy of sharing with you, my loving public/cult, that if I were to post it all at once, you'd kill me...or just not read it all, the knowledge of which would then kill me, so really, you'd kill me.

Right, so this morning began with Mom and I pounding Hampton Inn Specialty Roast and bombing our insides with gummy, undercooked biscuits from the "Complimentary Diarrhea" continental breakfast to fuel up for the seven hour drive home. Really, I just had to jack myself up enough to be more than a semi-conscious body in the seat next to her, so I could keep her company while she piloted us safely home. I had offered to drive, but since her Tahoe is smarter than I am (including one of those Harry Potter back gates that you just wave at and it closes, magic-like), we decided it was in our best interest if I just played delirious and drooled copiously in the passenger seat.

And thus began our trip back through both Cackalackies, back to the Capitol of the Confederacy. We stopped for gas at one point in a townlette best described as Trailer Trash West, and if there had been any question that we were in the Bible Belt, it was dispelled by a gas pump that tried to show us the light: The computer display had been programmed to spell out "HE IS RISEN" at the end of every statement that punctuated the transaction.

"Would you like a car wash today? HE IS RISEN"
[no]
"Is your transaction complete? HE IS RISEN"
[yes]
"Would you like a receipt? HE IS RISEN"
[no]
"Seriously? HE IS RISEN"
[yes, seriously]
"But HE IS RISEN and He really feels you should keep a balanced checkbook."
[YES]
"Thank you for your patronage today SEE YOU IN HELL HE IS RISEN"

Seven hours and six bouts of Sleeping Buttcheek Syndrome later, we arrived home. My first hint that something was wrong was that the moment I unlocked the door, Mango wasn't immediately humping my legs, so excited to have me back that he morphed into a sex-crazed teenage boy. He was slinking around, looking at me sideways like he knew what I did back in '98, and yowled like Tina Turner if I tried to pick him up. I knew something was wrong with the local LoveSlut, and so after much uneducated evaluation and discussion with Lawyer Boy* of the brutal wound to the checking account that I knew a vet visit would be, I wrestled the cat into the cat carrier, which is as much fun as wrangling Ozzie Osbourne into sobriety, and shuffled him to the vet.

Before I ran off with the cat and the bank account balance, however, I checked with our neighbors, Erin and Edward,** who had graciously agreed to watch over our flock while we were gone, and apparently Sir Bleeds-a-Lot had decided to spend Friday night outside. He had bolted when they weren't looking, and the little fatty had come back just in time for breakfast the next day, after having tried to convince the whole city, unsuccessfully, that he was a badass. Just like every other man I know.

Two hours and TWO HUNDRED FORTY-FOUR DOLLARS*** later, the vet had determined that our little furry rebel had, in fact, gotten in a fight with the neighborhood feline Greaser, and was in need of antibiotics and having a thermometer shoved up his reckless ass. So, pumped full of fluids and delightful drugs, I took him home, unhappily in his plastic cat-taxi, and deposited him inside the front door, before I realized something important: I hadn't left that CD in my passenger seat. Or that set of directions to a house on Lake Anna. Or that cup from Chipotle.

Someone had ransacked my car! And thrown all the contents of the console into the floor! And had taken nothing! HOLY CRAP WHAT?????

This happened to LB a few months ago, when he accidentally left his car open and the neighborhood friendlies opened his door, roughed up his console, and eventually walked away with the 27 cents in his cup-holder. This time, it was particularly obvious that the friendlies had just been looking for cash and not a car or black-market goods, since the car itself was unharmed and none of the contents of the console was missing. I can't imagine why. They had their pick of:

• seventeen paper napkins
• one used lip gloss
• one Subway sandwich card with 8 stamps remaining
• five tampons
  
• one pamphlet on "How to Pray the Rosary"
• one plastic rosary
• directions to "Casa del McD," my friends' parents' lakehouse; and
• a CD Shelley made for me composed mostly of Carbon Leaf interspersed with Alvin and the Chipmunks
  

Clearly these guys had no idea what was valuable!

After all that, I eventually unpacked my huge amounts of unnecessary luggage and reclined with dinner: a pint of strawberries and a bottle of champagne (because I love it, and it is cheap). I had entertained grandiose fantasies of making myself shrimp scampi and jasmine rice while LB was gone, but the utter chaos and mayhem of my actual life had rendered me incapable of doing anything other than washing a plastic container of fruit.

