the sloppy copy

As a child of about eight or nine, my brother was a member of the Afghan Olympic Archery team.

No, not really. But this was an key component of last night’s dream.

(Incredibly) sadly, the rest of the details are fuzzy at best. I can normally recall the sequence of events in vivid detail, but a dose of diphenhydramine citrate before bedtime seems to have muddled the specifics. I mean, Brother and I were part of some sort of Olympic planning committee,* and I think the Olympics in question were being held in some sort of college student union building, and Dave Franco and I agreed there was nothing good to eat in the cafeteria, and one of my coworkers was hanging out on the stairs of the union doing crossword puzzles and completely ignoring me which made me very sad, but the rest? No clue.

* His former Olympic-athlete life being the “in” we needed for the committee, of course.

Sometimes, a girl wants Chinese take out, but just a little bit. Like a half order of shrimp fried rice. That’s all.

But sometimes, the Chinese takeout place has some kind of thing where there’s a minimum $5 charge to use a credit card. And your half order of shrimp fried rice is $4.95.

And also, you have only $4.25 in cash.

So sometimes you just look at the menu on the counter before you, point randomly to something else, and say “I’ll take this too, then.”

Then – while the employees are making your food and yelling angrily into the phone and at each other in what I assume is, after all, Chinese – you sometimes start to worry. What did I actually order? I think it had one of those red pepper icons next to it. Will my tongue fall off when I try to eat it? Is it noodles? Is it rice? Wait, is that my order? Why are they putting so much food into my bag?

So then the lady who cooked your food puts a gigantic paper sack on the counter and gives you a “Uh, are you going to take this or not?” look so you scoop up 45 metric tons of food, packaged in several containers, and head on your merry way.

Still a bit concerned, for the record.

So then you get home and change out of work clothes that will forever smell of garlic and vegetable bouillon and unwrap your Mystery Meal.

And sometimes, you are greeted with literally mouthwatering aromas of garlic and yumminess and kind of squeal in delight at the sight of literally mouthwatering broccoli florets the size of your fist in some kind of delicious-looking sauce.

And sometimes blindly pointing at something on the menu turns out happily ever after.

*from the classic Bob Newhart Show episode “Over The River and Through the Woods.” (1975) – one of the funniest things I have ever seen on television. In. My. Life. I tried to find a good link, but failed. Apologies.

So first I have to climb up this 500-foot rock wall and now this asshole expects me to carry him down? Fine, fine. Whatever, jerk. So I piggyback him all the way down. God, my back hurts.

But wait – this was a paved road before, right? The first time I went up here, I was going back to the house of that family I babysat for in seventh grade. I mean, the road kept getting steeper and steeper until it became the vertical climb, but this schmoe was definitely not here the first time around.

So why did I climb back down, only to climb back up again? And again?

Fifth time’s the charm. Or something. On the fifth try, I find Mr. Lazy Ass.

Mom and Dad are waiting for me at the bottom. Mom’s packed my bags for summer camp. Pretty spectacular of her, really, but I decide that I should probably take a peek.

She’s packed my clothes inside a duffel bag big enough to comfortably contain a family of four. I dig through the contents. Sweatshirt. Sweatshirt. Sweatshirt. Sweatshirt. I am becoming irritated. Surely one sweatshirt is enough? And where are my pants? Oh, good, you’ve packed all of my thong underwear. Thanks, Mom.

Why are we in the checkout lane of Target?

I think I need some gum.

Those men were totally following me. I think they want to know what’s in the duffel bag. Just be cool. Don’t make eye contact.

Then I woke up.

Happy Best Freaking Day Of The Year, y’all!

No joke. I’d gladly trade Christmas, my birthday and anything else just to get more holidays with fireworks, cookouts, baseball games, parades and and an overwhelming love of my country.

I love, love, love, love it.

July 4, 2009: Baby brudder and the snakes.

But be safe, y’all. That bucket next to Brudder should be filled with water, not more fireworks.