Saturday, November 26, 2005
Thanksgiving: Fun!
My north Alabama heritage. One day, one-third of this will be mine.
This describes Clurg's attitude for the past forty-eight hours.
Clurg photographs self with the night-vision setting on our camera, which is totally unnecessary.
My nephew turned Clurg against procreation. I think we can all see why.
This is how I looked before I was filled with shame, for the poop story my mom chose to tell was the one we call The Disaster of '92. The Disaster began with a reasonably priced Mexican meal, my then-three-year-old brother, and a gas station bathroom. It ends with an enormous quantity of human waste everywhere but the gas station toilet, paper towels, disinfectant, and trash bags bought from the gas station itself, and my brother riding home standing in the back seat of my mom's car, holding on to the headrest. It is important for me to clarify one thing; I did not lock my brother in that bathroom and leave him. The door had an automatic lock on it. I had no choice. And I couldn't just walk out with the key, I had to turn it back in. And I was only ten and could not really deal with that amount of poop.
Clurg munches it up. The poop stories are about to begin.
Clurg asks why I'm taking so many pictures. He is so cranky because he has a premonition that soon the family stories involving poop will start.
Uncle Erik and Hazel, possibly the best dog I've ever met; two New Orleans refugees making a new life in Jasper, Alabama. You can see the sadness in Hazel's eyes.
Our dog can be very cute sometimes. Her name is Lucy. We call her Stinky Lu.
While my sister and I carried no less than fifty platters from my grandmother's house to my mother's, Clurg held down the tailgate and kept our dog company.
