Bay's Travel Blog

[Insert obvious vintage TV theme song here]

2011-06-18T11:14:00.002-04:00

Yes. I am moving up, thankyouverymuch. No, I can't believe it's my life, either.

After almost exactly two years of worrying about when the money would run out and we would become officially destitute, I got a job. And not just any job. I got an incredible job in a lovely, professional office with stunning views overlooking gorgeous downtown Knoxville.

Pardon me while I gush. I'm happy.

At the end of April, after two years of trying to find a job, any job, any job at all, I saw an ad on Craigslist which stood out in its unique tenor and candor. Everyone that I mentioned this ad to asked with a crease in their foreheads, "Are you sure it's not a scam?"

That's a reasonable concern. I hear that in the western part of the U.S., Craigslist employment ads are usually quite legitimate and reliable, but here in the East, they're a pit of iniquity. I learned how to spot the scammers in 2009, but they got smarter and changed their tactics. So I had to learn the new keywords to avoid this year. I'm still getting spam from one of those fake ads that I accidentally replied to in March.

Anyway, this ad stood out. The person who wrote it could really write. He said at one point, "The more you know about computers, the better, because Attorney is willfully ignorant of such matters." Oh, you know I loved that turn of phrase. It reminded me of Mr. Pelham, a dear old family friend who passed away more than twenty years ago.

So I sent my resume and a few days later, I received an email asking for more information. 'Scuse me while I get real Southern -- I just about died. I wrote my replies, slept on it, leapt up in the morning, proofread the letter, and hit "send." Held my breath.

It worked! I have no idea how. There was an interview -- the day after a major storm damaged the daylights out of my beloved Prius -- and then I got the job. As unbelievable as it all seems, I became an official legal assistant to a family law attorney in downtown Knoxville.

I -- have difficulty putting it all into words.

My head is still spinning.

I'm largely lost at work, still. I was warned, though, that I would feel this way for about half a year, so I'm not discouraged. The work is incredibly interesting. My boss is so smart and fair -- he's able to see both sides of a story. I'm not nearly as objective as he is, but I love being around someone who's so intellectually generous. I'm learning so much! I can't believe how quickly I'm learning, and at the same time, I feel so very stupid and slow sometimes, as if I should have already learned everything and put it to work flawlessly.

It drives me crazy to make mistakes, and I make them every day. They're usually fresh, new mistakes, though. A thousand details go into every pleading, and I am not yet accustomed to looking for all of them. For instance, if you don't put "Notice of entry requested" at just the right place at the top of an order, the clerk's office will not send the attorney a copy of the order after it's been entered. Oh, my goodness. Such a tiny detail has such an impact on the efficiency of a law office's workings!

Mostly I'm just in awe of my turn of luck. I have a job. Our finances are so much more secure now than they were two months ago. Wesley and I get to carpool, and our hours together are so pleasant. I'm exhausted when I get home, and I kind of miss the freedom I enjoyed for 14 years to go about on uncrowded weekdays to run all my errands and seek cheap entertainment. But -- I'm engaged, I'm interested, I'm having fun, I'm enjoying downtown Knoxville like nobody's business, and on top of all that, I get paid to go to work.

I really am moving on up.

Tiny nibbles

2011-03-22T12:00:00.006-04:00

Nothing says "I tolerate you" like a card that says "bite me."

For the red-hot relationship that's cooling off in a hurry, this sumptuously crafted card of varying textures and whimsical images really hits the spot. It can be yours for $4 plus shipping. It's an average 4.25x5.5" size, so if you feel like mailing it to your soon-to-be-ex, it'll take a standard stamp. (Whatever that is this week.)

Personally, I'm inordinately fond of the dragonfly brad. It makes my heart go pitty-pat. It could do the same for whomever you're dissing.

For the slightly more annoying ex-flame, might I recommend a globally-themed au revoir?

It's a festive way to say sayonara, and it even has a darling little resin-encased bug on one of the brads. Fun stuff. Yours for four bucks plus shipping! Just email me!

Fixin' to get ready

2011-03-21T12:53:00.004-04:00

Years ago, Wesley and I saw a Blake Clark stand-up routine in which he quoted his brother as "Fixin' to get ready" for -- oh, I forget what. The point is, that phrase is perfectly useful for a number of Southern pursuits.

And I am, in fact, fixing to get ready.

I'm going to post my snarky cards for sale on my blog.

No, my blog doesn't have the wide readership it used to have.

Yes, Etsy is elegant and more popular.

But darn it, Etsy has the same lax attitude toward security as Facebook. I am not a fan.

So here's my personal assurance: If you buy a card from me, I promise not to tell anyone your name or address or email or PayPal info. You can count on me. I can keep secrets. I have, for instance, never told a soul what Jennifer W told me in the summer of '83 about exactly what she had or had not done with A Certain Boy at Separation Bridge between the girls' camp and the boys' camp. Never. I have NEVER told anyone. And you cannot drag that info out of me now.

(And I did tell Jenn that she absolutely could NOT get pregnant that way, too, because I am nice like that.)

So if you want to buy a snarky card -- or maybe a handmade scrapbook album or two -- then keep watching the blog. They'll appear eventually. And I'll make my PayPal info known to you then, too.

Something nice on the Internet

2010-07-06T12:43:00.002-04:00

I've had a bad couple of days. I tried to do something nice, and it turned out to make some people unhappy. That sucks. And the way things are on the Internet, with people able to attack without any knowledge of whom they're affecting or how their words cut -- in real life, with real consequences -- it's really hard to find a safe place to say, "I'm sorry, really sorry, that I made you unhappy. I didn't mean it," and ensure the apology is credible.

I Googled "something nice on the Internet," and I got shopping websites. That's sad, isn't it? In this economy? We have to put out money in order to find a salve for our wounded souls.

So if you, like me, are looking for a respite for your weary soul, here's my contribution, starting here, starting now:

- I just saw three birds of prey, one of which was so much larger than the other two that it might have been an eagle, soaring and sparring over my tiny town. The little ones were chasing off the bigger one. And they were definitely all birds of prey, although I couldn't identify them against the hot, white sky. I've said it before, but I'll say it again: Nature is awesome.

- My little dog is a hero. She sounded an alarm last night. I misunderstood and thought she just needed to go outside, so I put on her leash and opened the door -- and there was our kitty Virgil, outside on the porch! He must have sneaked out the last time the door was open! No one knew except Doris Daylily. Good dog! Good girl!

- My neighbor's garden is a riot of daylilies. It's just a joy to see. She told me that she has one in her back yard with blooms bigger than her head, and the name of that cultivar is "Primal Scream." That name is a scream, if you ask me!

- I'm not waiting until tomorrow for a better day. I'm making my day better right now. Ice cream may be involved, but it will be a nice day if it's the last thing I do!

My white whale

2009-10-13T13:35:00.003-04:00

I was going to write this post about how I can't find a used copy of "Dodgeball" on DVD. It's my personal white whale. I go to used DVD stores -- mostly just McKay Used Books & CD's, the best store in the whole wide world -- and I scour three sections of the used DVD's. I look in the Recent Acquisitions, Bargain, and Comedy sections. The only section that's even alphabetized is Comedy. That's easy. I go to the D's, see a copy of "Dodgeball" on VHS (?!?!), and there's no other "Dodgeball" around, and then I spend an hour or more going through every single DVD in the Recent Acquisitions and Bargain departments.

It's a quest. For comedy. I like to laugh.

Wesley pointed out that I could buy a used copy from Amazon.com, and I could. It would cost more, and I would have to pay for shipping and handling, but I could definitely find a bargain copy of "Dodgeball" if I would just concede that I can't find the used copy of my dreams at McKay.

But I can't. I cannot give up. I can't just throw in the towel and call it a day. I've already spent at least 12 visits to used DVD stores and uncounted hours scouring the shelves trying to find one good copy of "Dodgeball" -- in Widescreen -- for $4 or less.

Hey, man, if it's in the Bargain section, it could be $1.95. I'm just sayin'. Is all.

But all this thought and time and effort have already been put into the search. I know that one day I'm going to walk in, and the movie will be sitting there on a shelf, waiting for me, with a Jesus light shining on it and angel choirs singing a resounding "Laaaaaaaaaa." I can't quit now and just order a copy online. Winners don't quit, and quitters don't win.

(And I, the original uncoordinated loser who was always chosen last for any team sport, can't believe I just wrote that line without choking on something. Snort!)

Anyway, this reminds me: The next time I'm at McKay, maybe I should put some time into finding copies of books I've never read. Like Moby Dick. Never read it. It wasn't assigned to me in school. I once checked it out of the library in fifth grade. Three pages into it, there was an illustration of a guy with his arm inside a whale's eye socket. His WHOLE ARM. I was only 10 years old, yeah, but it grossed me out so much, I ran back to the library to give the book back.

I've never read The Scarlet Letter, either. I saw the movie a few years ago. It was OK. Seeing Demi Moore trying to act is kind of hilarious. But somehow I don't think that's how I was supposed to interpret the flick.

The Lord of the Flies? I know what it's about. But the actual reading of the words on the page hasn't been something I've done. I've already been acquainted with badly behaved little boys. I knew them in school. No deserted isle required. Why read about it?

These are only a few of the mighty tomes I've managed to avoid. So today I'm making a list. Next time I go to the used book store, I'll try to find something that increases brain function -- rather than draining it. Like "Dodgeball." I really like the parts with Steve the Pirate. Gaaaaarrrrrrrr.

Trip reports don't write themselves

2009-09-07T00:20:00.003-04:00

(Woodrow, Emily, and Doris at Anna Ruby Falls)

We went to Helen, Georgia for a few days. It was very near heaven. I really needed some North Georgia mountain time, and I got it, plus some faux-Bavaria time, and some Hansel & Gretel fudge time, and just a smidge of Wildcat Creek time.

The weather was pretty rotten for the first couple of days -- cloudy, rainy, and downright cold in the evenings and mornings -- but it became sunny for our last day.

I introduced Woodrow to that part of the world and told him ALL the stories I could think of that stemmed from my time spent in those parts. Including the time that Wesley came to visit me, and I found him in Helen on the payphone, having already drunk too much beer, really, and his friend Chip reached across his shoulder to hang up the phone for him, and Wesley almost decked him until he saw me through bleary beer-soaked eyes and totally forgot that he was almost ready to get into a fight.

We laughed a lot on this very short vacation.

We also took Doris Daylily with us. I have never traveled with a dog, so this was a brand new experience for me. I have to say that it was incredibly pleasant, and I recommend it. Doris was amazingly well-behaved and a wonderful traveling companion. She didn't complain and seemed to love everything and everyone.

