Death by gas station.

Heaven, I'm in Heaven,
and I'm so full now that I can hardly speak!
And the farts come blasting out between my cheeks
while we're out this evening, eating just like freaks.

Sorry, couldn't resist. We've just come from another full, rich day. A trip to the dump (wahoo), breakfast, knitting (me), History Channel (Himself), a visit to Mom S, two hours at Half Price Books, a tour of Himself's old stomping grounds, and dinner at Tony's Villa Capri.

I am never going to Olive Garden again. There is no need, now that we have Tony.

Thanks to my compulsive habit of knitting in public, I have managed to recruit a few more soon-to-be knitters! Captain Oblivious seems to be keeping a low profile, so maybe these new folks will come around more than once...

The trip to the synagogoue (Or should that be Temple? Help me out here...) was wonderful. My mom especially enjoyed the avent of food before and after the service. Rabbi Levin was very helpful in answering our questions, and all of the members of the community were as friendly as could be. I loved the music! All in Hebrew, very little of which I understood, but all with the most uplifting feeling. I learned about yahzreit, which I've probably just misspelled and which is the practice of singing a song to celebrate life on the one-year anniversary of the death of a loved one. Kaddish, if I remember right. Everyone put their arms around each other and swayed back and forth. I want somebody to do that for me someday.

I have decided to commit murder, by the way. Our managing editor (Remember him?), the King of Dorks, is screwing with my column. First it's a severe word limit, then he takes away my paycheck, now he's trying to change my writing style. This includes replacing my headlines, which I choose for a reason. I have translated the phrase, "The managing editor is a complete @#$%&!" into Latin. It will be appearing on a T-shirt in the near future.

Speaking of headlines, you've probably been scanning this post in vain for a clue as to why I called it "Death by gas station". Your patience is about to be rewarded. During our tour of the Land of Nostalgia, we stopped at a Quik Trip. If you're raising an eyebrow, it is a big drink bar with a petrol tank attached. Inside was a large machine calling itself a blender. By removing a foil-topped cup from the freezer below, you can set it into the machine, push a button, and be rewarded with an honest-to-God milkshake. From a gas station.

There are two problems with this. One, the milkshake was rather large, which means that in addition to magnificent manicotti, I am also sloshing several ounces of chocolate shake around my kidneys. Urgh. Problem two, it was extra yummy, which means I'm going to be watching for Quik Trips everywhere I go. I am doomed.