Incredible and sometimes edible.

Life is a carton of eggs. It's a matter of how many didn't get crushed by the end of the day that counts.

Some days, the handle of my cheap plastic grocery bag rips and I drop the whole damn carton in the parking garage, all before 9 am. Other days, I have enough to make a souffle. Even though I don't like souffles at all. Most days, I want to hardboil a few and frag a couple of people with 'em. Rarely, but often enough, I run across a rotten one. And sometimes, I find a lucky one with two yolks keeping each other company inside.

Now I'm grossing myself out. But you see what I mean. I think it's a nice sentiment. Because most days, I have enough eggs left to make a pretty decent cheese omelet.





And, much like the picture above, life can become completely disgusting when its over-analyzed and broken down into cross-sectioned diagrams and explanations.

Tonight is Game Night. Jacquie Wacq and Daniel are bringing games, and I'm bringing two shades of wine. I always wanted to have a game night. It sounds fun. I don't really know how to play many games at all. Especially card games, but hey. The only games we even played when I was a kid was Monopoly. And even then, it wasn't very fun because my sister would flick my hard earned real estate off the board when I wasn't looking. Most times, she'd just misdirect my attention, and I'd look back to that evil grin, hearing the familiar sound of a plastic house pecking off the dark wood paneling behind me.

"What was that?" I'd ask. "Nothing," she'd grin back with her jaw cocked slightly to the side, her cheeks shining pink with pride. And I sat there helpless as the little sister. And I don't know about you, but for me, Monopoly is really quite challenging when the rules are constantly rewritten as you play.

For example, until sixth grade, I didn't know it was illegal to get loans from the Monopoly town bank. My sister didn't see anything wrong with self-initiated loans with no collateral to back them up. I knew something was up, even if the money was pink and yellow. Even then, I knew it was a harbinger of bad things to come, and long, painful, self-inflicted, dramatic personal rows to hoe. For all players in the game, ages 21 and up. I was always the one to clean up the game board and scattered game pieces after she'd bought both Boardwalk and Park Place, at which time the Rulebook in Her Head stated clearly that the game was officially over when you bought these two properties. And underneath the board, I'd find scores of hidden cash. It was like unearthing a gangsters vault.

We're different in that way, and in many, many more I'm sure I'd rather not uncover. While she doesn't mind landing in jail every now in then with the roll of the dice, I get excited about collecting two hundred dollars and trying my hand at a little urban redevelopment in the slums of Oriental Avenue. I always wanted to build a little park for the kids.

Well tonight, those kids will get their park, dammit. And they may get a little pizza, too. Speaking of which, I'm off to the store.

I just remembered, I never reported in on the Tomato Festival. Well, Ron summed it up nicely, as we drove 45 minutes to get to a park with not much going on except a travelling petting zoo with a penned llama behind a sign that said "Watch Out: Spitting Zone". I said, "Maybe we're early..." and to that he said, "Or maybe it's just small and lame."

But we bought three bags of tomatoes from an old man in a pickup truck on the side of the road, and they were smashing. I'll bet they were from either Arkansas or China and not the Ripley variety we had travelled for. So like almost every road trip story I can tell, we ended up at a small winery on the other side of the road and bought some muscadine-ish wine named Ripley Ripple.

In the spirit of Fred Sandford, we're going to mix it with champagne and make ChamPipple.

Only other observation: Everyone in Lauderdale County smokes. Even the kids and the dogs. And eventually, even the llamas.