Even more interesting, everyone seemed to love Doris Daylily. All kinds of people came to visit with her whenever we took her out of the hotel room --which, of course, was whenever we walked out of the hotel room. Everyone seemed to want to pet Doris, and they would come to see her when we were dining or walking around.

I have a theory -- I think people leave their pets at home, and when they see a pet out and about, they pay attention to that pet to assuage their lonely souls.

Or something like that.

Whatever -- Doris loved the trip. She didn't love the carpet in the motel room, though. It kept her from sliding. Doris loves to run and slide.

And I bought a ton of food souvenirs -- other than the aforementioned fudge, I also bought Farmer Cheese at the Old Sautee Store, flat crisps, and ginger snaps; deep-fried peanuts and muscadine-flavored cider Fred's Famous Peanuts; and I got a gorgeous, handmade butter bell from Mark of the Potter.

We didn't get to slide down Sliding Rock or tube on the Chattahoochee -- the weather was a mite cool -- but it was a fabulous trip. Y'all should get out, too. You look pale and listless. I'm not just saying that. I mean, I'm really worried about you. Can I recommend North Georgia? It did a ton of good for me. I'm just sayin'. Is all!

... and frogs, oh, my!

2009-08-31T00:26:00.000-04:00

Every time I come to post something on my little blog -- and I do like blogging, you know. It's so much more solid than Facebook updating -- I have to try to weed through the overwhelming thoughts in my head. I could talk about anything. I mean, I really should have narrowed the scope of my blog when I started it so many years ago.

I should have made it be about clever, cutting comments that slayed lesser-than people.

Or I should have made it about quitting smoking. Oh, wait! I did that on a different blog, didn't I?

(And yes, thank you, I am celebrating two entire years without nicotine. Thank you so much for noticing! I could never have done it without Chantix.)

But seriously, I have so many things to say, I hardly know where to start and where to stop.

1. Frogs -- I have made some cards using some favorite Club Scrap frog images. They were part of the incomparable February 2009 collection entitled "Artifacts." I can't do enough with these Aztec-inspired thingamabobs!

And in other frog news, I hear a frog at the creek down the road from my house. Just one. I hope that he/she finds another frog soon, and that they make tons of tadpoles before it gets cold in a couple of months. I do like frogs.

(Bunny trail: Did you know you can buy frogs from PetSmart? I'm not sure how I feel about that, really. On the one hand, I want a frog of my own badly. On the other hand, I'm not sure they should be held captive. Unless, of course, being held captive is all that keeps them on the Earth.)

2. Trips! I'm planning a cruise with my darlin' stister Yamy! February of next year, we're taking off for the Western Caribbean. I'm so psyched! On the other hand, I feel I must quote my husband's uncle, who said upon returning from his first-ever cruise, "It was like being stuck in a bus station for a week."

EEK!

On the *other* other hand, that uncle and I have absolutely nothing in common. In fact, I think he's kind of a doofus. He loves golf. Loves, loves, loves it. There you go.

But -- totally beside the point -- isn't that an amazingly descriptive phrase? "Stuck in a bus station" would be bad for an hour. A week? Oh, my. Painful.

Still, Wesley's uncle didn't have my brilliant sister with whom to cruise, and I'm pretty sure they didn't have martini clinics when he went for a spin around the Caribbean. So my cruise will be much, much more sparkling and fabulous!

Another trip? Around noon on Monday, I'm taking off from tiny little Philadelphia and running away to the North Georgia mountain town named Helen.

I love Helen.

Well, OK, I don't really love Helen, not per se, but I love North Georgia mountains. I spent my childhood summers in that part of the world. (I've already ranted recently about my fond memories of Camp Cherokee for Girls on lovely Lake Burton.) I love those mountains, I love that dirt, I love those creeks, I love that part of the world, and I miss it pretty darned badly right now.

So we're going to Helen. While we're there, I'm going to take Wesley and the kids to slide down Sliding Rock in the Wildcat Creek camping area. It's late August, so the water will be extra-special frigid, but I'm really hoping we'll be the only people there on a Monday after school has started.

I want to find a trail to hike. Which one? No idea. I just need to get some dirt and elevation in my system.

I would like to drive past camp to see if it looks OK. I don't need it to look the same, the exact same. I just need it to look OK. Someone sold off the boys' camp, and it has been parceled off into lakefront homes. That breaks my heart more than I can convey. The boys' camp had been there for well over 60 years. Now it's some rich person's trophy wife's weekend getaway.

3. Gosh, I'd like to be a rich person's trophy wife with a mansion on the lake.

4. Oh, yeah, except, I have a soul. Darn it! Darn thing keeps getting in the way of my hopes and dreams.

That's all for tonight. Isn't it enough? I hope I have photos of the trip when we get back. Bye for now!

What can you do?

2009-08-21T03:38:00.002-04:00

I love movies.

Many years ago, there was a film that captured my mind and my heart. It was so interesting to me. Now that I'm older and more discerning, I think it was about something that I didn't even recognize when I was younger and the film was newer and fresher.

Broadcast News was touted as a romantic comedy. Or a romantic movie. Or a drama with romance. It's difficult to say.

Anyway, it's about how the news is news and shouldn't be entertainment. Or at least, that's what it is to me. Yeah, I identify with the Holly Hunter character more than I do with anyone or anything else. Except I've never scheduled my crying jags according to when I have time to cry.

At the very beginning of the movie, before things become complicated and complex, the William Hurt character as a child asks, "What can you do if all you can do is look good?" The sardonic subtitle then touts caustically, "Future Network Anchorman."

Ouch.

Poor good-looking dunderhead.

I am now not twenty-something. I am now not 112 pounds of excitable freshman flesh. I am not as cute as I once was, nor am I as youthful and hopeful and filled with enthusiasm as I was twenty-some years ago.

I still have the same flair with fashion that I always had, but it's harder to find garments that compliment both my age and my size as well as my taste and style. I don't want to look like Carrie from "Sex and the City;" I was always more of a Charlotte-type person, anyway. But Charlotte is perpetually slender and young. Where does she go when Charlotte grows up? There must be a place -- but it sadly is not located in Tennessee, and it is not one of the more affordable venues.

As I continue to apply for jobs and send out résumé after résumé in the vain hope of finding just one job that will take me and won't make me want to jab my eyes out with a fork, I keep coming back to -- what are my skills, exactly? What is it about me that an employer would want, anyway?

And -- gosh! I wish I could sugarcoat this more glibly! -- I keep thinking, like the William Hurt character, "What can you do if all you can do is be nice?"

I have a perfectly fine brain. It was tested a few times, and it's not a dunderhead. It's a good brain. I like it, even if math is not its main thang. It is not, under any circumstances, going to be confused with Abby Normal's brain.

But it apparently isn't wired in a completely marketable way. I can't program computers or calculate future market trends. I'm not the best person you want on your team if you're looking for "fierce and outgoing marketing and sales GENIUSES."

I can fix grammar and spelling; I can write sonnets in several rhyme patterns, and I am a diva at compliments.

But I can not be mean. I can not exclude. I am not the person you want on the phone haranguing a victim to pay his past-due bills.

I guess I am just going to have to keep looking, and I hope I am going to find something before things become dire at Chez Loftis.

After all, I was born to roll in violets every spring. I was not brought forth to bring violence to the Earth.

Breakneck speed

2009-08-08T04:37:00.002-04:00

The summer is waning, and I am already in mourning for it, although it lingers in my neighborhood.

I know that my friends in Pennsylvania and New Hampshire lament a real summer; the Atlantic states of the U.S. have suffered an unusually wet and cold summer this year. I feel badly for them. Even though part of me wishes East Tennessee had suffered the same fate. My attitude is necessarily colored by the fact that our air conditioner didn't play nicely this year and we have spent a number of days/weeks wilting in the heat and humidity of a fairly normal East Tennessee summer.

Now the AC works. The hummingbirds are firmly entrenched in my yard and sipping from my sugar water feeder. The tomato plants are heavy with fruits that will probably not ripen before fall arrives. And yet I'm already missing the hot weather.

This summer of 2009 presented so many unusual and interesting pursuits with which to pass our time.

I have never printed up nor delivered so many résumés and cover letters to be ignored as I have this year. I have never submitted so many electronic versions of those things, either.

I have never spent so much time throwing a tennis ball for a corgi. No, seriously. Although Doris is my fifth Welsh corgi, I have never been so involved with a dog's health, happiness and well-being as I have been with Doris' this year.

I have never walked as much in my immediate neighborhood as I have this hot summer. Thank you, again, to Doris Daylily for getting me out of my comfort zone in more than a couple of ways.

In twenty-two years of marriage, I have never spent so very much time with my husband as I have in the last 11 weeks. (Eleven weeks or so. I'm not entirely sure I've done the math correctly.) We've had lovely vacations in '96, '98, and every year since then, which included two weeks together and sometimes even three weeks spent in close proximity to each other, but never, ever have we been afforded 11 entire weeks just really, really closely to the other person.

I feel... really lucky that he hasn't decided to divorce me as a direct result of all this togetherness. I really thought that by now he would have figured out I'm a narcissistic bitch, but I seem to have fooled him anyway. (Or he's decided to ignore my shortcomings for the time being. Either way, I'm grateful.)

I have never seen so many bats flying out of my next-door-neighbor's chimney as I have this year. I love every one of them, since they eat the insects that I disdain. I need to remember to tell the new owner to please not have all the bats exterminated. I really do think they do our neighborhood a service.

I have never seen an owl flying at night as I did a couple of weeks ago. It was completely silent, and if it hadn't had a white underbelly, I might never have seen it when I took Doris out for a late-night jaunt.

I have never worried so much about frogs as I do this year. And honestly, I worried about them before. I should tell a story about our 2004 vacation at Edisto Island, when I watched a badly behaved little boy stomping ... No, I can't say it. I can't. It's too awful.

I have never been so nostalgic about camp. No, that's not true. I get this nostalgic about Camp Cherokee for Girls every summer. Every single glorious summer, I think about my time on the shores of lovely Lake Burton with the Cherokee princesses of days gone by. This year, I happen to have found a few other Cherokee princesses on Facebook, and that makes me awfully nostalgic. I heard from a woman who was my counselor when I was 9 and 10. Just thinking about camp in those halcyon days before personal computers and cell phones... I could weep with longing. I wish I could go back. I wish I could braid my hair and go back. Other than Mama and the comfort of her arms, no other place on earth offered as much hominess and love as Camp Cherokee for Girls. It never changed. Yes, it did, really, but the basics of it never changed.

I would give anything to stop this breakneck race toward autumn and go back to camp. As a child or a counselor. Doesn't matter. That's how much I loved it. Every once in a while Wesley and I discuss my total lack of interest in entrepeneurial pursuits, and it's true: I really don't want to own my own business. Ever. But ... if I were going to own a business? It would have to be a girls' summer camp. Because everyone should have Woodland Fairies to sing them to sleep during summer nights. And if I could open a business that would do that? I would.

