I haven't really mentioned all of the preparation activity going on at our house the past few weeks. Tomorrow is our 3rd annual Cheshire Bluegrass BBQ, which is an event that's been in the works for some time now. (Previously Previously-er.). Every year, this event gets a little bigger, a little more exciting. We add a new event (this year it's three-legged & sack races, using the 50 burlap potato sacks I ordered from a farm producer specially for the party) and increase the amount of food and of course, the size of the pig. This year we've had something north of 150 people RSVP, including 60 or so kids 6 and under. Why do we do this to ourselves you ask? Because we love the bluegrass music and various porcine-infused culinary delights that is Southern cuisine. And pain. Obviously, we love the pain. Plus, we get to introduce a whole bunch of British folk to the joy of grits. Which is reason enough in itself, if you ask me. Thank heavens my bride is a natural project manager and obsessive note taker. When it came time to order the pig this year, she whipped out her notes from last year's event with the quantities, prices, and suppliers used, to ensure we had everything we needed in one phone call. Her background as an analytical scientist shows through weeks before the party, when she starts putting together an excel plan of everything that has to happen. She spends hours muttering over her computer, crafting the ideal plan for effecient execution of massive quantities of fried food and roast pig. She's got the next 36 hours planned out in 15 minute increments, maximizing the number of cupcakes or corn pones we can get out of our two ovens in a way that would make Volkswagen manufacturing production planners sweaty with Germanic lust. Fortunately, my Bride realized long ago that my operating style is much different from hers. She is Otto von Bismarck to my Jed Clampett. Everything will get done, but I may have to sit by the front door and whittle a spell while I think things over. And maybe take a dip in the concrete swimmin' hole. She just hands me my list of things to get done a couple of days ahead and leaves me to it. My jobs this year, as always, includes setting up things, as well as sorting out the meat and beer and various vendors (bouncy castle, the band, and the pig delivery guy, of course). I have been getting in the mood by listening to bluegrass on my iPod non-stop for the past several days. Note: I have 943 different bluegrass songs on my iPod. This does not count the separate Old Time or Bluegrass Gospel categories. If I played the 943 songs without interuption, it would last for 43 hours, 24 minutes and 17 seconds. That has just got to make me the coolest person you know. By the end of these events, we're always exhausted, but in the best way. I admit, I'm looking forward to this year's bbq more than ever. This will, of course, all come out in the Critter's therapy later in life. No doubt she will blame her ills on parents who would forego the normal Princess or Dora birthday parties in favor of banjos, fiddles and whole cooked pigs. I'm guessing that it's not your typical Queen's School for Girls birthday fare.

"Did you see that? "What?" "Your daughter just opened one of the french doors, and then walked straight into the other closed one." "Are you laughing at your daughter's pain?" "No. I'm just saying." "And what are you saying?" "Her, apple. You, tree." "Mm. Yeah. Ok."