It started off enjoyably enough – I let myself sleep in as late as I wanted to, which looked for a while like it would be an unpleasant 8 a.m., but eventually ended up being a lazy, lazy 11:30 a.m.. I haven't slept that late since right after the accident earlier this year, when I spent several weeks coasting through The Kingdom of Demerol. 
I get a call. It's from my mom, telling me that she was in a car accident this morning, which completely totaled her truck.
Now, before any of you panic, let me assure you: my mom is fine. She emerged unscathed, except for being a bit unnerved by the situation. This is fairly miraculous, though, given the details of the accident.
She was driving down Main Street in Montrose, having driven down there this morning to meet someone for breakfast and look in on her storage unit. She was passing through an intersection when an 80-year-old man in a land-yacht-sized car ran a red light and smacked into the passenger side of the truck.
Her camper shell ended up in the hardware store on the corner of the intersection (quite a feat I must say – easily setting a flight record for a small camper shell), her passenger-side door ended up on the other side of the front cab, and everything in the back of the truck ended up scattered all over the mean streets of Montrose.
When she called me, the truck had already been towed, she had already been driven back to town, and it was time for me to fulfill my role: taking her out to lunch. When one gets in an accident and suffers no damage other than a general sense of unease, the best remedy is a big meal of steak.
We decided to go to this restaurant in town that's a steakhouse done in a country music theme. My favorite part is the mural in the lobby that is (I hope) a crude rendition of Bill Monroe being offered (or threatened with, depending on one's point of view) a fried chicken drumstick by an unseen person. Since they neither serve fried chicken nor play Bill Monroe songs, its presence is a mystery indeed.
I didn't have a beer. This place only serves novelty-sized beers – either in shots or enormous, two-foot-tall glasses. You do get your choice of the complete selection of Coors family products, though. Thank god for water.
I got chicken. She got the biggest, rarest steak they had. Ordering was a chore – we were handed off to about three or four different servers before one finally he was our waiter for good. Unfortunately, the one we ended up with is the one who believed the most in having a clean table at all costs. Plates were cleared when he wanted them to be cleared, dammit, whether you were actually done with that food or not.
The chicken was okay. Her steak looked much better. My dark meat was pretty good, the white meat was too dry – I roast a much better and meaner chicken, when so inclined.
After lunch, we messed around for awhile. I needed to go to the natural food market to stock up on whole cumin seeds, so we went there. It was Meat Analogue Sale Day, so I bought some tofu jerky and debated for awhile about a potential veggie dog purchase. My problem is that they look a bit too much like real hot dogs, so I start to wonder whether the ingredients in soy dogs somehow correspond to the ingredients in real hot dogs. Are there soy lips and soy assholes?
The tofu jerky is good, actually. It does what it sent out to do – taste like jerky. I was originally a bit offset by the texture – it has a vague Japanese-restaurant-plastic-food look and feel to it – but it's much easier on the teeth than real jerky.  I would buy it again.
I took her home, as she was feeling better (or in the early stages of a steak-induced nap, who knows). Then I went home and took a nap.
I fell asleep in front of the TV. Mexican TV, so that I would be sure to not miss the greatness that is Sabado Gigante. Well, not greatness, really – just general silliness and freaky-looking women jumping around. Same thing, sort of.
I wake up, though, and Pavement (!) is on TV. This is really odd – they're not singing in Spanish, no captions read "El Malkmus", and no freaky-looking women are accompanying them, shaking some booty to "Shady Lane." Not like you could shake much booty to that song, but these women would certainly try, if they were there.
So I watch for awhile, wondering why the hell this is on TV. After awhile, they cut to showing live Built To Spill highlights. I alternate between being vaguely mesmerized (these are both bands I've seen live before – so it was like seven minutes down Memory Lane for me) and completely puzzled. Then I decided I had better things to think about, and sat back and watched the rest.
 The only time of my life where I felt like TV was too slow and subtle for me to understand.
 The third because my I lost the innards to my first (and favorite), the slinky white 1960s Italian one, and the second got its protective coating eaten off by some especially unkindly dishwasher detergent.
 I got an Ikea catalog. I have never been to one of their stores, and there is not one anywhere near me. The Ikea march to world domination has overlooked the interior West entirely. So, I don't know why it showed up. At least they spelled my name correctly.