It's That Time Again Kids!

That's right, it's Bloggin Time! I just came back from a not so relaxing week on the East Coast of our wondrous nation for a family reunion. Of course I was saturated in the hugs and cheek bumps of a vast number of strange people who claim to have last seen me when I was "yea high". Of this experience I will say only one thing: too much cologne and perfume makes Kayla a nauseated girl. The highlights were, of course, the precious few moments spent sightseeing where I could ooh and ahh so that I could have an excuse not to make small talk. I saw the monument, Lincoln's Memorial, Veteran's Memorial, World War II Memorial, and every other memorial you can think of in D.C, as well as the future home of Barack Obama. Now that famous place presented a whole series of interesting sites all of it's own. In front of the white house, there is a squadron of no less than one million police and armed guards whose job seems to be to just stand around and look sinister with their arms folded. And fear not American taxpayers... they do this job well. There is also an obviously septuagenarian man sitting in a poster-laden contraption with a speaker blaring out Pink Floyd trying to get the attention of a man who spent a whole week thinking Hurrican Katrina was the name of a new dance craze. Bless him for his perseverance, but I must admit, it seems a bit in vain.There is also the technological wonder of the retracting dividers on Pennsylvania Ave, and the other surrounding streets that allow presidential personnel and the bevvy of law enforcement to enter and escape at will along the streets that us regular American citizens can not be trusted to travel. Another wonder of the Capital Hill District, is the other squadron known as the street vendor. On every corner, of every street, there they are. Every possible monetary exploitation of the U.S capital is available in T-shirt form. And, as a capitalist, I couldn't be more proud. I also got to see quite a bit of the Maryland suburbs... which are vast, mountainous areas, with houses that are seperated by nothing more than a small firewall and a different coat of paint. Oh the curious wonders of modern architecture. We stayed with my second oldest great uncle Richard, whose house is, and I am not exaggerating, a two-story, with a garage and a picket fence. He's a Vietnam veteran and a retired school-teacher. He IS the American we are all supposed to be. A loyal taxpayer, a vicious rule-abider, and he only drinks one beer a night. The trip would have been an amusing character study if it wasn't for the 15 hour car ride, which took the amusement right out of everything. My talkative grandmother, my fellow man-hating aunt, Myla, and my on-my-period younger cousin all shared the cramped quarters of the same car, there and back, in brutal agony. The whole ride both ways I kept saying over and over to myself, "I hate roadtrips, I hate roadtrips, I hate roadtrips". And I'm sure that I was often heard muttering that I would never go on another one again. Ever. Period. Upon return to the dismal casa de granny, I could not breathe the proverbial sigh of relief. As I sat on the dingy couch watching Satellite cable instead of Comcast, hearing the moans and groans of the 17 hundred other people with whom I was forced to share space with, all I could think was "God I wish I was back in Maryland."

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