Pigs in a Blanket

What better way to bond with Mama Ranger than to roll up my Nanette Lepore and stick my hands in a bowl of raw beef, pork, rice and onion. That's right, people, Sunday after church means PIGS IN A BLANKET and we're not talking the woolly kind. In Polish, they're called golibki. Use that glottal.

One bottle of wine and 40 piggies later (wrapped in cabbage, not that pansy ass dough some people use), a few choice nuggets rose to the surface. Here are my favorites:

"I was afraid my son might have been your mid-life crisis, but now that I see you together I can tell you really love each other. As for kids, don't worry about it...he doesn't really like them anyway."

"So what's he like to sleep with?" She meant "is he still a restless sleeper?" not what I thought she meant so I think my answer of "he's the best sex of my life" was probably inappropriate, but hey, the fumes of boiling cabbage had me a tad heady.

After I politely asked if I could use the washer and dryer because I was running out of underwear, she replied, "Of course, help yourself...I'm just surprised you wear underwear, being a free spirit and all." Why are people always surprised I wear underwear? What is it about me that screams, "pantyless?"

And then she paid me the ultimate compliment: "You're really good at rolling these piggies." I credit this to a childhood of tamale making and burrito rolling, skinny fingers and a wicked bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

Bottom line. I love this woman. She's funny, honest, and a bit of a smart-ass.

So much more to tell and a few pictures, too. But here in J-town, wi-fi has not yet arrived so I'm hunkered in the park with crack dealers and ne'r do goods skimming a signal. Better go before Vice picks me up.

I'll write again from the airport.