Another bacon roast

This past weekend I went to another Bacon Roast. The tradition is definitely growing on me, just not the bacon.

This time there was an added twist though. We had polka-type music playing on the boombox for most of the day, and then for a little while Dan's uncle played the accordion! It was pretty cool. No dancing, for shame.

Here's the thing about bacon roasts: remember the line from Good Will Hunting about the caramels? Something about how eating caramels is "as arbitrary as drinking coffee"? Bacon roasts are as arbitrary as roasting puffed sugar and eating it squashed with melted chocolate between pieces of graham. It isn't about the roasting part, it's about spending time together and telling stories and re-telling, re-telling, re-telling the same stories from the last roast and getting bug bites and ketchup on your jeans and campfire smoke in your eyes. "Smoke follows beauty," right?

It's the re-telling of the stories that kills me. Seems like every time we all get together, I hear the same stories again and again. "Don't touch my bed I peed in it!" A small child yelled these infamous words, and as an adult this person still can't live it down. Really, a little kid wetting the bed is worth 20-whatever years of joyful re-telling? At every gathering I get to hear the story like it happened last week and not two decades ago. Stop the presses! Nothing new happened! And if you don't laugh, everyone acts all wounded and razzed.

Gosh, nothing brings out the sarcasticness in me like repetition: "How funny! I've never heard that story before!" And the person telling the story will look shocked and say, "Really?" And I'll say, "Oh no wait. I've heard it at every gathering before. (cue: work laugh)."

I should probably work on the nasty sarcasm, shouldn't I? Note the ambiguity: work on suppression of sarcasm, or (evil smile) liberation of sarcasm? Muahahhaha!

Liberation, always liberation.

I don't mean to be so bitchy. I'm sure it was very funny when it was a current event, and undoubtedly for a couple of years afterward. Probably even worth telling me (you know . . . once). But seriously, do I have to worry about my someday-kids hearing this story? Doesn't there come a time when the stupid stuff you did as a child just get let go? Am I crazy? We don't tell stupid family stuff at any of my family gatherings.

Probably because I never did anything stupid as a child.

Woop, there goes that sarcasm again. You're free!

I just had a flash. We just watched Miss Potter, with Renee Zellweger. Ever seen it? I'm guessing not; it wasn't a huge box office smash. Which is a shame because, for the record, I thought it was a fantastic movie. It's the story of Beatrix Potter, the author of The Tale of Peter Rabbit. Anyway, my flash was because in the movie she speaks to her drawings like they are her friends. Kind of like I was just talking to my sarcasm.

Or should I say, I was talking to my personality trait? Is it Mushu or Jiminy, I wonder? Probably not Jiminy--that little cricket bastard voice is always a killjoy. He's telling me right now I shouldn't have used bastard, just like he told me before not to call myself a sarcastic bitch when I wanted to. The cool, logical voice in my head wondered "When did it become funny to call myself names?" And Mushu fired back, "You're not calling yourself names; you're just writing about your untameable sarcasm--and it's always funny to be sarcastic to the point of bitchiness! Let it all hang out there, chicken!"

I disagree with Mushu here--it's not funny to be a sarcastic bitch all the time. If you're always a sarcastic bitch, then really you're just a plain ol' bitch. What kind of idiot would want that? So you've got to get the timing down. You know in a "I never did anything stupid as a child" type of way.

Then it's damn funny!