Day #17: Hangovers. A Brief Compare and Contrast.

Last night Mike and I were hanging out on the deck, discussing what I should post today. Mike said "Hangovers" would be an appropriate topic to cover after a post on "Alcohol." Additionally, we may have been mentally preparing ourselves for this morning...

We started to make a list of hangover cures, but realized that our actions at age 20 were radically less sensible than those at age 30, and so we offer you a brief compare and contrast in the form of top 5 lists.

Top Five Favorite Drinks at Age 20:
1. Keystone Light (in a pitcher, preferably at BT's in Radford, VA)
2. Beast Light
3. Natty Light (in a can, preferably in the basement of a fraternity house)
4. Icehouse
5. Shots of Jagermeister





Top Five Drinks Avoided at Age 30:
1. Keystone Light
2. Beast Light
3. Natty Light
4. Icehouse
5. Shots of Yeagermeister





Top Five Favorite Things to Eat When Hungover at Age 20:
1. The leftovers from the pizzia you ordered at 3am.
2. Fast food breakfast purchased via drive-thru (and while wearing a hangover hat and sunglasses)
3. An entire bag of potato chips (in my case, Cool Ranch Doritos) and a Blue Gatorade
4. Donuts (please note that this word is pluralized)
5. Lunch




Top Five Favorite Things to Eat When Hungover at Age 30:
1. Advil
2. Tums
3. Tylenol
4. Pepto-Bismol
5. Lunch





Top 5 Hangover Activities at Age 20:
1. Drink a 7-11 coffee
2. Chain smoke a pack of cigarettes
3. Eat fried food
4. Rehash the hilarity from the night before
5. Drink beer





** Note: Look at this list. Doesn't sound like a Friday night in college? What we did to "cure" hangovers was the same damn thing that caused them in the first place. We were like gods back then...





Top Five Hangover Activities at Age 30:
1. Take Advil.
2. Lay on sofa.
3. Watch a sporting event until 5:00pm.
4. Order a pizza.
5. Fail to shower until next morning.

**Note: This sounds shockingly like my today...

Day #16: Alcohol. "I like my drink with a splash of snob, please."

This is a subject near and dear to the hearts of many, and especially appropriate on a Friday afternoon when those of you in this time zone are shortly to engage in the art of consumption. I, for one, will be hoisting a glass as soon as possible, because I believe I am entitled to start celebrating my birthday a full three days in advance, and continue celebrating it though Thursday.

Let's just cut to the chase here: I have drank some drinks. If you read Beth and Mike Across America, you know I will still be standing at last call and I'll be the one with enough sense to tell you to go home because you're wasted.

Because here's the thing about me and alcohol:

1. I can count on two hands how many times I have been really and truly drunk. When I broach the "Beyond Tanked" threshold, I pack myself up and put myself to bed, thereby eliminating the need for next day phone calls that begin with "Um... so... about last night..." and end with you apologizing for something you fail to recall doing.

2. When I do have one too many, I am the happiest drunk on the planet. I love you when I'm drunk. We are best friends. I will tell you so. I will tell you so repeatedly. I will hug you and sing to you and praise your glories and thank you for being my best friend (even if you aren't).

Then I will pack myself up and put my drunk self to bed.

The reason I manage to stay in control when everyone else is saying things like, "I haff a fantashtic idear! Less settoff firewerks in the garage!" is because I drink expensive beer and I drink it slow.

When I was in my twenties, I aspired to be a wine connoisseur. I bought different wines and tried to remember their names (fail). Nice people bought me wine paraphernalia (of which there is an abundance on the market: cocktail napkins, candles, openers, closers, keys, holders, glasses, and this enormous gadget called The Rabbit that won't fit in any of the drawers in my kitchen and therefore has been relegated to The Cabinet Where Kitchen Utensils Go To Die next to the oven).

Unfortunately, all that work was for naught. Sigh. The wine that can typically found at my house is labeled "WHITE WINE." Not savignon-blanc, or pinot-gregio, or chardonnay, just "WHITE WINE." Its by White Truck. I recommend it.

I also thought, in my twenties, that I would become a fancy-drink-drinker. Fancy-drinks, in my world, are any drinks made with liquor. I don't touch the sauce, man. Nooooo way. Because I am smart. I learn from mistakes. I know this about myself: you give me a shot, and I will go from standing-up-and-talking to believing I am truly a candidate for So You Think You Can Dance and attempting to prove my assertions, um, anywhere. Dance floor not required.

