The little girl had a staring problem to begin with. Something about me attracted her interest, so she was already gawking when I opened up the carton of eggs to make sure that none of them were broken. When she saw the eggs -- or rather the color of the eggs -- her eyes and mouth expanded to seven times their normal size.

"Momma! Did you know that eggs can be brown?" she asked her mother, who responded by practically jerking the little girl's arm right off her body, effectively saying while it might seem interesting that eggs can be brown and healthy, in this family we prefer our eggs white and plasticy. And while we're on the subject, have you started puberty yet? I don't care if you haven't finished kindergarten. We're gonna need to double your intake of bovine growth hormone-enriched milk immediately!

Christa calls me a hippie, which is ridiculous in the first place, and in the second place is like Weird Al calling Milhouse from the Simpsons a nerd. Sure, my shopping basket is usually half-filled with free-range, crunchy organic nuggets, but the other half is filled with what one of my blog commenters called "negative-nutritious grocery product...like anti-matter for the body." Besides, she ran on the cross-country team in high school and constantly wears a wool cap, so there.

From what I can gather, Christa's definition of "hippie" is someone who doesn't work at Wells Fargo, doesn't wear pleated Dockers, doesn't shut down all aspects of life to watch football all Sunday, and doesn't consider Applebee's to be a great place to take a date and/or meet up with friends for drinks. Personally, I wouldn't call this kind of person a hippie; I'd simply call them "normal" or maybe a "non-douchebag." In this way, we are a good match.

When I was a kid, there were two practically synonymous words that my parents used, that each described people of a dubious nature: one was "hoods" and the other was "hippies." Hoods were dirty people with long hair who rode motorcycles. Hippies were the same people, only they rode in VWs or travelled on foot. Both "smoked dope." I didn't know what that meant.

The first time Christa accused me of being a hippie, I was appalled. She pointed out my organic eggs. The "hippies" I know don't even eat eggs, I said, real hippies don't even eat geletin...real hippies don't even eat honey. Then I called her a jock. She practically choked on her own Gatorade.

I guess that among athletic types, calling someone a 'jock' is a lot like calling a mildly healthy eater/somewhat regular recycler a 'hippie.' These are extremes that you don't want to subscribe to.

While I might choose to brush my teeth with non-fluoride toothpaste and while I might choose to wear man-sandals, she runs every day and consistently wears mesh. And yet, while we both love to drink strawberry Fanta and watch TiVo, we also sometimes munch on Clif bars as we trod down the Superior Hiking Trail.

More than all of this, we both like coffee and the internet. I guess, more than anything, we're just geeky bloggers.