My father is a PBS addict. I hear from Miles that this can be common ailment among fathers. Every Thursday night during high school, he and I had a television power struggle. I, naturally, wanted to watch NBC's Must See TV. I've always been one to follow commands.

Dad would kick and scream for his right to watch Outdoor Wisconsin, though he would start snoring about 10 minutes into the program—only to wake abruptly if you so much as brushed your fingertips against the remote.

Not much has changed with my father. One can, perhaps, give him kudos for his steadfastness. Meanwhile, I have stopped watching television nearly all together—aside from the occasional Golden Girls re-run, obviously. Last night, being Thursday, my father's calculating eyes alighted upon my position on the couch as he lunged, dived, and rolled for the remote in a farcical parody (I suppose that phrase is a touch redundant) of stealthy operation.

I looked on, humored. "You've got no competition from me, Old Man," I mused as I watched him straighten, remote tucked to his chest. He flattened himself against the wall, coming to the tips of his toes as he seemed to Riverdance to the couch.

I found it thoroughly delightful to watch the program this time.

Yes, that was sarcasm.

I thought it curious that the featured ice fisherman was wearing blaze orange.

In one segment, a man, probably in his early 30's, was crying brokenly as the camera zoomed in on a yellowing, black and white picture of horse. I added my voice to the melodramatic soundtrack. In a poor Laura Petrie (of "Oh...Rooooooooob!" fame) imitation I cried, "It was the best horse there ever was!"

Mom, quick to wit, replied in the same poor imitation, "The horse got shot so I had to break his leg! Ohhhhhh! *sobs*"

With my father, last night:

(Dad)  "Where are Gramma's cookies!?"

(Me)  "If the containers in the kitchen are empty, I guess they're gone."

(Dad)  "YOU MADE MORE. I SAW."

(Me)  "Those are for Miles."

(Dad)  "Where are they?"

(Me)  "They're not for you."

(Dad)  "WHERE. ARE. THEY!?"

(Me)  "THEY'RE. NOT. FOR. YOU."

His inner diva came out then, as he stomped from the room and sulked for the rest of the evening.

With my brother, last night:

(Charlie)  "Say, you're kind of a shrimp, aren't ya?"

(Me)  "I don't think that's the case at all."

(Charlie)  "No?"

(Me)  "No, that's you, if anything. When you were young, I'd always say to myself, 'Now, there's one shellfish little boy.'"

I was really the only one who found that funny...but I giggled at it all night.

With my mother, weeks ago:

(Mom)  "Your hair is getting so dark!"

(Me)  "Don't I know it—isn't it depressing?"

(Mom)  "Not at all; I think it suits you."

(Me)  "Naturally you'd say that; I'm slowly adopting your coloring."

(Mom)  "You've never forgiven me for giving you that mismatched eye, have you?"

(Me)  "..."

(Mom)  "But it makes you unique!"

(Me)  "You probably had the hiccups while the genes were deciding what should go where, heh. My left eye is a Michelangelo and my right is friggin' a Picasso!"

For the rest of that afternoon, she was unable to look at my face without erupting in laughter.

With my husband, yesterday:

(Miles)  "Oh, by the way, the Upton Photography site is basically right on. They want the camera replaced with something non-photography and it's done."

(Me)  "...Replaced with something non-photography!? Well what the heck!?"

(Miles)  "I thought you'd get a kick out of that, lol..."

(Me)  "No wonder this client has been a nightmare! I've been working on the assumption that photographers would want to advertise that they take pictures! What was I thinking!?"

(Miles)  "Yeah, that wasn't too smart, Honey. Hah! I love you!"

Let's just say that he's lucky that he's already my alpha and my omega.

My brother, fellow Scandinavian—someone who actually knows what fattigmand is—is wrought with Italian blood. In an impressive show of mozzarella and marinara, he fashioned a pizza of such delectability that I am left wordless in its wake.

HAH. Wordless. Riiiiight. You wish!

My vigilant nose caught the divine scent upon the air. I stole into the kitchen. Peering into the aromatic oven, I captured the visual feast:

Catching the dying embers of my camera's flash, Charlie rushed to the room. "Pictures? Of my masterpiece? Yes, Yes! I must document this creation!" he must have thought. I willingly obliged.

It was a two-man job to transfer the pizza from the pan. Unfortunately, all we had to work with was a word geek and an Italian-Norwegian. The job still got done—with the application of cuss words and burned fingers. Ah, but such is the price of greatness.

It was almost too attractive to eat. Almost. We inched the pizza cutter closer to the pie. This next step must come to pass, though we loathed to destroy such a treasure.

Consulting my thesaurus...
Heaven: (n) ecstasy, rapture, rhapsody, bliss, paradise, Charlie's pizza.

Yes, I had a piece. I couldn't resist. You can't know the siren song that this pizza sang. As if the golden glory of the breading wasn't enough, the Italian-Norwegian whiz kid stuffed the crust!

I was not a happy camper. He wove that tale of irresistible proportions purely to break me—and break me, he did. "Look at the cheese—just the way you like it! You know you want some, Laur!" And I did. I partook of the bubbling beauty.

Below, you see that my ambivalence was well documented. The impatience on my face reflects my fall from dietary responsibility, my deviation from self control...and the knowledge that I would do it all over again if the opportunity presented itself.

Time to get back on the treadmill.

Conversationally last night, I told Miles that I updated mlphillips.

"Just so you know, I updated the site just now...wrote about the cookies I made for you."


"Yummy!"


"I whipped it up in about 10 minutes including picture re-sizing and creating a recipe card...so it's probably more of a ramble than anything."


"Eh...that's you. You ramble."


"Hey!"


"It's cute. It's the you everybody knows and loves."


"Hmm..."

I imagine he patted himself on the back, took a swig of Pepsi and large bite of pizza, then sighed around a full mouth, "Nice save, Miles."