Its just not okay and its the kind of thing that comes back to haunt you in the form of stories told to people whose opinions matter to you.

So I have become a beer snob. My husband is my partner in beer snobbery. We scoff at your Miller Lite in a can. We pashaw that Bud Lite Lime in your fridge. We refuse to drink your free Natty Ice.

Isn't this obnoxious?

It so is, but we don't care, because we know more about beer than you do and we aren't afraid to flaunt it. However, we concede that you have the right to flaunt your checking account balance in front of us because ours is suffering from our expensive taste.

Its not just that we exclusively purchase six-packs that run us about $9.89 each (although, we do and we do it so often that when we walk into Once Upon a Vine South, the owner, Tomy, says "Hey MikeandBeth!" Is this socially acceptable?). Its also because we feel we need to mingle with other beer-drinkers who are as snobby as we are, so each year we shell out $400 bones plus the cost of a hotel room and we attend Savor.

Savor is an American Craft Beer and Food Experience. No really, that's what they call it.

Picture it:

You dress in your best cocktail party attire, tuck your $100/pop ticket in your pocket and stand in line to enter the National Building Museum in DC. You enter a hall that is a full two stories tall and chock-full of tables featuring beer made at craft breweries from around the country. Each beer has been paired with a small dish prepared by one of the top catering companies in the area. You mingle and rub elbows with brewery owners and bar owners and other people with an ungodly amount of expendable income.

We also get our nerd on. Yes, you can (pay $$$ and) attend "Salons," which are small sessions on topics such as "The Historie of the American IPA" or "Panel Discussion on Cheese Pairing."

Truly and honestly, this event exists. See this for details and you can come with us next year and get your annual dose of beer snobbery too!

Part of the beer snobbery is due to the fact that Mike brews beer. In case you haven't had the opportunity to try Mike's beer, let me assure you, its good. Its not your buddy's homebrew where you taste it and then say "Yeah. Wow. Um. That's different" while you figure out how you're going to choke the rest of it down without gagging.

Mike's beer is excellent -- it makes our basement look like a meth lab, but its worth it because we have a nearly unlimited supply of awesome beer.

We have a kegerator:

I remember the night we realized how much Mike's brewing had changed our lives.

We were sitting out on the deck in the fall a few years ago. We are frequently found there, but are definitely found there when, like this particular night, it is cool and crisp out. We have not started to hate the 3 million leaves that will shortly dump themselves on our lawn, because at this point they are golden-orange and beautiful. Mike and I are having some laughs, catching up after a busy week, enjoying the tunes coming through on the outdoor speakers.

We are chuckling and smiling as we stroll into the kitchen to refresh our beverages.

Screeech... music stops. Smiles drop. Silence.

We are out of beer.

Mike and I look at each other. We can read the look in each other's eyes: But I was having so much fun... So much fun that now I can't drive anywhere...

Then it occurs to us:

There is an entire keg of beer downstairs, on tap, ice cold.

The "Hallelujah Chorus" begins to play. The night has been saved.

This post has made me want a beer -- immediately. I suggest you hoist one too, but preferably not one in a can.

Day #15: Keys. Let Me In! I Have to Pee!

When I first started teaching at age 22, I left my keys everywhere. I didn't keep them on my regular key ring because Salem High assigns each teacher, like, 10 keys, and when I started trying to open my apartment door with my classroom keys, I decided changes must occur. The seperate keychain lead to key frequent key loss.

My friends at work would find them, shove them in their desk drawers and watch as I ran around the building frantically searching under stacks of papers, beside copiers, in work bags and file cabinets for the lost items.

I thought this was a symptom of youth -- flaking out. Sadly, not much has changed. I still lock myself out.

Dude, I did it today.



I have actually locked myself out of the house about half a dozen times in the last year (in my defense, we bought a new doorknob and it, unlike the last one, locks behind you automatically). Yes, Mom, I have a spare key. No, Mike, I did not put it back where it belongs.




I have locked myself out of my house in my pajamas. I've locked myself out in the rain. I've locked myself out and had to go to the bathroom really, really, really bad.


Its a bit embarassing.


Story time!


Last week I helped my sister move into her new apartment in Philadelphia. Its a nice cool day, so I decide to walk out on her balcony and take a break.