And for all the romantic evenings that it implies, this is the first time I have ever had strawberries and champagne together. And you know what? It is DELICIOUS.

*LB is at JMU with his family to celebrate his sister's graduation, which was the same day as the Festival of Questicle. His family doesn't drink, and yet he was good and tipsed last time I talked to him. Thoughts? I feel a coping mechanism on the rise.
**PS to Erin and Edward: It's not your fault that our cat is an idiot. I love you. Also: Can I have your children? We would bake cookies all the time.
***Apparently I love the cat extensively. That is a LOT of shoes, amigos.

My Mom, The Origin of Awesome

I have a really great relationship with my mom, which I think is because I'm just like my dad--which is to say, a total goofball and only quasi-logical on the best of days. I'd have to say that my mom likes my dad, since they've been married for longer than Flava-Flav has been nailing anything that walks, and so hanging out with me is just like hanging out with my dad, if he were into shoe shopping and talking about china patterns. For my mom, I'm just like my dad, if my dad were mugged by Queer Eye.

One of the things I admire about my mom is her ability to force anything, anytime, at any store on the globe, to be on sale. I'll go over to see her, and the first thing she'll say is, "oh, come see what I got today!" So we traipse up to the master bedroom, and she whips out a jacket that costs more than my house. "Look what I got for $17.92!" she giggles, waggling a silk-lined leather mortgage payment at my googly eyes.

I examine the conquest. "Holy crap, Mom, this is a $400 Marc Jacobs jacket! Who did you con into giving this to you for $17.92???" If it were anyone other than my mom in front of me, the question would be who did you blow to get this for $17.92?, but I prefer to keep matters a bit more kosher with the one who bore me in her vessel of life.

"Well," she gears up for her victorious epic. "I had a coupon for 25 percent off, so I went over to Macy's, and they happened to be having a 25 percent off sale on the whole store! Then I found the clearance rack, and everything there was 60 percent off that--"

(I swear to God, we're already at the point that the store is paying her to take the goods, but we press on.)

"--and I found this fabulous jacket! And when I went to the register, and this is the funniest thing, I went to high school with the lady who rang me up! Well, we started talking, and it was so nice to catch up with her, eventually I told her I'd take her mother a cake, because I'd just love to see her mother, and she gave me another 10 percent off! So, do you like the jacket?"

Yes, yes, I like the jacket. You can leave the house to Questicle and my sister, but I want that jacket.

Mom and I spend a lot of time together, so it's easy for me to forget that she's part of a whole different generation, the generation that believes that chocolate gives you acne, and that only perverts hang out on the "world wide web." Then sometimes, she reminds me, in ways that bring a whole new meaning to the term generation gap.

Recently, Mom and Dad were sitting together reading the Sunday paper. Mom was deeply engrossed in the Garden section (I can only assume), when Dad interrupted her with a question about his chosen material, an editorial on pop culture. "What's 'twittering'?" he asked.

Mom looked around, baffled. She cocked her head, then looked at him, assumed he had really lost it, and replied, "I don't hear anything!"

I'm not actually on Twitter, because I don't think I'm responsible enough to nanny another social status, but to my credit, I at least know what it means. However, mom knows the meaning of bargain hunting, so I'm keeping her around.

Snaps To You Award: My Baby Brother, Questicle

It has been far too long, eons and eras, and almost long enough for Kristen Stewart to blow all the money she made from "Twilight" on weed, since I have given out the S2U Award. Today, reminding me that perhaps I'm not giving it to the right people, my mom suggested that I also give out an award to people and entities who do stupid things with zero flair and no panache, and call it "The Pork and Beans Award."

No, I don't know, either.

But I do know that for now, we'll stick with the S2U, and this week, on his 24th birthday, I know of no better recipient than my little brother Jordan, who should get the award for no other reason than the fact that he can totally rock the middle name "Quest." No one believes that it's his real middle name, but at birth, each of us was graced with a grandmother's maiden name for a middle name, and I drew the much less Questionable "Scott." Frankly, I'm shocked that it took me 24 years of being the nerdlier sibling to realize that I ought to be calling him "Questicle."

