Okay, I just came from asking the Biscuit's mom for her hand in marriage. And if anything deserves careful journalistic documentation, this does. I showed up unannounced and was invited in. The Biscuit was at work. I could almost smell the fear and uncertainty in her mom as I make casual small talk about the new microwave she bought from Wal-Mart. Then I invited her to sit down, took a seat well outside of slapping range, and got to work. I made my case and wrapped it up with "...I want to ask you for your daughter's hand in marriage." She responded, laconically, "No." and then elaborated "You can't have it." I detected an attempt at Arkansas humor in their somewhere (somewhere well hidden) and said if money was an issue I could run to the car and get my wallet. "You can't have her hand. You're gonna have to take all of her." Ah--so it was humor. Great. How wonderful that she's enjoying herself. "Alright, you've got a deal." I said. Then things got odd. Awkward stilting Arkansas backwater odd. She proceeeded to warn me that the Biscuit was raised Pentecostal and would soon tire of my drinking, and she flat out told me that was the one/main thing she (the Arkansan) did not like about me. Well, I had suspected as much, but it was nice to have the confirmation. The obvious rejoinder was to inform the Arkansan that her daughter was a damn fine drinker, that, in fact, my friends praised me on finding a beautiful woman who loved Newcastle Bown Ale as much as I do, and that, by the way, she fucks like a tiger when she's a little tipsy. But, Dear Reader, I chose decorous silence as my contribution to this part of the conversation instead. She then warned me that the Biscuit was a "spendthrift" and particularly liked to spend money on shoes and clothes. This is not entirely fair, but I happily sold the Biscuit out in the name of good relations with her mom. The Arkansan and I bonded over archly bemoaning the Biscuit's wayward spending habits. Then the Arkansan asked me if I thought that the Biscuit should stay living at home (with the Grand Inquisitor Arkansan sleeping eight feet away from her bedroom and providing 24 hour surveillance on her life) to save money for the marriage. I was torn: option one was to kiss up to the prospective mother-in-law who despises me for my intemperate ways, and option two was to say "No, I think it's probably a good idea for her to move out." I chose option two. And, for the record, I'm drinking a beer (Medocino Brewing Company "Eye of the Hawk": good flavor, nice body) while i write this. The Arkansan pointed out the Biscuit would have more money to bring to the marriage and I rather immodestly said--"Arkansan--yeah, that's not going to be an issue." We debated for a moment over the (sparse) pros and (manifest) cons of the Biscuit living at home for the next eight months until marrying before I ingloriously bailed out of the conversation with some meaningless aside. The Arkansan then went into one of her patented monologues. In an effort to suck up I tried to feign interest, but mere comprhension was so far beyond me that I did no better for myself than to maintain a dumb cowlike gaze and briefly utter some inane comments when the opportunity presented itself. We were passing from awkward and strained to embarrassing, so I ejected. I hugged the Arkansan (our first hug), promised to take care of her daughter, and fled the building. Ah, what a relief to have that ordeal done with! There was one highlight--in the Arkansan's rambling solioquy she touched upon the topic of the Biscuit's ex-husband. Compared to this jobless, adulturous, prostitute-screwing winner I felt I came off looking pretty good. Moraly and spiritually crippled by my five beer a week drinking habit, sure, but still good by comparison to the first Mr. Biscuit. I relished this part of the Arkansan's dissertation and was sad when it segued into a discussion of furniture upholstery. I came home and tossed my Del Taco comfort/celebration food in the microwave to reheat. The aluminum foil wrapper on my Carne Asada Taco sparked and snapped and by the time i realized what the hell was happening and rushed to shut off the machine the more than ample handful of napkins shoved into the bag had ignited. I yanked the blazing bag from the microwave, burned my fingers, tossed it into the sink and tried to blow the flames out. Thereby fanning them to greater heights. Lord--it all seemed like a metaphor for my conference with the Arkansan. Thank God the Biscuit is a firefighter.