When I visit my parents, this is my spot – to think, to drink cups of coffee, to just enjoy the outside and the utter peace and quiet. This hulking contraption traveled with them from Texas – hence the Lone Star – to their current location, and I’m glad it did. When I took the plunge to move away from New Jersey and settle in Atlanta, I took a detour to Mom and Dad’s. I spent a week with them to decompress from my 6-year adventure up North. And in that week, God knows how many of my tears fell on that splintering wood. I just know that now, every time I come back home, I have to spend at least a little time in my spot. I feel good there.
The first morning we were all together last week, my brother was futzing on his iPad at the kitchen table. Thanks to him, we were introduced to Foodonmydog.com – because what better way to bond with family over breakfast than a website dedicated to pictures of placing food on a dog? Duh. And hilarious. My favorites were: Peeps, corn on the cob, pancakes, and the baguette.
Next up, dammit, you know my mom had to pull out the baby pictures. Of course she did. No, I’m not posting any of me. Shaddup. But in the same gallon Ziploc of stray pictures we were sifting through, we found these vintage 45s: Elvis: You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me and Patch it Up. Kenny Rogers (And the First Edition): Tell it all Brother. The Doors: Hello, I Love You. And Bob Dylan: Lay Lady Lay. Holy hell, my parents had good taste!
While everyone else had carb-y goodness breakfast items every day, I stuck to my Paleo guns and cooked up a shit-ton of pork (and some egg whites… kinda like a Diet Coke with a jumbo theater buttered popcorn. Totally balances out, yes?). Anyway. There was leftover ham and almost a pound of bacon hanging out in the fridge. They were lonely. They needed each other. Much porky goodness was consumed. But really? I needed some comfort, people. This was my first Thanksgiving without ANY of the following: mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, mac and cheese, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, apple pie, cool whip or ice cream. What I did have: ham, turkey and my spaghetti squash bake. (Recipe here.) It was weird. But I’m proud I held strong. Oof.
My tweet about what you see below: “First thought: these still exist?!? Second thought: Oooh. ‘Exotic condom’…” Truly, why are these still around? Even if they are in bathrooms of a gas station in the middle of nowhere, you mean to tell me this is still a sound business choice from a revenue standpoint? I can see maaaaaaybe in the men’s room. But the ladies room? C’MON. Somehow I don’t think any homegirl truly concerned with her man’s climax control problems would be purchasing items of this caliber to alleviate the issue. Who knows, maybe the exotic condoms are fun… and what exactly would declare a condom ‘exotic’? I bet it smells like a coconut and a pineapple had a tryst with some spermicide. Isn’t that lovely imagery? Way to go, Peach. Keepin’ it classy.
Oh hell, I can’t leave this post with the taste of coco-pine-a-spermicide in your mouths.
Here’s a Peach baby picture.