Seriously.

Glory to thee, my God, this night, for all the blessings of the light. Keep me, oh, keep me, King of Kings, beneath Thine own Almighty Wings.

And furthermore, Cherokee's gonna shine tonight. Cherokee's gonna shine.

The saga of Elderly Biker Dude

2009-07-24T14:06:00.005-04:00

Two days ago whilst I was running around filling out applications (?!?) and leaving résumés all over West Knoxville, I had to stop at Walmart for a couple of minor things. I wish it had been a smaller store, but beggars can't be choosers. I needed bobby pins to get my long hair off my neck. It was hot, dang it.

Anyhoozle. I got bobby pins and some concealer and powder, and I got in line at the 20 Items Or Less cash register. I could have gone the "self check out" route, but those lines were all backed up.

Unfortunately, I was behind the unhappiest man in Walmart.

He was an older gentleman, dressed like a biker in leather jeans and a sleeveless jersey shirt that showed off his misshapen, drooping tattoos. He even had a kerchief tied around his forehead and tangled up in his long, stringy, white hair. He wore more jewelry than is entirely seemly. Somehow. For a fellow his age, I mean.

Anyway, Elderly Biker Dude was writing a check for $9 and some-odd cents. He was unhappy about that. He didn't want to write a check. But wrote it he did, and he signed it and handed it over to the cashier.

This was when Elderly Biker Dude came face-to-face with the 21st century. It had apparently escaped making his acquaintance earlier.

Woe be unto all of us.

The cashier, who was about Elderly Biker Dude's age, but dressed far more conservatively, was calm, cool, and detachedly professional throughout the remainder of the transaction. (And I use the word "transaction" here loosely. It was really more of a drama in three acts. But generally, the theatre of the cash register tends to consist mostly of purchasing transactions. But not this time. Oh, no.)

The cashier asked Elderly Biker Dude for some ID, most specifically, his driver's license. Elderly Biker Dude was not prepared for this request, and he exclaimed, "This is for some shit!"

Personally, I don't think I've ever heard that particular sentiment expressed in quite that arrangement of words and expletives, so it struck me. It was going to strike me a few more times.

The cashier explained that the computer would not approve the check without the entry of a driver's license number in the works.

Elderly Biker Dude exclaimed, "You already have my signed check! What else do you need?"

The cashier said, "Well, sir, to begin with, I need to see your driver's license and enter the number into the computer."

Elderly Biker Dude finally dragged out his wallet and thumbed out his driver's license, the entire time grumbling that he had already signed the check.

The cashier took the license and put it into the computer. Then he asked the Elderly Biker Dude for his phone number.

"No!" groused the biker. "You already have my license number and a signed check! You cain't have my phone number! This is for some shit!"

Again. "For some shit"? Seriously?

The cashier said yes, he needed the phone number if the transaction were going to be completed.

Elderly Biker Dude again said no, the cashier could not have his number. And he added, "For a nine dollar check! This is for some shit!"

Finally the cashier talked him out of the phone number, and he ran the check through the cash register again.

Now, anyone who is still writing checks -- and yes, I am one of you -- knows that Walmart no longer deals with paper checks any more. They run that thing through the magical computer and hand the check back to you. It's all done electronically, whether you want it to be done that way or not.

And then....

Well, you know.

The cashier told Elderly Biker Dude to please sign the keypad to his right.

Guess what the biker said. C'mon, guess. No! He did not say that! He squawked incredulously, "What?"

The cashier repeated himself, and I stood there thinking that maybe the biker would be happier if he weren't wearing leather pants in July. Seriously. Leather? Come on. He had to be cooking his nibblets in those things. No wonder he was so unhappy.

Well, when Elderly Biker Dude found out that all this check-writing was going to end up with him getting his check back and having to sign the little electronic keypad, he came un-f***ing-glued. "THIS is for SOME SHIT! You already have the check! WITH MY SIGNATURE! All this for nine dollars! I hope this is worth it! FOR SOME SHIT!"

I really kind of thought about telling him to chill out. I thought about laughing at him snottily. (Yeah, the snotty laugh. It's a weapon I reserve for special occasions. It's pretty scathing.) I also wondered if I was safe or if Elderly Biker Dude was going to pull out Elderly Rusty Switchblade and go crazy right there in line.

Instead, he grabbed the stylus so viciously that the cashier and I both cringed, waiting for the plastic strap to snap. It didn't. Elderly Biker Dude signed the keypad, got his receipt, gathered his nine dollars' worth of crap, and stomped out into the parking lot, grumbling the whole way.

I stepped up to the cashier and smiled sunnily. "Hi!" I said, "I'm not NEARLY as unhappy as THAT GUY was."

And the cashier laughed, and I laughed, and I made my purchase without damaging anything or anyone.

Today while I was discussing the cost of modems with the Charter Media representative who wanted to charge me for a modem that belonged to them and did less than the modem that I now have, I exclaimed, "Wow! This is quite a lot of rigamarole, isn't it?" And while the girl tried to explain to me that the cost for services was really straightforward versus the cost for material parts, part of me realized, "I could have said 'this is for some shit,' and I would be making as much sense as that guy at Walmart the other day."

Yes, she could have explained it better. And yes, I could have been more patient. I'll try again some other day.

Paper keeps me sane

2009-07-06T01:15:00.004-04:00

Have I mentioned lately how much I love Club Scrap?

No?

Well, let me take a minute to rhapsodize.

The last year of Club Scrap's offerings have been incredible and amazing.

I have ordered second kits of three different months in the last year. And it would be four, except I am poor and I can't justify an order of a second kit of this month's Memoirs collection.

(The kits I've ordered double helpings of were Cruisin', Cyprus, and Pure & Simple. Just in case you were wondering.)

Last month, although I couldn't order a second whole kit, I did order a second batch of fibers and a whole, fresh bead cup for the glorious Concrete Jungle. I know that I will use that kit up someday. I only wish I were rich this year. So I could order more paper and stuff.

Then this month's amazing Memoirs kit arrived. And somehow, I realized that my scrapbooking efforts were being paid off.

It's like a big slice of watermelon -- all pinky red and green, with a bunch of sweet other things mixed in for flavor. I can't be clearer; my head is clouded from the love in my heart!

The project this month was a journaling swatch book -- there are six pages of questions to prompt one's journaling/writing efforts, and then six pages of space in which to write the answers to the questions. All the while, these pages are encased in a handmade swatch book with hardware, decorated to the artist's own tastes and inclinations.

How can anyone resist this kind of glorious stuff?!?

Not I.

So while I languish in no-fireworks-for-Independence-Day land, at least I still have the world's most decadent and fabulous paper supplies with which to play. Thank you, Club Scrap. Thank you for spoiling me when I least expect it and most need it!

Stuff I should tell Amy

2009-07-02T02:17:00.002-04:00

I was going to post about hummingbirds or broken air conditioners, but c'mon -- I've done that too much over the lifetime of this blog.

Instead, let me tell you a story that I keep forgetting to tell Amy.

I went to a store to return a skirt.

That afternoon, I had already purchased one small (but bigger, fancier, and quieter) window air conditioning unit to replace the small window unit that died that morning in my living room.

And the afternoon before that, I had traded in old, unwanted DVD's for fresh, used DVD's. And I got some necessary things (like khakis and foundation garments) at Kohl's. In fact, I even went to a favorite chain restaurant and had the world's best salad. (Bonefish Grill's house salad has sublime citrus herb dressing and a perfect little half-cylinder of heart of palm. Delicious!!!)

In any case, I was feeling smug and well-organized, so I took a skirt with a receipt back to a store for a cash refund. I had read all the rules on the receipt and was prepared to buy a well-deserved cup of iced chai with the proceeds.

Wesley and I got in line at the service counter, with our bag of skirt and receipt. There were two customers in front of us and one customer behind us. I stood there chatting with Wesley and the girl in line behind us for a few minutes.

Then a cashier from another line came and said to us, "I can help a customer over here, if you like."

Darn it! I believed him. Foolish, foolish me! I stepped out of line with my bag -- and my husband -- and then I heard the security guard behind me telling the inviting cashier, "These are returns. You can't handle that."

AWWWWWWWW!!!!

I turned around, with Wesley hard on my heels, and I got in at the end of the line.

Fortunately, that really nice girl [previously] behind me said, "Naw, nothing gained, nothing lost. You go ahead and get back in front of me."

What a nice girl!!!! And they say chivalry is dead. HA, I say! HA!!!!

So I got back in line, thanking the girl behind me, and I continued waiting. While I was waiting, I couldn't help craning my neck around so I could see new merchandise that had come in while I was trying on poorly fitting skirts at home. I told Wesley this store was like a siren call, and I wanted to shop. The girl behind me agreed. Wesley disagreed and told me to keep my eye on the prize. I said my eye WAS on the prize and the prize said "Liz Claiborne remaindered 85% off retail." And Wesley had the gall to tell me that those clothes were not my size; those clothes were size 4's. I couldn't see sizes from our spot in line at the service counter, but I had to assume that he was right. I mean, after all, I couldn't return a skirt, buy a cup of iced chai, AND get a remaindered Liz Claiborne blouse, could I? Or could I?

I looked up at the service counter cashier, who was still checking out a girl in front of me who was buying roughly $800 worth of toddler jeans. She had flat blonde hair and a nose ring. And she was wearing a pretty black and white sleeveless tunic top with a black fabric flower on the right lapel.

At least. It looked like a pretty tunic with a fabric flower. At a profile, it was a completely acceptable and even pretty and fashionable outfit. Black. With white. And a black flower.

Then she turned and folded some toddler pants for the customer, and I was facing her head on.

That's when I discovered the depths and breadths of that cashier's cleavage.

It was SPECTACULAR.

It was HUGE.

It was JIGGLY.

And it was right there, at the top of the scoop neck of that seemingly innocuous black-and-white sleeveless tunic top, jiggling just above the line, and almost ready to spill over into the real world of returned skirts, remaindered Liz Claiborne blouses, torn scarves, and designer toddler jeans.

I mean, I had to keep myself from gasping out loud. I was so alarmed and so sure she was about to spill out of her top, I had to hold my breath and turn away from the disaster that was sure to follow.

I turned... and I met Wesley's eyes.

I widened my eyes.

I tried not to speak aloud of the impending disaster there at the service counter cash register.

Wesley knew in the space of a millisecond what was causing me to turn red and not speak aloud.

He also did not look at the cleavage nor speak aloud of impending doom. But he furthermore had to subdue his laughter, which was darned close to exploding now that I finally knew what was going inside that tunic. And doubtless, that gal's bra. Which had to been about breach at any moment, anyway.