I enjoy the view of the trees and the neighbors unkempt yards and the sound of nailguns working furiously in the sunshine.



I go to head back in, and would't-you-know-it, the door is locked. I knock, and Juan the Landlord let's me back in. He pokes an appropriate amount of fun at me, and I say, out loud -- twice -- "Well, I learned that lesson! Never making that mistake again!"


Back to work unpacking boxes, shifting furniture, setting up televisions, hanging art, etc.


We are nearly finished! We deserve a break! We walk out to the balcony to regroup, formulate a plan of attack, figure out how late I can leave before all hell breaks loose on the highway.


Plan formed. Prepare for action...


You know where this is going, don't you.


Yes, folks, we're locked out. We're locked out, and not only is there no Juan -- there's also no way we are climbing out of the balcony. Its a two-story sheer wall straight down (which, upon reflection, renders the lock pretty moot. There is no way in Alcatraz anyone is getting in there unless they've got Spidey-Skills).




We attempt to get through the window by prying it open. Yank, yank, crack. We successfully break a window in Meg's brand new apartment. Good-bye Meg's security deposit.



We Repunzels are going to need help. Praise the lord there is construction going on next door (I imagine that will be the last time Meg will ever think that). Meg yells to someone working on the site, kindly begging him to get Kevin -- proprietor of the boutique under Meg's apartment.


Kevin comes out the back of the under-construction-building and points and laughs at us. Deserved.


He also calls Juan, who drives all the way back from someplace, and let's us back in. He also suggests we unlock the door.


Fair enough.


Lest you think I am only capable of locking myself out of buildings, let me provide you with another story:



When Mike and I were renovating the bathroom, I drove out to the tile outlet store way out I64 to West-of-Nowhere to try to find some ceramic tile I liked. I took a bunch of samples, rejected them all, and had to drive back out there to return them.


I was already braced for an awkward salesperson encounter (shocker) because the salesperson was putting on a pretty hard sell when I was there last and I thought he was going to double his efforts when I told him I didn't want the stuff.


So I walk in, explain in the vaguest terms possible why I don't want the tile, and leave.


Except I can't leave, because I can see my keys are sitting shotgun and all doors are locked. I don't even have my phone.


This means I have to go back into the ceramic tile place, call Mike and ask him to leave work, drive 20 minutes out of town to bring me my keys and avoid creating an opportunity for the salesperson to rope me into a pitch.




I do these things, but in order to keep clear of the salesperson I feel I need to stand outside the tile place -- located smack dab in the middle of nothing -- and wait for Mike.



This is ridiculous. Its more ridiculous when you know this fact: Remember the Epic Snowstorm of 2010? Yeah, it was the day after that.




The First Salesperson walks outside and reminds me that I am more than welcome to wait inside, where it is not 35 degrees. This seems like a sensible decision, but I picture myself walking into the massive warehouse, chock-a-block with mammoth-burrito-shaped rolls of carpet and endless pallettes of hardwood flooring and the three of us -- staring at each other. How awkward, I think.

So instead of choosing warmth and awkwardness, I choose cold, damp, and being-stared-at-by-every-customer-who-pulls-up. Solid choice.




Second Salesperson walks outside and reminds me that I am more than welcome to wait inside, where I will not risk losing digits from my hands and feet.



"Um, I'm fine. He'll be here any second."



Even as I say those words, I am fully aware that (1) I am not fine. I am cold and wet and acting like a total fool and (2) I have no idea if Mike will be here "any second" because I don't have access to a clock or a phone because they are all inside my car.



Mike comes and unlocks my door, and only mocks me a little bit (which is fair).

I unlocked my door, cranked up the heat, and pulled outta that parking lot so fast, my burning rubber melted the snow in the parking lot.

And I have learned two things:

1. More hide-a-keys is better than too few.

and

2. Make sure you go to the bathroom before you leave the house.

Day #13: Holidays. Who invited the Rockwells?

When I was in my 20s, I envisioned a Norman Rockwell version of the holidays: My family and I are all seated around a cozy fireplace on Christmas Eve wearing coordinating sweaters, drinking eggnog and chatting about the parties we've attended this holiday season...

Doesn't that sound nice? I think it sounds nice...

Shame its so effing inaccurate. The following is a list of things missing from/wrong with this picture:

1. This scene does not take place on Christmas Eve.

Nope. Its the day before.

