Make that heart attack land, actually. Seriously, my parents have NOT STOPPED COOKING. And who am I to hurt my mother’s feelings by refusing her delicious desserts? That would be heartless, and that’s not how I roll.

It’s a drag being on dialup (and realizing I forgot my Bloglines login), but I’ve made huge progress on the Irish hiking scarf for Doug, finished a memoir, upgraded Firefox and installed Thunderbird on my parents’ computer (no progress on the one scrap of malware that’s hamstrung Spybot, however), and gotten halfway through a novel. (I’d better pace myself, as I only have a Bust and a Tin House left.) I’m calling the last meal of the day “supper” without thinking about it, drinking “pop,” and chatting with cashiers like there’s no tomorrow. I can’t seem to turn in at 9:30 p.m., though, and god help me if I start finding Jeff Foxworthy talented. If that happens, take me out back and put me out of my delirium. And make an example of me for the good of the youth of America.

Our visit here in July seems to have left an impression on my mom, as she’s been brewing real Columbian coffee and not Folgers since I got here — and the wine selection at dinner (oops, I mean supper) has been rather delightful. We heathen liberal conspirators from the East must be good for something after all.

OK, I’d best be making my hair big and putting on my acid-washed jeans and see what’s happening at Warsaw’s night spot and all-around shitkicker/biker bar, Rex’s Rendezvous.