Oh, the restraint we showed! We discussed cutting boards and shoes! We talked about iced chai and double shots of espresso! We even managed to ask, "Do we need to go to the pet store and get Doris some doggie biscuits?" Oh, no! No, we do not! We need to get through this line without seeing some serious boob spillage, that's what we needed to experience!!!!!

I honestly cannot tell you how the exchange of the rejected skirt for cash went. I was trying not to look anyone in the eye or in the cleavage the whole time, which made it really hard to concentrate on the business at hand. To be honest, I do not know if the cashier gave me all my money back. I am not sure I even care. I'm just glad I wasn't there when those things made a break for freedom.

See, I don't see things like that often. Was it on purpose? Did she mean to frighten everyone with a half-mile radius of her burgeoning cleavage? Or was it by accident? I mean, honestly, at a profile, that top was perfectly acceptable and modest. It was only when you faced her that it became an exercise in desperately searching for something else to see.

The best things in life are free

2009-06-24T02:14:00.003-04:00

The best things in life are free, like sunsets and time spent playing with toddlers or puppies. So I guess this card isn't a "best thing." That's OK. I like it, anyway.

I read an account of someone else's audition for the game show in Indianapolis, and their video interview sounded so much more pleasant and personable than mine was. It's disconcerting. I always did well at interviews and auditions. I'm Southern, after all. We're practically raised knowing how to converse in a lively and entertaining manner.

Not long after my high school class began planning its 20th reunion (and before it all fell apart and then fell into my inept lap for the organizing thereof), I became friends with a fellow whom I had barely known when we were actually in the same high school together. Krum was popular and well-liked. I think he might even have been respected. I know that there were three girls in the theatre department who adored him avidly and desperately wanted to garner his attention.

But I really didn't know him well until five years ago.

And I'll be honest: Krum is not someone that you would suspect would be my friend. He's very logical and reasonable; he's extremely conservative, both in religion and politics. He's an extrovert who absolutely doesn't understand introverts. Krum is sporty and athletic. He can espouse the virtues of team sports as if he really believes playing a game with 10 other people can make a person a better person. And he has never once been in a play, sung a solo, or picked violets to wrap in a ribbon.

Sometimes, emailing back and forth with Krum was a little bit like learning to speak a foreign language without benefit of a textbook or an audio lab.

But there were benefits to getting to know him. For one thing, he remembered events from a completely different perspective.

Krum attended a dinner with me (and a group of other high school seniors) at the home of the town's most prominent lawyer shortly before graduation in the spring of 1984. I do remember the event, somehow. I knew the lawyer and his wife from church, but I had never been inside their home. The invitation to dinner was an honor reserved for seniors who -- well, honestly, I don't know how or why we ended up on the invitation list. Neither the valedictorian nor the salutatorian were there. But a bunch of the rest of us "leaders" were.

So we were talking about that dinner, and Krum piped up with a description of the attendees, all hunched together at one end of the table, while I sat at the other end with the adults and conversed about politics and art.

And then I started trying to draw my schoolmates into the conversation. "Oh, Mrs. Higgins, your collection of Depression glass is glorious. You should see Darla's mother's collection. It's just sublime. Darla, tell Mrs. Higgins about your favorite pieces!" And Darla stared at me because she couldn't care less about her mother's fabulous Fostoria collection, which even my mother envied, and Mama's thing was art pottery, not glass. Not so much glass. But c'mon, you'd have to be crazy not to love pink Fostoria glass things!

Then I tried to pull some other senior into the conversation, and I definitely remember the look of stunned fear when I said his name. Oh, my, goodness gracious -- I promise his jaw was agape!

And that's the way the evening went. On my end of the things, I could not for the life of me understand why these other teenagers were so silent and sullen, or why some of them looked fearful or lost, while I sat there trying desperately to keep the conversation from flagging at the end with the old people. I mean, come on, those people were actual blue-hairs! How could they possibly out-talk the cheerful extroverts I saw in school every day?

Krum told me all about it from his perspective. He said he sat there trying to dine without spilling anything on his tie, while I held the adults enthralled with my talk of collectible crap and theatre stories. I must have been telling the clean stories. I don't think I would've talked about what goes on in the costume closet. At a nice dinner. No, I don't *think* I would have done *that*.

But Mama raised me to be able to converse nicely. I didn't think about it; I just did it.

So if I had that experience in my background -- really well established in my psyche, really -- how could I so mess up at an audition that was far more important than a random dinner for graduating seniors?

Oh, well. At least I have sunsets, a puppy, a lot of cardstock and inks, and my health. The best things in life might not be free, but it's definitely cheaper to appreciate what I do have than it is to try to buy what I don't have.

Plaid. Not Plaid.

2009-06-22T12:35:00.003-04:00

A week and a half ago, I went to Nashville, stayed in a really nice hotel, didn't sleep much, and went to a hot hotel ballroom at 5:40 in the morning just so I could try out for a game show. I passed the really hard test. This is the second time I've taken such a test, and I have been surprised both times at my non-failure.

Then I waited around for hours, had a great screening interview, and bombed the second, more important audition on video. Eh. C'est la vie.

I'm still holding out a mild snippet of hope to make it onto the game show. Maybe the producers will find me representative of a demographic that they really want on the TV screen. I'm hoping that I am the perfect chubby middle-aged housewife who really doesn't belong on a quiz show but makes it, anyway.

A friend of mine was also in Nashville at the audition, and he has been keeping in touch to see if I get the dreaded sad postcard or the fabulous happy postcard. ("Happy postcard" means you're in the contestant pool; "sad postcard" means they don't want you.)

In a recent note, he called my outfit "plaid."

Now, I don't have trouble with plaid. It's fine for a number of interesting occasions, like chopping down trees and dancing Scottish jigs. I once saw a plaid ballgown on Project Runway that was really good for inducing vomiting, just in case you accidentally ingested some poison.

But I wouldn't wear plaid to an audition. It's not appropriate for my frilly personality.

So this entire post exists just so I can put a scan of my audition blouse on the blog and ask, "Would you, in a million years, ever call that pattern 'plaid'?" Maybe he meant "paisley." Both "paisley" and "plaid" start with the letter "p." Maybe that's what happened. Even though he used the word "plaid" more than once. He's incredibly brilliant and has much more important things rattling around in his head than the names of various kinds of decorative prints.

Can I wear that same blouse if I make it to TV? And if I do, will you all comment on my pretty paisley print?

Thank you for listening to me kvetch and obsess. Y'all are nice blog readers. Now I believe I shall go shopping for some lumberjack gear.

Home sweet home

2009-06-07T00:27:00.003-04:00

After dinner, while Wesley was watching the end of a movie I had already seen, I took little Doris Daylily for a long walk. The evening was gorgeous; the weather was cool and dry, and I didn't have my camera with me. I substituted a photo from last June. Pretty, huh?

I love the boonies.

Resume the résumé

2009-06-06T15:11:00.004-04:00

I don't like writing résumés. I don't know anyone who does. Writing a résumé automatically means you are looking for a job, and looking for a job usually means some kind of need for a job.

I have a crazy job history. When I was a senior in high school, I was the weekend receptionist at a museum in a town so small that no one ever came into the museum on weekends. I memorized the exhibits in a month, and then spent the rest of my year of weekends practicing my typing, studying, listening to the radio, and sometimes -- yes, really -- I stretched out on a wooden church pew and napped.

I was a camp counselor during my college summers. I taught archery and directed little plays based on fairy tales from the Red Fairy Book. I wrote and directed the end-of-summer productions -- people, I'm telling you that I re-wrote and directed both Snow White and The Wizard of Oz -- as water ballets. Starring more than 70 little girls. And being watched by 140 rabid parents. People cried. I'm just sayin'. Is all.

College was a trying time. I worked in an eyeglasses store for two weeks. I sold women's clothing for a couple of weeks. (I never understood the rule that said we had to wear heels to work. Heels? Seriously?) I was a substitute teacher for a while. Much beloved by employed teachers, because I was certified. But still. Substitute. Teacher.

I once worked for a landscaping company that did the gardens of the Rich & Elite in Knoxville. For two and a half weeks, I got to pull weeds and prune tea roses behind some of the nicest mansions in town. And I found out that rich people really do not want the hired help peeing in their guest bathrooms. It's so funny -- these are the same people who rush up to me after a play and tell me how much they enjoy my performances. But they surely didn't feel that way when I was keeping the other landscapers from uprooting their malva alcea fastigiata.

I sold my soul and worked for an ad agency. Won some awards. Started to hate myself and old friends. Bought career clothes that put me into debt and wore out the transmission of a Camry from trying to navigate crazy Knoxville traffic.

Then I was a temp. I think that was the best job I ever had. It was always interesting; I didn't have to play office politics, and I was good at it. And there was always light at the end of the tunnel. Every single client for whom I worked also offered me a permanent position at the end of my tempdom, but I declined as politely as I could. If I had worked any place as a regular thing for a long period of time, I think I would've driven my new-used Camry into a retaining wall eventually.

And let's not forget that I worked at the grocery store for a month. A whole month!!! I am shocked I made it that long. I've been a freelance writer, and a homeschooling rabblerouser (although no one paid me for it), and lately I've been selling my crafty wares at crafty fairs.

I don't think I can count my acting gigs as work. Oh, sure, they paid me. (Thank God!) But really, that's too easy to be called work. I should list that on a whole new section of my résumé under the heading "Luck."

So now I'm supposed to go out and find a new job. I went to college; I can type. I've been a clerical or assisting type employee before. I can write. I am tidy and at least moderately well-behaved most of the time. I'm not cute or young any more, and I'm wondering if that's going to have an effect on my interviews.

I was going to call this post "catharsis" and talk about how much I would really like to go off on a crying jag today and just get it all out of my system. Instead, I decided to play with my résumé and some nifty cardstock that was lying on my scrap table in the scanner. Today I'll play with the résumé. Tomorrow I'll ponder my place in the world.

Oh, and of course -- I'll celebrate my sister Amy's birthday! Happy birthday, Yamy! You don't look a day older than 29. I'm not kidding. At all.

Goat kids & hummingbirds

2009-06-02T12:22:00.004-04:00

I do truly wish I had a photograph to accompany this post. Alas, I did not have my camera with me for either of the encounters that made my week tolerable.

In background, let me just say that Wesley was laid off from his job of 27 years and the last couple of weeks have been pretty darned awful. I briefly thought about starting a whole new blog to ignore, Bay's Tragedy Blog, but I decided I just can't concentrate on the crud that thoroughly.

Color me nutty; I just prefer to look on the bright side. Even when it's really hard to find that side.

Then two things happened to make me laugh out loud with delight, so I'm gonna blog about those fabulous events.