See, when Mike and I went from Catagory D f0r Dating [Description: Spend the holidays alone with your own folks] to Catagory S for Serious [Description: Figure out how the hell you can be in two places at once] we had to get creative about Christmas. I know couples who swap back and forth; who spend Thanksgiving with one family and Christmas with another and then switch the next year.

Not Mike and I. We move Christmas. Yes, we have that kind of power. We have Christmas on the 24th with my fam and on the 25th with his. We make Christmas happen twice (side note: How siked are the future little MikeandBeths gonna be when they hear this? "Hey Lil MikeandBeth, Santa comes twice to our house! Now, run along and brag about this to the other little kids and try not to get beat up.")

2. There is never any eggnog. Ever.

First of all, its gross.

Second of all, its not strong enough. You see, by the time Mike and I and the entire state of Virginia have spent 31/2 hours shlepping up I95 in the rain/sleet/snow/fog behind every available incapable driver, we need beers, and we need them fast, which leads us to...

3. We are not "relaxed." At least, not until we are about 3 or 4 beers in apiece, and then we're so buzzed we've forgotten its "Christmas Eve."

4. We are not talking about the parties we've attended.

First, we are bitching about how much traffic sucks and swearing we will never do that again.

Second, if you invite us to a Holiday Party, consider your invitation a MikeandBeth attendance jinx. In the four years I've lived in VA, I've missed over a dozen holiday parties. Its staggering.

However, I think I've found a solution: Change the calander so that December has twice as many weekends and then move it to June. And then, please god somebody throw a party on a Friday and as long as snow doesn't start coming down in 80 degree heat then I think I can make it.

Now we'll probably never be invited to another holiday party again.

So we will spend all of January listening to hilarious stories about parties we did not attend. We will then throw a massive New Year's Eve party to trump your party and make ourselves feel better.

You will note that I have not commented on the bit about the "coordinating sweaters." You were looking forward to that part. I hate to disappoint but...

This happened:

So perhaps there is some Norman Rockwell in my life.

Day #11: Holly Homemaker I Am Not.

So I'm writing this after a few glasses of wine, which makes this post all the more relevant and also means I will definately have to hit spellcheck when I'm done.

I have pictured myself in so many different ways over the years... As a coporate power-suit wearing city dweller. As a bohemian New Englander raising children on organic, hormone-free foods purchased from farmers markets. And, most recently, as a happy homemaker, who bakes and cleans in pumps and a dress a la June Cleaver.

Why not, right? Any thing's possible. And if you know my penchant for organization, you might say "Not so far-fetched."

But what I've actually become has no clear stereotype. Let me tell you some stories:

My mother-in-law was raised in Mississippi. This means she can effing cook. You want a chocolate pie? Be prepared to never eat another chocolate pie with the same satisfaction. You want stewed tomatoes? I tell you, that few tablespoons of sugar she adds must be mixed with crack because these suckers are like tomatoes from nirvana. You want green beans? Try green beans cooked in pork fat and about a pound of butter and see if you still believe all green vegtables are healthy.

Me? I can't cook shit.

What's worse? I live in the south, where ladies can cook. They got pie recipies you can't find in cookbooks, and I burn frozen piecrusts.

I have been hunting for a recipe I can call my own, because that's what women have here in the south. They make their signature this or their grandmama's that. Meanwhile, I purchase oatmeal cookies from the grocery store, stick them on a serving dish from my pantry and lie and say I made them.

When people ask for the recipe I tell them its a family secret.

For real.

So one day I'm at a luncheon for yearbook advisors (swear to jesus, I am that nerdy) and I overhear this woman talking about these little desserts she makes out of crackers, rolos, and pecans, and I think, I might be able to not eff that up.

Here's the recipe:

Purchase a bag of rolos, a bag of Snyders butter snap pretzels and a bag of pecans. Place pretzels on baking sheet. Add rolo. Bake for a few minutes. Add pecan.

That's seriously it. I call them turtles.

So I go home, and I set out the pretzels and the rolos and I pop them in the oven on 400. I pull them out after less than five minutes and there is caramel everywhere. The rolos have burst leaving a layer of caramel all over the baking sheet, and making them impossible to remove. I add pecans because I'm infinately hopeful, but chewing these suckers is like nawing on a piece of my Old Navy flip flops.