My brother and I aren't twins, but aside from his ultra-laid-back demeanor and my obsession with handicrafts, we're very similar. I kinda feel like we are twins--twins who were, by some trick of fetal magic, born two years apart, giving me the chance to solidify my position as The Responsible One, so that he could arrive fashionably late and slide right into the role of The Cool One. When we were kids, he was always the one running ahead while I watched from behind to make sure no one kidnapped him. As a teenager with my first-ever boyfriend, my lame, lame curfew was 10, and I was just stoked to be let out of the house with a boy at all. When Mom and Dad told Questicle that he should be home by ten, he'd argue until they pushed it back to 10:30; then, around 11:30, he'd start thinking that maybe, after one more beer, it was time to head home. In high school, he was the kid who always knew where and when the parties were, and which ones were worth gracing with his presence. I, conversely, was not actually aware that there were parties in high school.

You know you're perhaps not the sought-after sibling when you're the older child, and people know you by your younger brother's reputation.

Today, his 24th birthday, we are miraculously close to another major life event in The Life and Times of J. Questicle: college graduation. After six years of a long and twisty road to adulthood, which sometimes looked to be heading to adulthood, and sometimes looked like it was going to trail off into Beach Bummery or The Art of Professional Fratitude, Questicle rises triumphant to claim his slip of academic sheepskin* from Clemson U and set forth into the world of gainful employment and shitty office coffee. My dad gave me the best example to date of how laid-back and easygoing my brother is: The other day Dad called to shoot the sheeot with him, and said, "So, when's your last day of school?" Meaning his last day of school EVER. After 19 YEARS of school. Questicle's response? "Um...I don't really know. I'll ask someone!"

Despite the fact that I've painted the picture of a totally stereotypical fratalicious slacker, Questicle is ridiculously smart and, even more importantly, is one of the most well-loved people I know. Everyone wants to be his friend, and once they're in the circle, they never leave, so help them God. He's an awesome kid/man/functional human. So Snaps to You, Questicle, the best little brother I could have asked for. Happy birthday!!!!

I'm fairly confident he's reading this right now, drunk. And I'm totally cool with that--because I've taken some lessons in coolness from him.

*Not a reference to sheepskin condoms. You stop that, this is a family post!

A Thoreau-ly Bizarre Christmas

A recap of the Thoreau family holiday celebrations, spanning two states, several species, and a dozen bottles of wine, shall be presented in a seasonally-appropriate Twelve Notes of Christmas format, so as to combat my desire to ramble, and ease your ability to comprehend the insanity. And thus, we begin.

1) Twas the night before Christmas, and it was not a mouse, that my aunt and uncle showed up with at my grandmother's house: It was actually a Labrador retriever, a stray cat, and a profanity-spewing African Gray parrot. That's right, for a one-night stay, my aunt and uncle insisted on traveling with their very own menagerie, as if the zoo-like atmosphere created by my family wasn't enough of the animal kingdom for the eve of the birth of Christ. The dog was pretty tame; the cat created minimal havoc beyond attacking and conquering all holiday foliage placed around the house; and the foul-mouthed parrot actively tried to assassinate my brother Jordie throughout dinner. He sat on top of his five-foot-tall cage (the parrot, not my brother), and whenever Jordie would walk by, look at him, or take a bite of his own food, the parrot would rear up all Dracula-like, spread his wings, and shriek obscenities at him, not unlike my boss. Apparently he understood the meaning of the middle finger, because Jordie's sole response of flipping him the bird would send him into a renewed parrot frenzy. It was not festive.

2) My aunt and uncle, who are awesome people but who are loud beyond the human range of hearing, became so raucous during our Christmas Eve Greek Feast that my dad began singing "Away In A Manger" and NO ONE COULD HEAR HIM. I could see his lips moving, and see him swaying to the beat, but he may as well have been Milli Vanilli-ing his chosen carol. It was at that point that Jordie texted me "we have to get out of here N.O.W.!!1!!!!!!"

3) When we finally departed the menagerie (the literal and figurative menageries), Lawyer Boy and I were unable to exit my grandmother's neighborhood due to the fact that the police had blocked off the only road out in response to a shots-fired incident. Oh yes. Baby Jesus, away in a manger, no crib for a bed, and while the angels are singing hark! SOMEONE STARTED A GUN FIGHT. We didn't know what was going on until we realized the police officer with the megaphone was yelling, "DROP THE GUN AND GET ON THE GROUND!" not "Merry Christmas to all! And to all a good night!" They were not, in fact, a blue-clad caroling group out for a holiday stroll-and-sing. However, if they had been, I would have fit in perfectly in my shiny blue cocktail dress. (It should also be noted that my grandmother's neighborhood is more suited to shiny blue cocktail dresses than gunfights, so we had not brought our Kevlar vests that evening.)