First, Wesley and I were at the foot clinic. (Wesley got laid off on a Wednesday night and he had bone spur surgery on Friday, and then he had an ingrown toenail fixed the next Friday, so we have spent the last of our employment-paid Blue Cross Blue Shield health insurance on the care and keeping of Wesley's delicate little size 12 EEE feet.)

While we were waiting for the numbing to take effect in Wesley's toe, the nurse was running around and asking the teenaged assistants exitedly, "Did you feed him yet?" The teenagers rolled their eyes and said that they would rather clean the biohazard baskets than feed him.

"Can't it wait 'til I've mopped the kitchen?"

"No, it can't wait! It's been three hours! He's starting to yell!"

Just as she said that, down the hall, I could hear a faint baa.

As the nurse and the teenagers (who turned out to be her ungrateful daughters, and boy, do I understand that family dynamic) argued over how long it would be before "he" was fed, the bleating down the hallway became more urgent and insistent, and we finally came to understand that the critter who needed feeding was a two-day-old kid named Wilbur.

And of course, when I say "kid," I mean the kind that is a baby goat.

The nurse had purchased two breeding does. The mother of this particular kid was apparently not cut out for motherhood, and she had stomped Wilbur's twin to death before the nurse got home from work a couple of days before.

Dang, and we thought it was impolite of Wesley's former employer to let him go in such a careless manner. I think I'm glad his plant manager wasn't a breeding goat.

I was clapping my hands together in delight ever time the baby goat bleated somewhere away from me, and the nurse said I could go pet him. I found him in the office kitchen with two irritated teenaged girls who had absolutely no appreciation for the cuteness of a kid that small. Wilbur was sooty black except for a snowy white blaze on his forehead, and he was bouncing around on stiff little furry legs and bleating merrily while licking anything that he ran into. While I stood there watching him and in the space of about five seconds, the things he licked included a metal doorframe, a wall, a table leg, the carpet, and one of the teenager's jeans-clad legs.

The other teenager sat cross-legged on the floor with a towel across her lap, and she grabbed the kid and tried to cram a bottle in his overeager mouth. While she complained at him that he was not bright, he finally latched on and started drinking, and his little eyes nearly closed in contentment.

Now, my mother would take in any orphaned animal and we raised more than our fair share of orphaned kittens and puppies, so I'm pretty well acquainted with the cuteness of a nursing animal. For a city girl. But this sooty kid, nursing so hard you couldn't see his freaky-weird rectangular pupils --

It was just disgustingly cute. I was enraptured. I don't recall ever seeing such a baby goat live and in person. I have seen plenty of bigger kids and oodles of mean adult goats, but a baby that size is nothing but pure cuteness. I want one. I want it now.

I did a little reading up on goats, and when I started to tell Wesley about them just yesterday, he exclaimed in a fair amount of dismay, "No! We're not getting a goat! We're not! I know you! You're going to do research today! In a year, you'll say you really want a goat! You'll do more research, and a year from then, we'll have a goat! That's what you do! I'm putting my foot down now! NO GOATS!!!!" Give me a year or two. I'll wear him down. That's what I do. Besides, if you have a goat, you don't have to mow the yard so much. And Doris Daylily needs something to herd. I'm just sayin'. Is all.

The second really disgustingly fabulous thing that happened to me during this otherwise wretched week was that I cleaned out the hummingbird feeder yesterday. Oh, that's pretty normal. I clean it out and put in fresh nectar all summer long, after all.

But yesterday, when I went to hang it up, I put the loop over the hook and before I could let go of the bottle, a hummingbird zoomed right up to the feeder and started drinking. RIGHT THERE!!!! Right there next to my hand! Not a foot and a half from my face!!!! I was face-to-face with a thirsty little female ruby-throated hummingbird, and all she did was slurp nectar from the feeder!

I stood still and waited for her to finish dining, of course, and the whole time my entire brain was shrieking, "WHY DON'T I HAVE A VIDEO CAMERA TRAINED ON THIS FEEDER SO I COULD SEE THIS HAPPENING OVER AND OVER AGAIN?!?" Then I went to trying to silently will my family to walk outside with a camera so that they could see that I was four inches from a blind and oblivious hummingbird.

It reminded me of an old joke about a golfer who skipped church to play golf. God paid him back by giving him a hole-in-one... without a single witness.

That's how I felt yesterday.

On the other hand, I'll always have the memory of that hummingbird so close to me that I could see her little cheeks puffing with every slurp of nectar.

So those little things are why I've not taken to a fainting couch with a bottle of smelling salts. We'll get through this. Somehow. And as long as there are nice things to appreciate, like fluffy little baby farm animals and oblivious fowl, then I won't be bored on our way to happiness.

Stuff to catch up on

2009-05-16T02:16:00.002-04:00

Every once in a while, I write a note about my day for my friends and for Amy, and I think, "I should post that on my travel blog." Then I reconsider. If I wrote it for my friends and sister, is it really suitable for blogging? I'm never sure.

Anyway, here's where life is for me:
- Wesley got an insulin pump.
It took years and years of unregulated blood sugar that always swung violently low, but Wesley finally saw the light and got an insulin pump. He got it on Monday, May 4th. He has been improving immensely ever since. Oh, really, he's been improving in the last month before getting the pump, because the nutrition education has improved so much in the last fifteen years. Yea, nutritionists! Thank you for making our life easier to deal with!

- Emily's growing up. I don't really have a lot to say here, except that my daughter no longer wears all black, all the time.

- The economy sucks. Oh, yeah, everyone knows that. Wesley's still got a job. I don't. I should get one.

- Doris Daylily breaks hearts wherever she goes. This afternoon I was in a store, and the cashier looked outside and saw Doris with Emily. He coo'ed, "Cooooorgiiiiii!" I said that yes, that was a corgi. The cashier then rhapsodized, "I came from California to the South with a Welsh corgi. We lived in Atlanta. The first thunderstorm, she disappeared, and I never saw her again." I thought this was a sad story, but the cashier went on, "I've never had a more loyal dog." I told him to get himself another corgi because they still make that model.

- Rain! Glorious rain, fabulous rain, amazing rain! We've finally made up all the precipitation we were missing two years ago. Yay, rain!

- The air smells so delicious. Honeysuckle, English roses, privet hedge, peonies -- maybe it's just fresh grass and spring weather. Whatever it is, I love it. I wish they could put it in a bottle and let me wear it all year long!

- Woodrow needs to learn to shave his face. He has wild hairs growing out of his chin.

There! I'm sure I'm forgetting something, but this'll do for now. Have a lovely weekend!

I haven't forgotten

2009-05-11T11:44:00.002-04:00

I haven't forgotten my good old blog, and to prove it, here's a scrapbook page. I went crazy and did what REAL scrapbookers do -- I received the new Henna kit from Club Scrap, I made a layout according to a sketch, and THEN I went out and took pictures to put on the page. Awwwwwriiiiiiiight!

I did go a little crazy. I pulled in some purple paper from one of my old favorites -- Retro, September 2006. But by the end of the day on which Emily and I celebrated Mother's Day with a tea party? I had a layout. In the scrapbook. I mean, this is craziness. I have never been that organized.

Oh, sure, it was all motivated by luscious paper that I can't resist, and stamping with juicy ink pads that make my heart go pitty-pat, and making dots of dimensional glossiness on the intricate patterned paper just because I have dimensional glue that I like to play with. But still. I have a finished double scrapbook page, just like the ones real scrapbookers told me they made all the time back when I was writing articles about how to fill a one-page layout with paragraphs of memories.

It's official. I've crossed over to the other side.

I have to say, it feels kinda great.

Don't tell anyone I said that.

New blog!

2009-04-19T00:46:00.000-04:00

Amy and I have just launched a deliciously snarky new blog, and I'm so excited. I would be posting six or twelve times a day, but Amy warns me I'll run out of fuel if I just gorge myself on awful things in one weekend.

So check it out! We're blogging all the things we wouldn't do for a million dollars on Not For A Million!

Maybe I'm old. Maybe I'm tired.

2009-04-05T02:05:00.002-04:00

Or maybe I'm 15, and my sister is starring in a production of "The Sound Of Music" at the local college.

A cool video.

I weep.

--Bay

Doris Daylily continues growing

2009-03-31T12:18:00.004-04:00

I could write a whole book about Doris and how fabulous she is. I don't have time to write that book, though, so let's make do with a few pictures and a couple of anecdotes.

First of all, it's the first ever Pet Pledge Day at WUOT, the nearest NPR station. Wesley volunteers for all of their fund drives. Enthusiastically. Wesley loves a fund drive. Anyhoo, he already filled out a piece of paper saying that I've given in memory of Harry and in honor of Doris Daylily. Who couldn't love that? Giving to something good, and getting my dog's name out there. Too cool!

In general, though, Doris is fabulous. She loves to run, and throwing a ball for her is a very good thing, all by itself.

My favorite moments tend to be indoors, though -- sometimes Doris goes crazy and tears around the living rooms at the fastest pace she can manage, sliding under the furniture to make the biggest figure-8 that she possibly can, and scooting out the other side so she can resume her ferocious race. I can't tell you how exhilarating it all is.

Doris hates baths. I wish she didn't. My sister Amy has a bulldog named Lola who loves a bath. I am so jealous. Doris gets a bath once a month, and every time, you would think we were dunking her in acid. Poor thing.

But the best, best part is when she turns over and asks us to rub her tummy. I could do that for hours. Such a good dog! Such a good girl! I only wish I could get better photos of her!

Pot's funny, even if you never smoked it

2009-03-14T11:48:00.004-04:00

Hoppy's Trunk opened last night with the Tennessee Stage Company's New Play Festival, and as a result, I've been writing about it. Because I was in it. And for some reason, really nice people asked how it went.

I posted about it on my Facebook page, but not everyone is my friend. So here it is again, in all its wretched glory.

A bit of backstory: This is the world premiere of a comedy by Mike Farley. We've been calling it "a cross between Arsenic & Old Lace and Reefer Madness." That's a pretty darned good description, too! I have a tiny role, the unpopular neighbor. I make her particularly obnoxious.

On with my report:
People keep asking me to spill the beans about opening night, so I'll try! I'm accommodating, if nothing else, right?

OK. Opening night was very, very good. For an opening night.

I'm actually not crazy about opening night, myself. I'm a little too on edge to be comfortable, and you never know (or *I* never know) whether there's a critic in the audience. I think it's especially hard with a brand new play that no one's ever seen before. How many plays have opened on Broadway with tons of money behind them and very enthusiastic actors in them, only to be rejected by the audience and never heard of again? It's nerve-wracking!

