2003-06-16 - 9:03 p.m.

I'm domestic. This morning, Erik and I provided the Father�s Day festivities. I made banana bread, King�s Hawaiian french toast, many a mimosa, and my new breakfast specialty: Dirty Eggs. (They�re filthy.) Not only were the festivities a great excuse to conduct a "deep cleaning" of our apartment, it was an opportunity to discuss the politics of Nascar, my dad and brother�s favorite topic. (The two of them are very much like Sanford and Son.) Any rendezvous with my dad ends with him insisting someone take something from his van, which is packed to the brim with crap he collects. He�s a gatherer. We were offered child�s swim trucks, an Apple 2E, a big box of nails, and several other "treasures." We passed on all of it, which is difficult because he�s quite a foister. He really sells that crap.

Then we were off to my mom�s to celebrate (Step)Father�s Day. When I was preparing a delightful tray of Das Grandma�s Glorious Strawberry Pie, I noticed a ridiculous CD on her kitchen counter: Our President�s Prayer Team. It was a CD of music to listen to while praying for George W. Bush. I can�t believe such a CD exists. And I can�t believe the woman who gave me life owns it. Why!?

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