I start to cry. Really. I am defeated. A recipe with two steps -- no blenders or hand mixers or kitchen aids required -- and they are a big fat FAIL. Mike, bless his heart, eats one of my hockey pucks and tries to tell me they're good but its taking him so long to chew these suckers, he can barely get the words out.

I later learned that if you turn the oven to 200 degrees you have more sucess.

Later, I come across a guacamole recipe that I make with actual, real success -- like the kind where people compliment me on my dish -- and I think I'm onto something.

Then, I go to the beach and my mom has purchased this guacamole-mix-in-a-pouch that I make and its every bit as good as mine.

Eff you, Frontera Guacamole Mix.

So that's out. I'm off cooking.

But I kind of like to clean. Really. There's a certain satisfaction in scrubbing and dusting and mopping and polishing and then looking at your house and knowing you don't have to do this again for at least two weeks.

The problem is, I wait waaaaaay longer than two weeks to do it again. By the time I've decided I need to clean again, its because the dust bunnies are setting up societies. They are building up condominium complexes underneath the bed and charging rent and holding housewarming parties.

And they probably bake better than I do.

Here's what I do well:

I crack open a beer and poor it perfectly. I can bust open a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and dump them into a bowl. I can sit on my deck and drink the beer and much on the Doritos and we can order take out when we run out of chips.

And I think that's all the homemaker anyone needs.

Day #9: Home Ownership. Part 2: Should I buy stock in Lowe's?

When I was younger, I envisioned home improvement projects as being kind of cute.

Yes, cute.

I imagined my honey and I, paint brushes in hand, singing and dancing to the music as we tinted the walls of our little love nest. He would tap my nose with the paintbrush and get a little splotch on me. I would giggle...

What I Know Now: We tackle at least two home improvement projects a year and not a one of these projects were "cute." Dust isn't cute (Mike: "Honey, I didn't know you owned grey shoes just like those black ones you like." Me: "I don't."). Back pain isn't cute (Mike: "Honey, you've been bent over studying the ground all day. Did you lose a contact?" Me: "No. We ran out of Advil."). Tools sprawled all over the house aren't cute (Mike: "Honey, why is there a chisel in my sock drawer?" Me: "Because the nailgun was in mine.").

Oh, and this happened:

Yeah, that's a toilet. In my living room. Shit's gotta go somewhere, right?

Haha. Get it? Punny.

Anyway, most of these home renovations began as the solution to a problem created by Previous Homeowner, who, apparently, looks for the easiest, cheapest, fastest way to get his wife to stop nagging him about [insert issue with home here]. He then went to Lowe's and found the "Most Likely To Break Inside of a Year" aisle and purchased everything he needed for the project.

Example:

So we go to look at the house, and we stand on the deck and look to our left. The deck stops and a pit of rocks roughly the footprint of a Hummer begins.

The realtor says "Its probably just a drainage thing."

Us: "Oooooh."

Pause.

Why did this not raise an alarm, you ask? Why didn't this comment hit us like an APB from homeowner hell, you wonder?

Probably because we wanted this house so damn bad, you could have told us a team of termites had assembled this rock pit to wage war against rats in the crawlspace and this would have been our response:

"Oooooh."

And we would have nodded, and looked at each other like, I-didn't-know-they-could-do-that-did-you-know-they-could-do-that? and followed you into the kitchen to look at something shiny.

So we move in. A week later, we're relaxing in front of the TV, the rain is pouring and making a soft pitter patter on the roof, and we're smiling at each other, thinking Isn't this nice?

Then Mike hears something in the basement. We go to investigate. Is this the a/c kicking on? Did the washing machine have a meltdown? Has the termite war begun?

I would have preferred any of those options to what really happened: Our basement flooded. While that first time wasn't too bad, the basement did continue to flood everytime it rained. And when I say flooded, I don't just mean a little seepage through the foundation. I mean bucket-bailing bad. I mean, wake-up-at-2am-and-mop-until-you-gotta-go-to-work bad.

I suggested we just build an ark and say eff it, but Mike thought there might be some more cost-effective options out there.

My favorite basement-flooding moment:

But first: Some important Mike background. In case you don't know, Mike works in a lab running tests on people who can't seem to learn to put a sock on dude's ____ and stay outta trouble.

Mike also brews beer, which is probably an appropriate hobby for someone who sees as many idiots as he does in a day.