But here to soothe my frayed nerves is my darlin' sister Amy, my best friend in the whole world, and a really cool person besides, anyway. I would never have tried out for a play if Amy hadn't done it first. Let's all blame Amy. Woo hoo, Amy!!!

Anyway, having a friend in the audience made it easier, but of course, I was still pretty much a wreck all night long. At intermission, another actor and I were commenting on it and saying how glad we would be when the whole thing was over.

The audience was faaaaaaaabulous. The Tennessee Stage Company does a wonderful job of arranging good opening night audiences. They throw a party afterward. So everyone who's there is looking forward to a party, which makes them happy. (Who doesn't love a party, right?) (We'll get to that in a bit.)

And lots of people in the crowd were there just to see specific actors, and those people were particularly giving.

I do so like a live audience! And when I say "live," I mean, y'know, living and breathing and laughing and clapping and getting involved in the performance. Opening night's audience was definitely one of those!

Me? I was a little rough. My timing was off. I rearranged a couple of lines, and I would've preferred a pristine, perfect performance. However, the audience really loved Mrs. Drysdale, er, I mean, Ida Smedley. There's nothing like a blowsy, obnoxious, judgmental, ignorant neighbor for getting the laughs. You can't go too over the top with someone like that, and I definitely tried to go too far. Can't be done. Slapstick is alive and well in the 21st century.

My biggest laughs were when I blew a raspberry, and when, having been given marijuana without Ida's knowledge, I fell out of a chair and yelled, "Get your own!" They really loved that stuff.

The rest of the cast did exactly what they've been doing and didn't seem to be the least bit nervous or off, blast them for all eternity. I've just decided I hate all of 'em. I'll kick them in the shins when I get back to the theatre tonight. Stupid perfect people. They suck!!! Numbered among them are stupid perfect Amy Hembree, disgustingly perfect Lisa Hatfield, and wretchedly perfect Sean Dietz. Don't get me started on that obnoxiously perfect Nicholas Robinson. Something should be done about all of 'em. But not by me, because I don't want it traced back to me. I'm just sayin'. Is all. Minions.

Rounding out the slobbery were disgustingly adorable, pretty, skinny, and young bitches Jennifer Osborn and Dale Mackey. (If I had any other role, I would want Dale's. Bitch.) And of course, I would like to smack the daylights out of Harrison Young and Gregg Roberts. Gregg's nightly glee over mussing his hair for the emerging-from-the-trunk scene makes my day, every day. I've never seen anyone so happy to be wrecking his coif! Makes me laugh!

After the show, there was the party. Dang it, I suck at parties. I am too much of an introvert. I changed into my finery (I'm so, so glad wide-leg trousers are back!), and went downstairs to find Amy and schmooze. As I made my way to Amy, a few people grabbed my arm and told me, "You were great!" I think they meant it. I wish they had seen a performance that was really good. And then there was the madding crowd. OMG. There must've been 70 people there; I could've died. I found Amy; I got a Sprite Zero. We got little plates of food.

(A side note about the food: There was a creamy soft-cheesy substance on a platter with crackers and toast points, and later David the brilliant and fabulous stage hand and I were talking about it, and I called it "crack with garlic." It was delish. Yummy. Wish I had some now. And David thought I was funny for calling it that. See why I love David?)

Then Amy and I ran backstage and hung out with the really cool crew (SERIOUSLY cool crew -- my favorite crew in 12 years; I love David and Chelsea and Amanda to death, and AD Jennifer is the *bomb*) while we ate our little plates of food and gabbed. Honestly, if I went out into the theatre area, people said really sweet, really kind, really nice things to me. And I tried to thank them, and I hope I did, but I was really just dying to crawl under the carpet and disappear.

I love the stage. I do. I love being somebody else for a while. And applause is just the best drug ever.

But I don't like parties. I really suck at them.

And now I get to go back and do the play the way I should've done it last night! Yay! And no more parties -- YAY!!! And Amy's home for the whole weekend -- YAAAAAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!

Right now, her name is Suzy

2008-11-28T02:53:00.001-05:00

Right now her name is Suzy...

But in a few weeks, she'll be mine!

Brace yourselves, duckies! Edisto's brewing!

2008-09-21T23:42:00.003-04:00

We went back to Edisto Island for a glorious week, and although my photographs stink (I'm terribly disappointed and my camera broke near the end of the trip) -- I'll be writing a full report. I swear! I promise! It was too fabulous a trip not to write about it!

So for those of you who remember my rambling and gushing about that nearly un-developed Low Country barrier island, then brace yourselves. We're in for another ride through the marsh!

And look at that picture -- such a trip can't be bad, can it?

Time for a new blog?

2008-09-11T02:19:00.006-04:00

I was just thinking the other day that since I don't travel much, and because I'm not suffering many travails these days, maybe I should start a new blog. I thought I could name it Bay's Truffle Blog. Every day I could post something delightful and pleasant to think about. But I just don't have time.

We're leaving for vacation this Saturday, and I haven't finished packing. Hey! You in the back! Stop snickering. No, I haven't started packing yet. Y'all know me too well.

Anyway, I made a book this week using Club Scrap's glorious new Cyprus stamps. I could not bring myself to use up a lot of the brand new Cyprus paper, so I used paper scraps from my stash. Pretty, huh? It's an ordinary accordion-fold affair with a ribbon binding.

Probably the weirdest thing I did was to rip the covers off a book I got as junk mail. Cigarette companies still send me premiums. I don't need cigarette premiums any more, because I don't smoke. Any more.

Anyhoo, I hate cutting book board, so I ripped the covers off the junk mail book and covered them with lusciously gorgeous Cyprus paper. I don't know if that's just economical or just brilliant, but at least I didn't have to cut any book board. And -- I have a pretty book for my efforts!

I'm going on vacation without cigarettes! Oh, my gosh, the last time I went on a family vacay, I was still smoking! This'll be different, won't it? I'll be able to traipse all around Charleston without wheezing!

How many pics can I cram into one post?

2008-08-28T02:16:00.008-04:00

I'm making flippy albums. I can't help it. I'm a stamper and a paper crafter and when someone says, "Here's something new," I reach for the inks and the bookbinding needle and the next thing I know, I'm up to my eyeballs in pages.

I'm making this one for... Well, I won't tell you. I will tell you that the photos in these pictures are temporarily attached.

Now, let's see how many pictures I can embed in one blog post.

Scrappin' again

2008-07-01T00:39:00.003-04:00

Club Scrap is sponsoring another speed scrapbooking contest this summer. CS is too nice to have individual scrapbooking contests, so they went for a team effort with very clear rules. They who scrap the biggest pile of layouts... win. They who are slow and careful will not win.

My darlin' team -- er, I mean, cabin -- the Campfire Croppers... have come in third. Twice so far. And judging from the pace set by the perennial winners, we're not going to overtake them. Even though I have made a concerted effort to actually contribute to my team's -- er, I mean cabin's -- efforts.

(See photo of two-page layout above.)

I made a two-page layout! And I put on pictures! Seriously! Only two years after the event, I finally scrapped Emily's foray into public school dances as a yippee-skippy rabblerousing homeschooling outsider.

I was soooooooo excited about that layout, not because it's pretty (cuz it clearly is) nor because it's finished (which is so unusual), but because of the papers and stuff that I used.

I mixed kits, y'all.

I haven't mixed kits in years. I used to do it all the time. But then I got burnt out on scrapbooking, and then I stopped scrapbooking at all, and then I took a year off and didn't make any scrapbook pages at all, and THEN came the Assembly Line Scrapbooking thang. (AKA "ALSB.")

Now, I don't stick to the ALSB instructions for the individual kits. I swap the instructions around. But I do keep the kits together now. It's easier. And faster. And more efficient and cost effective and all that stuff there.

But it's not nearly as creative as the old days when I would pull a pink from the Pastel collection, an ivory from the Reflections kit, and a dash of red from Polynesian.

So what really thrilled me about that layout up there is that I mixed some seriously diverse kits and themes all together, and it still looks like a rockin' faboo layout.

- Purple and grey paper from the Varsity (June 2005) kit
- Mauve paper from Chocolate Shoppe (Feb 2005)
- Floral print paper from the Beautiful Botanicals (May 2000 -- seriously classic!)
- "spring" stickers from English Garden (May 2004)
- "Fling" and "2006" stickers from Chocolate Shoppe
- charcoal ink from Workbench (August 2005)
- "Admit it - you're having fun" sticker from County Fair (June 2004)

Howzzat for a mash-up?

I admit it. I am having fun. I do love paper, after all.

Sick to death of haiku

2008-06-30T11:44:00.002-04:00

What is the modern obsession with haiku, dammit? Everywhere I turn, someone's writing a haiku. Is it the only form of poetry anyone can remember? Why can't they remember cinquains or quatrains, sonnets or acrostics? Why doesn't anyone ever write elegies any more? Even limericks are more interesting than haiku, for heaven's sake.

Project Rungay recently had a contest. (I didn't enter, I swear.) It was for a bag of hair product swag. Even that contest was haiku, and the winner had (a) nothing to do with classical haiku except the syllable count and (b) nothing to do with Project Runway at all. Very confusing. And disappointing.

And as I surf through blogs, I find post after post filled with improperly metered "haiku." I think people are beginning to think that if it has three lines, it's haiku.

It ain't.

But that's OK, because if it's wrong, then it's no longer haiku, and maybe we'll see the end of this popular haiku obsession in my lifetime.

Please, please, please.

Can I write an epitaph to haiku? Heh!

I'm a lazy bum

2008-06-25T10:45:00.002-04:00

I've been in Las Vegas since Friday, June 20th, and I've even been writing up my trip report for my friends. Yet I haven't posted here on my official travel blog.

I'm a lazy bum.

I've also been having a simply marvelous time. I'll try to post now.

And I saw Bette Midler last night. She's the best.

Cobbler prep

2008-06-14T02:34:00.002-04:00

I was going to blog about why I love Friday the 13ths, but I got carried away and wrote half a book. I'll save the story for another Friday the 13th.

In the meantime, I know where I'll be picking blackberries in July. And I really can't wait.

Emily has gone to the geek fest in Knoxville -- er, I mean, AdventureCon. She was dressed up and really looking forward to seeing a lot of her geeky friends. I saw a couple of guys dressed as Ghostbusters and a ninja/SWAT team guy when I dropped her off at the convention center. I also saw a little boy dressed as Indiana Jones. I think I kinda get the whole comic-con thing when you factor in the costumes. Everyone loves Halloween, after all.

But the best part of my day took place after I left the World's Fair park and went to the Old City. I finally found MagPies, Knoxville's most glorious and glamorous gourmet bakery. I've been hearing about it for years -- I even saw owner Peggy on a Food Network challenge some time ago -- but I somehow never ended up in the Old City at the right time to stop in and make a purchase.

