“I’m not responsible for your experience of my work.”

That’s what I said to my father last weekend.  When I stormed (YES!  Hurricane Joanne RETURNS) out of the house.

I’m not usually quite so explosive.  But I think the Real Housewives are beginning to rub off on me.  Soon I’ll be getting Botox injections in my living room.

What’s that you say?  I don’t have a living room?

Minor detail.

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[Updated from the Recipe Archives]

About five months ago, in the midst of the aftermath of a minor surgery that my brother had (he’s fine…fully recovered. It really was incredibly minor.), I received a phone call from him.

Slightly loopy from the painkillers (or from whatever drugs he took to sedate him enough to deal with being in the house with my parents for 24 hours a day. Every day. For two weeks. They did say the pain would go away after a few days. But wrote him a prescription for almost a month’s worth of Percoset. Talk about foresight.). He jumped right into the real reason for his call.

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