4) My favorite Christmas present was the Miley Cyrus Christmas card my brother got me, which plays a real recording of Ms. Cyrus herself singing "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" whenever I open it, which is extremely frequently. It lives on our fridge and I think if I open it one more time, the cat is going to take it to his litter box and do nefarious things to it. I'm summoning all my will power and trying to prevent this, so that in 18 months when pictures of Ms. Cyrus with a crack straw in her nose surface, I will have a real live Hannah Montana artifact. And bleeding eardrums.

5) The day after Christmas, LB and I packed up and made the six-hour drive down to Charleston, SC to visit his family for the holidays. The only noteworthy event from the trip down was when we stopped for gas in Emporia (aka Armpit Township, Virginia) and at a red light, sat behind a giant truck with the license plate CLETUS. The CLETUS plate sat proudly atop a trailer ball crowned by a shiny silver skull with glowing red eyes. This was immediately before we stopped at an Arby's noteworthy only for its musical selection, which sounded like a circus monkey raping a pipe organ while humming "Carol of the Bells." I somehow feel CLETUS was responsible for this.

6) My sister-in-law's husband surprisingly showed up with her for Christmas, and also surprisingly, was a pleasantly festive presence. This is surprising because for the last three years, he has hovered on the spectrum of humanity somewhere between "manic asshole" and "eternal douche," so even a journey into the territory of "marginal dillweed" would have been a welcome improvement. But since he all but candied his own yams and built keepsake toys for the wee ones, we were all happy. To quote Clark Griswold, that epic Christmas elf: "If I woke up tomorrow with my head sewn to the carpet, I would not be more surprised than I am right now."

7) When we arrived in the rather boring, rural suburb outside Charleston, we were forced to pile into the family Tribeca to take a suburban tour, at night. AKA, in the dark, AKA, after we had just driven for six hours. Apparently when LB told his parents repeatedly, "Grace gets carsick," what they heard was, "Grace loves to be folded up like an origami swan with seven other adults in a car that claims to seat seven, but only if those seven are Snow White's dwarves, to drive around East Jesus in the dark to glimpse the occasional Craftsman-style porch lantern. Also she likes to barf on your shoes/upholstery/children." That trip was not a merry dash through the snow.

8) The majority of our Christmas presents were gift cards to Lowe's or Home Depot, owing to the stupendously ugly nature of our house right now. On "Christmas morning" with his family, LB opened a Lowe's card that had a hammer festively attired in a red bow on the front, and his five-year-old adopted brother Tyler became so excited that he shrieked, "Mommy! LB got a HAMMER PRESENT CARD!!!!!" We have henceforth referred to all gift cards as Hammer Present Cards, and so it shall be forevermore!

9) A grand debate ensued around the Christmas tree when my youngest sister-in-law began debating with her mother whether or not her bee-hind was a Medium, per what the underwear my mother-in-law had bought her stated, or whether it was an Extra-Small, per the fantasies dancing like sugarplums in her head. This was an uncomfortable debate for everyone involved, including a moment when my mother-in-law challenged, "I dare you to get one buttcheek in an extra-small once you wash those!!" It culminated in all of us agreeing by secret ballot that the bee-hind in question was, in no way, an extra-small. Despite the conclusion, it remained awkward.

10) Speaking of bee-hinds that are no longer extra-small, in retaliation for having been abandoned to the care of the neighbors for a traumatic forty-eight hours, the cat chewed three holes in his bag of Meow Mix and devoured approximately four times his own weight in Mix in two days. We returned to find him awash in a sea of his own greed, yet thoroughly pleased with his exploits. Consequently, we have yet to be able to pick him up comfortably since. He could easily feed a family of twelve.

11) In the ten days I have been on vacay from work since Christmas, I have managed to stare at, rearrange, and kick around our bedroom (literally) the same overfilled basket of clean laundry, without ever putting them away in my closet or drawers. I couldn't be more proud of my own laziness if I had laid on the couch until my joints grew moss. I'll save that task for summer vacay when the higher humidity will facilitate quicker spore growth.

12) My New Year's resolution is to be more green, and reduce, reuse, recycle. Based on the amount of alcohol bottles that have already accumulated in the shiny new recycling bin, we may be getting a call from Central Virginia Waste Management regarding a possibly more productive resolution: AA.