Bah humbug

I cannot, for the life of me, get into the blogging spirit lately. Maybe because I have nothing to write about? Nah, that can't be the reason. I never had anything to write about before, but I just kept on keeping on.

Today is beautiful...the shit that dreams are made of. Really.

I spent my weekend in mourning. Why, you ask? Because I should have been getting shitfaced at the Radisson with Aurora and Red and Gretchen, who, by the way, has taken back the breakup. This toying of the emotions...I will not stand for it! It's going to take something big for her to win my heart back. There are other women out there who will kiss me when they're too drunk to remember it.

Anyway, surprise, I went to Tower this weekend. That was the third time in two weeks, people. Lame assery at its finest. Tower is addictive at this time of the year. The weather is beautiful, the tourists haven't yet swarmed Lake Vermilion and surrounding areas, and those fucking gigantic pine beetles aren't flitting about, landing in my hair.

I may not have done much while I was up there, but I DID go to church for the second week in a row. Yes, there is a parking spot in purgatory with my name all over it.

Also, I went to visit Grandma, who is in rough shape. She took a nasty fall this week, resulting in a black eye/temple/forehead, a deep gash in her hand, a massive bruise that spans almost the entire width of her back, and a broken fingernail. She blessed me with the personalized tour-o-injuries as soon as I got there. Mom said it's a good thing she didn't hurt her ass, because she would not have hesitated to drop trou and show me.

Today was one of those rare days when Grandma launched into stories about her childhood, which I think is GREAT. She grew up in Soudan less than a block from the house she lives in now, and her family had pigs, cows, and a horse. And when she was a small child, she contracted diptheria and was quarantined in a hotel, located where the Catholic church in Tower currently sits. And her dad was such a mean, abusive, drunk bastard that her mother spent many hours hiding from him in the hay shed. And the gypsies used to steal the vegetables from their garden. And when the raggedy looking Indians (who now own EVERYTHING!) came knocking on the door on New Year's Day, they gave them a loaf of bread, rather than a dollar, because those Indians would run right down to the liquor store with a dollar. And, I hate to say it, Uncle John was right. We really should write a book about her life.

Every time I spend a day or two in Tower, I get more and more excited for the weekend of the fishing opener. Aurora and I have plans to go to Tower, primarily to sit in the bars all day and get really good and messed up. This is fun for a few reasons. First, when is drinking not fun? Second, the residents of Tower and Soudan are typically shocked to see me in a bar because, OH MY GOD, I was always the innocent do-gooder who avoided booze like the plague all through high school. Third, have you seen the way people in Tower react when Aurora walks into a bar there? No? You really should see it. CLASSIC. I can hardly wait.

Last week, I had dinner with a very nice young man. It may have even been a date. I'd love to share details, but what if someday he runs across this little public diary of mine and learns that I think he's absolutely adorable, and I squealed like a 14 year old girl when I got into my car, and I repeatedly wrote his name and drew little hearts around it on the inner cover on my Trapper Keeper? That would be embarrassing, right? I'm playing it cool.

Today's dinner: Easter candy and Miller Lite, served room temperature, outside on my ghetto Walmart lawn chairs because wow, have I mentioned how beautiful today is? You're all invited!