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Kim: I had no idea you were reading! That makes me happy!

Dixie: You can always send me love. And absinthe pralines.

Andrea: Hey! You! Good to see you!

Lin: No cleaning lady. Just me and my dishpan hands.

Mina: Yeah, you're a lurker. If I haven't heard from you in, oh, a month or two, you return to your lurker status. Didn't you read the rules? Oh, wait ... there are no rules. Never mind!

Haus: I took a peek at your blog last night. You grew up in the opposite direction from KC than me. Did that make sense?

Ragged: Wow. I'm the inspiration.

Miss Banshee: I'm working on getting the archives back up. They'll be gradually appearing. And if they don't, feel free to give me a nudge.

Big Daddy B: You missed your chance to see my tits nine years ago, and I can guarantee I will not be drinking enough tequila to return to that condition anytime in this lifetime.

And everyone else: I love you and want to have your babies. And if you get me drunk enough, I promise I'll show you my boobs.

Now back to regular bidness...

We made it home from KC relatively unscathed. I'm a bit sad that Kara and I drove all the way across the Big MO just to go to Barnes & Noble and Target. But, it was the massive four-story Barnes & Noble on the lovely Country Club Plaza, which had the new issues of Brain, Child and Paste that I haven't been able to find in St. Louis. And the Target was actually a Super Target. If you are lucky enough to live in a magical land where Target sells groceries, please don't take it for granted. Think of us poor folks on the banks of the River Styx, doomed to a life without frozen Southwestern lasagna and raspberry white chocolate breakfast cereal, and be thankful.

Clara "Thank God I'm a Country Girl" Jane enjoyed her trip to Mimi and Papa's. We met them at the closest interstate exit to my hometown, an exit where the only businesses are a year-round fireworks stand and a porn superstore. And you know that, as soon as the child was out of the car, Kara had to go buy some M-80s and a few issues of Spank Weekly. No, not really. But she did want some fireworks. But who doesn't?

On our way back to St. Louis, we stopped in my hometown to get Clara Jane, since my truck was already full of porn and fireworks. Kara has now experienced The Wrath of the Wild Dingo, who attached himself to her before she was out of the truck. She also got to meet a load of my relatives. My aunt and uncle are in the finishing stages of building a new house down the road from my parents, so we paid them a little visit.

Before I go any further, let me tell you a bit about one of my aunts. She's not good with haircolor. Not good at all. She tends to grab whatever dye catches her fancy. You know how the instructions tell you to discard any unused portion of the hair dye? She doesn't. When she has enough dye, she mixes them all together and uses that. Why yes, she is that cheap. Her hair color rarely veers into the Manic Panic hues (unfortunately - that would be so rockin'). Instead, it's always a different shade of not-found-in-nature brown. Sometimes with green overtones. Sometimes purplish. Occasionally ashen. The only constant: it's bad.

When Kara and I pulled into the driveway of the new house (built by the hair-aunt's sister) and in the distance I saw a woman with slightly brassy white hair. Who is this? One of the new neighbors? A stray little old woman who's wandered away from her home? Wait ... no.

That can't be. That's not my aunt.

Um, wait. Yeah. It is my aunt.

What the hell?

Did she get frightened or struck by lightening?

Oh crap! She sees us. Must ... close ... unhinged ... jaw ... and ... pretend ... nothing's ... wrong.

Goddammit, why didn't Mom warn me about this? Thank God and Super Target that we saw her from a distance, giving me time to adjust and accept the albino possum that has died on my aunt's head.

I don't think I was successful in conversing with my aunt without staring at the white-blonde atrocity perched on her head. Luckily, she's pretty oblivious. This is the same aunt who thinks my husband Brian's name is Byron, and seven years of being corrected hasn't changed that. So I doubt she noticed that I was staring at her head and weeping.

When we were leaving, I immediately called my mom. "Why in the hell didn't you tell me about her hair? Why? I needed some warning for that!"

"Well, it's better than all those shades of brown she usually has," Mom said.

No. The brown was ugly, but it never struck anyone blind. My eyes hurt. I don't think I want to see ever again after seeing that.

And now you understand why I have been feeling so touchy lately.