Perforation Problems

I've never been on a true road trip, not the kind where you're on the road for days traveling long distances, or where you stop in little towns to see giant balls of yarn or visit whaling museums. Not the kind where you have adventures and drive with the windows down and the radio blaring. Road trips to me are about the trip itself, not wherever you're going—you're taking your time, enjoying the sights, exploring the route. I have gone on long car trips, though. Those are different. They're about the destination, and the trip itself is something annoying you have to get through to get wherever you're going.  Georgia to Indiana, Indiana to Georgia. Indiana to New York, New York to Indiana. These are the routes I've ridden over and over. As a kid I built myself a comfort station in the back seat of our family van, my dog Max on the floor, my pillow against the window, snacks in my bag, my feet up against the pile of luggage surrounding me like a cocoon. My...

Growing up, my brothers and I lived in constant trepidation over whether or not our mom was going to flip out about the house being messy. You'd think that would cause us to take some preventative measures, like maybe picking up our shit. Nah. We just kept our eyes open and ears tuned to signs that Mom was about to erupt, and then we'd disappear. I know now that a lot of my mom's anxiety over the house being clean came from her own mother. Grandma Pam cared about appearances, about presentation. Every time my mother left the house as a kid, Grandma told her to "act like a lady." She had the perfect shoes to go with every outfit, with a handbag to match and the appropriate length coat. And the Grandma I knew was always on the move, bustling around the house straightening and organizing and wrapping presents with perfect corners. While we played cards or read on the lounge chairs at the lake she'd be weeding or doing dishes or straightening the placemats we...