March 2006

When Nichole and I woke up at my parents’ house yesterday morning, they were outside digging a hole for my mom’s pond. My dad was either taking a pick axe to it, or my mom was sitting in the tiny hole, pretending to be in a canoe. I don’t know that they knew we could see them. Nichole said something to Dad about a job well done.

Dad: She thinks I’m digging a hole for a pond, but you know what I’ll use it for.
Nichole: Larry!
Dad: No, it’s not what you think. I mean that when she dies I’m going to throw her body in the hole.

That was the most he spoke during our few days there that he didn’t mention “That 70s Show.”

Seeing all of Susan’s pals on their front porches holding plates was so much cuter than reading a book about terrorism.

They are not as eager for tonight’s Polenta Parade.

She made individual chocolate mousse cakes that are so good I can’t stop hitting her in the face.

Do you think everyone in England still knows the social dances because at some point the entire population has been in film adaptations of Jane Austen novels?

I hope so.