P.S. You can't buy beer until after 6 p.m. on Election Day either.

Dan's in Indianapolis right now. Has been for a while, actually. And he's too busy watching "The Tick" on Hulu to write anything for you. He asked me if I wanted to do a guest post on his blog. So I said what the heck, and here I am. My name is Emily, by the way, and I used to have a blog that some of you used to read. But I canceled my service with Typepad recently, and I haven't set up a free account elsewhere yet. (I'm not in the mood. That's why.)

Anyway, Dan is having a little trouble fitting in here in Indiana. The other day I let him venture out to the grocery store on his own. Big mistake. He tried to buy beer on Sunday. He came back looking like someone tried to dress him in a Peyton Manning jersey.

"Guess I'll have to cook those brats on Monday. I didn't know you couldn't buy beer in Indiana on Sunday."

"Oh, yeah."

"Well, I told that cashier I wasn't taking the beer back," he said. The indignation was forming a pretty serious crease in his brow. "She got grumpy, because I made her work. Made her put the beer back."

"Grumpy? Really?"

"Yeah."

I noted his remark and smirked. "You seem a little worked up yourself."

"I am not," he insisted. And that's when CrankFest '09 started at my house.

I blame myself. I mean, if I was there I could have played the diplomat. To the cashier, I'd have said, "Sorry he's from Wisconsin. Milwaukee, actually. Not selling beer is like a sin there." And to Dan, I'd have said, "Yeah, it's a pretty Puritanically absurd law. But she didn't write it."

Then I'd have distracted everyone by dropping a four-pound bag of Swedish fish, some Milk Duds, a case of Mountain Dew, and a toothbrush on the conveyor.