Wow, I disappear from the internet for a while, and everyone assumes I am dead. I appreciate your e-mails, calls, comments, and texts, but in the words of Pearl Jam, “I…oh…I…I’m still alive!”

To be honest, I just haven’t been online. I realize that this may come as a shock, as most of you probably were under the impression that I had a mouse surgically implanted into my hand. (I do, but I can turn it off with my pinky finger.)

It’s been relatively busy in the Trance house. The J-Man has been tearing in and out of doors, helping the kids in the cul-de-sac blow up the neighborhood with firecrackers, and making good use of the kid down the street’s pool; and B the cute geeky math tutor is coming twice per week to get him up to speed on all things algebraic.

I have been haunting the local bar, working out like a freak, and planning the family vacation that is approaching all too rapidly.

So here’s the deal with this vacation: We are renting a cottage at Indiana Beach (if you live in the Midwest, you’ve seen the commercials, which boast, “There’s more than corn in Indiana!” I disagree.), which is a couple hours away. This small cottage is going to house me, my mom, the J-Man, my stepdad, my sister, and all three of her children.

Scariest vacation EVER. For one thing, my stepdad hates children and cannot be in close proximity to them for more than fifteen minutes without yelling. For another thing, did I mention that this cottage was small? It is.

I’ve been going to Indiana Beach since I was a kid, and it’s kind of a good time for a kid. There is a beach (shocker) and rides and waterslides and a particularly scary haunted house and a big old boat to ride on and lots of junk food like elephant ears and chocolate-covered frozen bananas with nuts (mmmmmm) and an arcade, so I think the kids and myself and my sister are going to lose our damn minds, but I think that my mom and my stepdad are going to be crabby and tired and therefore big old Debbie Downers.

We shall see. My goal is to force this chickenshit J-Man onto a rollercoaster. This sounds cruel, but I just know that if he ever actually got on one, he’d love it, it’s just taking that first scary step.

I’m not above using duct tape, people.

I missed a large part of July fourth’s festivities, which included a parade and a festival due to a Very Icky Stomach, but I rallied in time to blow shit up in the driveway.

And isn’t that what it’s all about? Celebrating our independence by blowing shit up?

If you’ve been reading this page for any length of time, you know how I feel about fireworks. Stupid, expensive, dangerous, dumb-ass waste of cash.

Still, I have this thirteen-year old who LOVES to blow shit up, and when he looked at me with huge brown eyes and said, “Seventy-five percent off today,” I relented. So we bought some stupid fireworks, pretty benign stuff like the cones that shower pretty sparks and the little spinny ones and some smoke bombs (I was very firm – nothing that simply goes BOOM), and I let him light them with one of those long butane lighters as long as he wore his glasses and ran like hell after the wick was lit.

He did run like hell. I think he has a pretty healthy fear of the things thanks to my near-constant You Will Lose An Eye or Blow Your Arm Off speeches.

Let’s see, what else is new. I’m dating someone, and I’m not telling you all a thing. La di da di da.

More next time.

Happy Tuesday.

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