boot in your ass.

Homemade tortillas (homegrown veggies)

Fourth of July spurred a lot of magical jokes, including Ernest Goes to Concentration Camp (look for it next summer at your favorite theatre!).

Carne Asada for food–you know, the normal 4th selection.

Followed by an epic badminton tourney (we didn’t have enough badminton rackets, so we used the awesome tennis rackets as well).

Blockus and…other things were also popular.

cooookkkkoutttttt

I stole my parent’s grill!  Ryan doesn’t like the fact that the grill itself isn’t attached to the stand, but how else would I have shoved all of the elements into my little car?  I must be into thievery today, because I also took these pictures from Nicole’s flickr.  Take that!

Food prep–check out the awesome hand-lettered sign my dad took from an abandoned hotel in the 1970’s.

merry-nade make me happy!

Atomic Donkey Turds

Carne Asada, grilled bell peppers, homemade tortillas, donkey turd

The worst feeling in the world.

Fisticuffs, after a bout of crying blood, was treated to a trip to the vet’s office. During the car trip he acted like any normal cat, panting, crying, and generally being a pussy (!) about the whole ordeal. His plaintive wails got the better of me, and I reached into the carrier to pat his blessed little head. Suddenly it struck. The most unsettling, sinking feeling in the world–and it was surprisingly warm.

Severely irritated, Fisticuffs had turned around while my fingers were crammed through the front grate of the carrier, braced himself, and took a huge, festering shit on my hand. The smell tore through the car before I had realized exactly what had happened. Keep in mind that I drive a standard, and my right hand was now trapped (less I spread peanut buttery goo about the car) in the carrier. In a display of my awesome genius, I managed to single-handedly (!) summon a napkin (accio napkin!) across the car, while maneuvering onto an off ramp, and popping the car out of gear with my elbow. By the time we arrived at the vet’s office, Fisticuffs had rolled around in his feces, caking himself in it, and pressing it out of the side of the carrier, like play-dough through a pasta machine.

I fear I will never recover.

The aftermath.

square america

This site is a collection of vintage snapshots. You should probably go look at it (especially you, Colin). It makes me pretty happy.

Square America