Picasso.

Let me paint you a picture. A picture of 5 adults driving to Roswell in a silver BMW coupe, with yours truly sitting in the middle back seat. Between two 6'3" behemoths. For 70 miles. I went with my good friend and his parents and cousin/uncle/nephew/some type of older homophobic racially inhibited male family member to Roswell for dinner and a movie. It was a good time. At one point, his dad (who was sitting on my right) asked his mom what was playing on her iPod, and she looked and said some song by someone named "Cleetus." He then said "Isn't that the name of a lady's intimate parts?" to which she responded "No, I don't think so." He says "I was never very good at anatomy" and she replies "I'm very aware."




Oh, what an eventful first 5 miles that was. It was my first parental verbal near-pornographic experience, and I don't think I will ever want to experience that again. After that conversation, the other guy, who's name is Van by the way, starts talking about his various assortment of shirts, one of which has a big "No Homos" on the front. He also swears he has no problem with "the Mexicans" but if you have to say it, you do have a problem! Really? You're named after a car. I could go on about that alone for days.

Easter weekend is coming up. Easter in my family has always been our holiday. Some people are big on Christmas, some 4th of July (hey Neal family!!), but for us, it's Easter. It's always an adventure. Last Easter my grandma got so mad at one of the cousins she hit him over the head with a pot full of chili hot off the stove. I can't wait to see how she tops this one! I'm sure she's been brainstorming.