Anyway, one night, Mike is working late and I'm home alone and it starts to rain. Then it starts to pour. Then there is a full-on effing monsoon happening and I know my basement is going to fill up like swimming pool in T-minus...

Sure enough, it does and I'm at a loss. Its coming in faster that I can get it out. Mind you, my getting-it-out methodology is pretty piss-poor: I'm soaking up water in old bath towels, which I'm wringing out into buckets and then dumping outside the garage.

I know -- not exactly efficient. So I'm freaking out, and I call my father-in-law, Marty, who senses how helpless I'm feeling and drives over in a monsoon to help me deal with all this damn water.

He pulls up, steps in the garage and I'm all like:

"Oh my god thank god you're here because I was totally freaking out and I don't' know what to do because its just coming in so fast and we really need a shop vac but Mike hasn't gotten it yet and I'm just blah blah blah..."

The whole time Marty is staring at the "buckets" of brown, poo-colored rainwater.

I say "buckets" because these are Mike's beer making buckets. You know, the ones that are supposed to stay completely sterile through the entire beer-making process. The ones he paid good money for. The ones that now look like the toilets at some 3rd world prison.

Those buckets.

Marty is staring at them because he knows this is bad. He knows I have now just made a Huge Wife Error and he is wondering whether or not he wants to be around when Mike comes home and sees his precious brewing equipment filled with rank-smelling basement water and topped with bug corpses.

But before he has a chance to decide, Mike is home. And Mike is staring too.

Me, I'm clueless. I'm still like "Oh thank god you're here because I've been at this for hours and I'm still not making any headway and these buckets are just filling up so fast and blah blah I'm an idiot blah..."

Mike wins the Husband With Patience Award, though, because despite me destroying his favorite toys, he said:

"Um, baby, why did you use my beer buckets for this?"

Me: "Idaknow. They were just, like, here."

Mike: "Okay, let's empty them out and try another strategy."

Which is exactly what we did.

This event prompted the Great ReGrading of the Backyard as well as the Great Basement Wall Rebuilding (in which the mason told us, "this is the worst job I've ever had." Mike and I high-fived) and the Ultimate Basement B-Drying, all of 2009 and none of which were "cute."

But $12K later, that basement is dry as Snoop Dog's mouth after a fatty and the buckets will live to brew another batch.

Day #1. Money: Where the hell is mine?

Once upon a time, in a land called College, a young girl named Beth dutifully attended classes, wrote papers with all the diligence expected of her Catholic upbringing and impressed her professors in class with her insight and motivation.


And all the the Adults in this land called College told her that these exercises and courses would prepare her for a land called Reality, where people with degrees from College would be lavished with beautiful gold coins -- more, said Adults, than those who never lived in the land called College.


One day Beth and all her friends left college. Adults gave them good luck gold coins in Hallmark greeting cards and Beth and her friends went to the land called Reality.



Beth found a job in Reality. It did not utilize a single one of the skills she had learned in the land of College, but she stayed positive, because she believed the job would bring the magical gold coins the Adults spoke of.



And I was positive. Until I found out that a manager at McDonald's makes the same salary I do.


Seriously.



I have clearly followed the wrong career path.


Now, I don't want to belabor the obvious because I know everybody is suffering from the economic meltdown our country is experiencing right now. However, I do want to stress an important point:


I was broke before the meltdown. Now I am just more broke.


Remember when we were young and we dreamed of things like stock portfolios (we didn't know what they were, we just knew people with money had them) and expendable income and retirement accounts? Remember that?


Story:



When I started teaching in Richmond, I did something "responsible" and "adult" and opened a 401k. I chunk of my potential beer and shoe money now goes into said 401k in the hopes that when I'm too old to enjoy beer and heels, I will be able to afford them anyway.


I now recieve quarterly (or something) account statements. These are replete with charts, and projections, and estimations and deductions and transfers...


All of which I ignore because I have not one clue what they hell they mean. Don't lie. You don't either.



The other day I found a new one sitting in the stack of mail littering the kitchen counter. I cut directly to the account balance.



I thought they had mailed me a statement for a seven-year-old's savings account.



Truly, I think I had more money in the bank immediately following my First Communion.


However, I am going to give credit where credit is due and pat myself on the back for at least opening the damn thing.


Because when I'm 65, I'm buying myself some PBR in a can and a pair of orthopedic shoes and languishing atop my 12 gold coins on my Craftmatic Adjustable Bed: