After picking daffodils for 6 hours today I drove over to the vineyard to pick up Erin from work. Henry has been a reliable work car so far, blissfully. Work kind of sucked a lot on Tuesday when it was spitting ice cold rain at us all day, but the days have been mostly clear since then, albeit with some rather brisk southeasterlies. I'm sure this is all very interesting. Anyway, I picked Erin up and was like, "So how was work?" and she was like, "Well, my mp3 player died this afternoon, so I had a lot of time to think. I'm definitely going to start using the phrase, 'I like the cut of your jib,' more often. Also, why do people assume that I am a font of Amish knowledge?" Apparently whenever she tells people she's from Pennsylvania they ask her to name the big cities, then move swiftly on to questions about the Amish. For some reason, when I tell people I'm from Texas they don't ask any more questions... theories on why that could be will be happily accepted. But this evening my cousin Guido (that's gee-do, not gwee-do, and no he isn't part of the Kiwi mafia, you're not clever) asked us the most interesting question about home that we've heard so far: "Do people not call other people cows in America?"
