The Parable of the Good Alcoholic.
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I figure there are two ways to burn a bridge: whiskey, and everything else. I admit it: There's something beautiful in a martini glass; something so achingly elegant in the way a champagne flute plays its score. And I know it must be in my blood because I wasn't brought up to drink, it was never glorified, and certainly not encouraged, not in a Baptist household. (At least the Jews in my family drank wine, but I didn't know them very well, and they always seemed to be committing suicide or losing a few children in Oklahoma or some such dramatic thing...
…tomatoes who show no pity.
I'm trying to go green, but the cats won't stay out of my small, slightly ergonomically designed box garden. I've considered several ways to get rid of them: BB guns (but that's hardly a green attitude); a tin pie pan tied to a 2x4 (but that would ruin the aesthetic); placing lime, lemon, and orange rinds around the exterior (my fading grandmother with all her southern gentility and, now, senility, swears this is a feline deterrent - I'm highly doubtful and so have yet to choose this option); or simply leaving Max in the yard (he's a 100+ pound white German...
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