Oh. My. God.

I should have found time before now.

Those cupcakes are far better than advertised. June's Super Deluxe flavors are Strawberry Basket, Ginger Peach, and Devil's Food. I got a mixed dozen of the minis for about $13.

The Strawberry Basket is my and Woodrow's favorite, but the Devil's Food and Ginger Peach are very closely tied for second. The Devil's Food had *dark* chocolate frosting. Pardon me while I pick my tongue up off the floor -- I keep dropping it while thinking about these cupcakes. Ginger Peach is refreshingly light and almost cleanses the palate all by itself -- it's just divine. But that Strawberry Basket defies description. Go get yourself one before June is finished.

I do not know how I'm going to keep myself from going back to MagPies over and over again. It's too far away to drive to on a whim, but, oh, I feel a whim coming on, anyway. How can I resist any business whose tagline is, "All Butter -- all the time"? I can't! I'm just not that strong.

Thank heaven!

Tennessee state bird calls!

2008-06-09T12:16:00.003-04:00

I just listened to my recording of the mockingbird in the middle of the night again, and I do not know enough bird songs to identify everything in this four-minute snippet. I can make out blackbirds, a cricket, and what sounds to me like a lawn mower starting, if a bird were to sing the sound a lawn mower makes when it isn't starting. I counted 21 different calls, but it was hard to keep track because he repeats some calls before he moves on to new ones.

If you know anyone who's an expert, I would appreciate some help identifying more bird calls.

Emily heard the recording and said, "My gosh, that mockingbird is lonesome!" Dang, I never thought of it that way, but she's right!

Big thank you to Amy for hosting the sound clip on the Grits to Glitz website. Someday I hope to be able to return, like, a fraction of the favors she's done for me.

It's a sin to what?

2008-06-07T01:38:00.002-04:00

Two o'clock in the mornin', and the mockingbird in my pecan tree across the street is trying desperately to prove that he's the manliest man in the tiny Philadelphia treetops.

Seriously, that bird has an impressive vocabulary. I recorded a couple of minutes of it on the nifty little recorder thingie that Amy sent me. He belts out a couple of measures of song, and then he repeats that motif three or four times. Then he moves on to another call, which is repeated three or four times. And so on, and so forth. When he gets around to sounding like a mockingbird, he starts all over again.

It's amazing.

And I'm glad I don't sleep with my windows open, or I would not get any sleep at all.

Summertime. And the livin' is... air conditioned, thank heaven.

Ch-ch-changes!

2008-06-06T01:40:00.003-04:00

This little bird is Emily's latest cockatiel. We tend to go through cockatiels rapidly. It's not intentional. We've had a few that weren't healthy. We've had some that stuck around for years. This one just happens to be new. Her name is Sylvia, and she shows a great deal of promise for being a great cockatiel.

Seems like just a couple of days since I was complaining about too much silence around the house. Boy, that changed quick.

Emily and Woodrow came home Wednesday afternoon, earlier than expected because of a death in the family with whom they'd been staying. I've never been so happy to see them!

Well, OK, there were some other times. But I can't remember them at the moment.

So Wednesday evening when I went for my walk at the gorgeous community park -- y'know, the one with the hawk's nest and all the forest and the wildlife abounding and all that stuff -- I was very surprised to find abandoned puppies at the top corner of the soccer field.

Surprised and, well, overemotional. Wesley and Woodrow and I scooped up the two girl puppies who looked an awful lot like pit bull puppies to me, and we brought them home overnight.

Yes, I'm shocked that there are still people out there who don't spay or neuter their animals. That's shocking enough. But then they dump the unwanted progeny? What is that about? Aren't they aware of the perfectly fine animal shelter just up the road?

Dis-gusting. Yeah. I love people.

Anyway. I got very little sleep because the puppies whined most of the night long.

Then when I got up, and I sent Emily to the nearest convenience store for a half gallon of milk, she decided to have her first fender bender.

Augh.

Yes. Quiet would be really nice right about now.

Emily's fine. The Prius is fine. The other car needs a new bumper. No one was hurt. And we took the puppies to the animal shelter this afternoon, after naming them Coffee and Toast.

Just a crazy Thursday, that's all.

Quiet house

2008-06-04T01:15:00.003-04:00

He is Hector the Magnifico. A thread on the Club Scrap message board called for pictures of our pets, so for the first time in years, I have gone to lengths to make sure I get some good pictures of the animals while they're still, well, alive.

Hector is now almost 11 years old and is considered a "senior" cat, so the last time we took him to the vet, he got some extra tests and a little more care. He's in great shape for a giant, 20-pound cat who doesn't move more than twenty minutes a day.

My wild children went off to Tellico Plains to spend a few days with friends. The moment they walked out of the house, silence as dense as fog descended. Even the birds seem subdued. I do not like this loneliness. If this is what retirement is going to be like, I would rather adopt some kids. Or at least a pack of dogs.

Heh! A pack of dogs. That would get Hector moving, wouldn't it?

Almost Monday

2008-06-02T01:55:00.003-04:00

Just a few days ago, I thought Woodrow's budgie Orlando was on her last legs. She had become obsessed with one of her toys, and she spent most of her time hunched over it, gazing non-stop into one of the mirrors. She didn't stop eating or drinking, and her poo seemed normal. But she just wasn't moving much from one perch, and sometimes she looked haggard from hunching over one mirror.

Orlando is five or six years old. I forget which. And budgies don't live more than 15 years if they're common yellow-and-green varieties. The ones that have been bred for exotic colors like Orlando's near-white pale yellow? They don't last nearly as long.

However, Orlando is by far the smartest and most entertaining and lovable bird we have in the flock. I love Cosmo, and he's great, but he's also really profoundly bitey. That's a normal yellow-naped Amazon trait. I don't hold it against Cosmo, but it makes it really hard to just enjoy his company sometimes.

Orlando is also a pretty grumpy, bitey bird sometimes, but she's got a much smaller beak. That makes for a more sanguine approach even when she's at her most hacked off state.

Anyway, Orlando got all obsessed with this one toy, and I thought she was going into a decline in general and would die any day. I started waking up earlier than Woodrow and purposefully uncovering Orlando's cage because if she was gonna kick the bucket during the night, I didn't want anyone else to have to deal with the trauma of finding a dead budgie.

Finally, I decided to take the toy that she was perched on for hours at a time -- out of the cage.

And lo! And behold! Orlando perked right up and started behaving normally!

Dang. I wish all potentially fatal problems were as easily fixed as Orlando's deadly toy fixation!

Once in a lifetime?

2008-05-29T02:47:00.003-04:00

When I was 10 years old, before we moved to Tennessee, Mama and I drove under a rainbow. I'll never forget it. I can't remember what chore took us in that direction, but we drove out the length of West Hightower Trail from Social Circle to Jersey, and before we got to our destination, we watched a rainbow get closer, then pass over us. And then it was behind us.

Mama said at the time, "Remember this -- you were just under the rainbow. It's a once-in-a-lifetime event."

And she was right, I guess. It was the only time she had ever passed under a rainbow, and it's the only time I've ever done so.

Earlier this afternoon, when I went for my walk at the darlin' little underappreciated Philadelphia Park, I watched a baby hawk stand on the side of his nest and try flapping his wings while he hollered for his mama to help him or watch him.

I was going to call this post, "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful," because I figure any birder worth half his weight in binoculars would envy me. But before I wrote it, I called my sister Amy. I have to. She's a much better birder than I am. She would really, really love to see this baby hawk and all the other birds I can't identify.

And it was Amy who marveled, "Just imagine all the people who will live out their entire lives without ever once seeing a hawk try out his wings for the first time."

Dang, I almost cried.

So I saw that today, and now I have to wonder if I'll ever see it again. Since I did not get pictures of the baby hawk, I can only hope that I will see it again. If not this year, then next.

Let's all hope for twice in a lifetime, OK? Thanks.

Cosmo says Memorial Day rocks

2008-05-26T23:23:00.003-04:00

This picture probably won't make anyone who's scared of parrots feel any less intimidated, but I just loved this snapshot of Cosmo. It's like he's leaning in for a closer look!

The weather was great (we got rain!), the chores were swiftly and cheerfully performed, and our dinner... was rained out. But other than that, it was a totally fabulous Memorial Day and we all thoroughly enjoyed it!

(After last year's drought, we really can't complain about rain. Ever. So instead of burgers on the grill, we had dinner inside and saved the burgers for a sunnier day. No big deal. And we got rain! Yay!)

Getting over my pique

2008-05-24T01:50:00.001-04:00

I said I'd keep altering it, and I kep' my word. Tomorrow, I just might seal it all up.

After I add some micro glass beads, that is. I am a pure sucker for glass.

Anyway, Friday was spent entirely in the pursuit of healthy teeth. I arrived at my dentist's office 7 minutes late. Before I got there, I called ahead to tell them that I was running late. Then I spent 12 minute knocking on a door and worrying that I had gotten the date wrong. See, since I am so special, they had scheduled me for a Friday, their day off. That way, I was the only patient in the whole office.

Yeah, I'm special.

It was not fun. On the other hand, it wasn't half as bad as I thought it would be.

(I mean, seriously, my last dentist threw great parties, but his work has totally sucked so far. So I thought that when my new dentist pulled off this leaking front cantilever bridge, he would also discover 8 abscesses. Thank heaven, he didn't.)

On the other hand, my new dentist gave me front teeth that look like... well, normal people's teeth. I have had too-short, abnormally blunted teeth since I was 11 years old and had old-fashioned braces back in the dark ages of orthodontia. I don't know who thought it would be cool to grind off my teeth so much, but they did, and I haven't been normal since.

Dr. Simpson pointed out that most people have front teeth that are 9 to 11 millimeters in length. I had 8 mm teeth.

So he did special and extra-painful things to me to give me longer, more natural front teeth.

I now have long front teeth.

My husband, poor thing, woke up at 3:00, just when I was falling asleep from the pain meds. I told him, "I have rabbit teeth like you now," and then I fell fast asleep, so he hasn't even seen them yet.

(That's because he went to work at 5:15 pm, when I was still asleep and recovering from my dental trauma.)

(Grown-ups work ungodly hours if they want to support their families, y'know. Don't judge.)

Anyway, I did keep altering the Tink notebook. I'm afraid Amy will smack me. The last version I posted was cute. This version is stamped with the elemental table and other stuff, which isn't quite as darlin'. Please forgive me, Yamy! I just couldn't stop where I was!

Now I'm asleep. Saturday, I hope to wake up early enough to scout out the haps at the roadside flea market in Sweetwater. We Lofti hope to vacay in Edisto this coming September, but I surely would love to meet my girls in Disney World in November, too. So I must sell some paper goods. Stay tuned!

Bad mood blogging

2008-05-23T00:18:00.003-04:00

I don't have an image for tonight's post. Hell, I shouldn't even be awake for tonight's post, but here I am.

I finally looked at my calendar today and discovered that I missed a deadline and blew it with my favorite client.

While looking at my neglected calendar, I discovered that I have to go to the dentist tomorrow morning -- insanely early in the morning -- for more major dental work, which I would really rather just go ahead and shoot myself in the foot than have.

I recently gave up drinking. Did I mention that? Yep. I gave up my usual midnight cocktail. I figured I didn't need the extra calories. It wasn't any moral thing. I just figured, y'know, since I'm working out and avoiding fat and sugar, maybe I should also do away with the 8 bazillion calories in the average White Russian.

So I found out I have the Big Dental Appointment, and I went straight to Knoxville and bought everything I need to make major White Russians.

Damn the calories. I want something to get me through the next couple of days of pain and suffering.

Now I should be asleep, and instead, I'm narrating "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" for my cat. Hector really doesn't care all that much. I, on the other hand, am utterly blown away by the special effects as if I've never seen this movie before.

So here's what hacks me off tonight:
- I have to go to the dentist for hours and hours and it'll be expensive and it'll hurt for days.
- I don't even like my dentist. I wouldn't hang out with him in real life. I loved my last dentist, but it turns out he was a great guy who wasn't a great dentist, and now I'm not sure which attribute is better to have: Being sweet or being proficient.
- Mostly because I am sweet, but not at all proficient, and that makes me doubt my worth.
- I'm not sleepy.
- No one else in my family appreciates the taste treat that is Oreos and orange juice.
- I blew it on that newsletter.
- I've never seen "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" with subtitles. And everyone knows the only way to see a foreign film is with subtitles.
- I still don't have a dog.
- I didn't go walking today. I should have gone. But I was too busy feeling sorry for myself. Tomorrow, after my dental appointment from hell, I will not want to go walking, and then I will feel that much worse.
- And I have fire ants! I have fire ants in my porte cochere! I live in Tennessee, for heaven's sake, and every year as I watch the growing smears of red clay fire ants hills on each side of the road, I wonder how this came to be. I remember what fire ants were like in my Mississippi cousins' yards. How could those insects have moved so far north? Why do I have to worry about eradicating these things from my Tennessee yard? What is going on with the world, anyway???

The weekend must be better.

Warning: Brush your teeth.

2008-05-22T00:58:00.004-04:00

The weather is great; the spring is progressing normally; I am healthy; and I heard both the baby hawk and the mother hawk the last couple of days on my walk. Poor mother hawk. She thought she had put her nest in such a remote, unused location, and now I have to come along and gang her best-laid plans agley.

All the squawking, flapping, and general all-purpose flipping out -- every time I hit that corner in the path, she has to squawk and fly away to get me to move away from her nest.

The nest, though, is 'way at the top of a big, tall old tree, and I'm not about to climb it just to poke at a baby hawk.

OK. Maybe I would if I could. But I can't. Yet.

So I was bored this afternoon, and I found an old Tinker Bell notebook that was kind of ugly. And I altered it. For it to look so very precious and cuuuuuuuute (toothache, anyone?), it surely started out sour and kind of, well, bad-acid-trippy.

Not that I've ever had a bad acid trip. I wouldn't know a bad one from a good one.

The original colors were hot pink and purple, and Tink's skin was light blue, her hair was bright blue, and her eyes were -- orange. Yes. Orange. I never understood that.

So I painted the thing with glossy white acrylic paint, spritzed it with fuchsia Glimmer Mist, then pressed a cut-out Tink image I salvaged from a coffee-stained old notepad at the bottom of the junk drawer into the wet paint. While I waited for that to dry, I punched flowers from various bits of paper and cardstock I found around the house, and yep, I spritzed more with Glimmer Mist.

(If you're a Club Scrap member, then I should confess that one flower is a lone Nature's Wonders punch-out flower. I'm sure you know which one that one is. And the rest of the papers are some Simply Beautiful scraps, Bistro yellow trapezoids cut by hand, and ... junk mail papers. I'm sorry. Some of that stuff would never grace a Club Scrap pizza box.)

Tomorrow I might add some stamping. I just can't stop now. This is too much fun!

Note: I have no idea why there are grey pits in the white acrylic paint. I'm just guessing that something in the mist spray is like alcohol or acetone and that's what pitted the paint. It's still a really cool effect.

A betrayal. Of sorts.

2008-05-20T03:23:00.003-04:00

My mother waged a war against an invasive plant called privet hedge for as long as I can remember. She hated the stuff. If it sprang up in her yard, she would break out the maddock and start chopping up the shrub in an attempt to eradicate the roots from the earth.

I mean, seriously. Mama spent a lot of energy fussing about and trying to kill privet hedge.

So I feel very guilty to confess that -- darn it, I love the way privet hedge smells when it's in bloom. And it's in bloom right now. As I take my daily walks in the park, I inhale deeply at the parts of the trail that pass closely to out-of-control thickets of massive privet shrubs.

(In a couple of years, the privet will probably overtake the rest of the park. It is an invasive plant, after all.)

I can't help it -- I really do love the way the trail smells right now. I wonder if it will change as the summer progresses.

Today's hike revealed a light green, slender snake that had been run over. I mourn the loss -- no telling how many mosquitoes that snake could've eaten this coming June.

But at least I had a little bouquet of flowers to console me -- maybe Wesley is taking advice from the cereal box? I don't mind! It was a nice surprise to find myself with some blooms in the living room.

Lovely!

2008-05-18T00:45:00.003-04:00

I've mentioned that I receive Real Simple magazine by subscription. I realized with the first issue that I have absolutely no business reading this magazine. It isn't really about "real simple." It's really about "real rich," and I don't qualify.

So I really should cancel the thing.

But it is a very pretty magazine and kinda hypnotic once you start reading it. If you're a middle-aged homemaking mother with delusions of grandeur.

And... I kinda am.

Every issue, Real Simple asks its readers to submit answers to a question, and strangely enough, this issue's question is, "How do you find the motivation to exercise?"

Pardon me whilst I snort at length.

OK. I don't exercise. OK? I don't. I am always reminded of the scene in "The Big Easy," when Ellen Barkin meets Dennis Quaid's mother who asks her what she was doing. Ellen says, "I was running." And Mama, played by the totally brilliant Grace Zabriskie, replies incredulously, "Running?" And the thing is -- she isn't shrill; it isn't an over-the-top and unbelievable shriek or anything. It's just so matter-of-fact and understated. Running. Huh. How 'bout that?

So for me to report that I am loving my walks and enjoying the pain and agony of repeated laps around a track that is steeply raked on one side is, well, unusual. To say the very least.

The hawks always yell at me as I approach one particular bend in the track. The very back of the park butts against a densely wooded lot, surrounded on all sides by open fields. Yesterday the wind blew just hard enough to make the grass look like an ocean of waves.

Yeah, they write songs about "amber waves of grain," but you absolutely can't see that in a city. Not even a virtuous historic downtown district. You have to be in the boonies to see stuff like grass that looks as supple and unending as a sea.

So I checked the "Your words" column in the June issue of Real Simple. The readers replied that they were training for half-marathons, or their husbands worked out with them. Or they just needed the "alone" time.

Not one of them said, "I can't wait to see which wildflowers are in bloom or to hear the hawks or just to smell the densest forest earth at the top of the track."

I am a freak, I guess.

That's OK. I'm used to it! And oh, thank you for not being on my remote rural track with me. I'm afraid I wouldn't love it as much if there were other people there to spoil it for me!

5 Guys V. Gridiron

2008-05-16T02:35:00.005-04:00

I was all psyched up for another walk around the Philadelphia park to see the hawks, but rain prevented me. This is my very own peony in the front yard, so full of rain that it cannot help but droop pathetically.

Instead of walking, I picked up our new microwave-oven/hood, and I performed a few chores in West Knoxville, land of the evil strip malls and massive Walmarts and Targets. Ooooooo. I am no doubt headed straight to hell for giving business to such evil entities. Yet I had a fabulous dining experience nonetheless.

Last night, Wesley and I stopped at Gridiron Burgers for dinner. Wesley and Woodrow love Gridiron Burgers. So does my beloved father-in-law Bob and our darling UT-student nephew Christopher (who used to be Kicker when he was a toddler, but I'm supposed to forget about when he was adorable).

Wesley and I had just spent our economic stimulus package money on some electrical things we needed. And being in the evil West Knoxville area, we were going to dine somewhere nearby. Downtown Knoxville wasn't handy, even though it is clearly more virtuous than West Knoxville.

(Seriously, I love downtown Knoxville and especially Market Square, but it has been rendered impossible to reach by the I-40 closures.)

Wesley and I got into a lengthy debate about the best burger place in West Knoxville. Wesley told his British co-worker to try both Gridiron and Five Guys, and said co-worker now intones in a dense accent, "Five Guys has the best focking burger I've ever had!"

Wesley, however, and my dear son Woodrow, both prefer Gridiron Burgers. Wesley says that the atmosphere is better at Gridiron, and he always positions himself in a place to watch whatever sporting event is on the TV. On Wednesday night, that was a Lady Vols softball game.

I contented myself with gnawing through a dry hamburger and pretending like I was shopping for shoes with a fabulous gay boy, which would have been a much more pleasant experience, anyway.

This afternoon, after picking up a microwave oven/hood, and after finding lots of bird food at PetsMart, Woodrow and I went to Five Guys Burgers & Fries.

And I have to reiterate that I prefer Five Guys over Gridiron.

Gridiron pretends to be fancier and more ... highbrow. The atmosphere is pretty, but it pretty much sucks with the sports TVs all over the room. And I don't like their dry rub or the flavors they add to their gourmet burgers.

Five Guys, on the other hand, has a kind of cafeteria/subway-kiosk vibe in their atmosphere, which is easily as irritating and unpleasant as sports TV. But the burgers are totally sublime and juicy, the fries are MASSIVE (don't try to eat a small order of fries by yourself; it can't be done), and the prices are better.

Five Guys wins extra points for carrying Coke Zero. Gridiron has only ordinary Diet Coke. Those of us who are late converts to the world of diet drinks are very much aware of the differences, and we're always going to choose the more diverse restaurants over the ones that limit our sugar-free choices.

I'm just sayin'. Is all.

If you're on the fence, or you're a chick in search of a nice burger on that one day a week when you think it's safe to venture from your diet, pass Gridiron and head over to Five Guys. You can always pretend you're ordering for someone else and enjoy the decadence in the privacy of your own Prius!

Bookmarker blogging

2008-05-15T02:04:00.002-04:00

The long and winding road... leads back to my beloved Prius and up the hill toward healthful walking for my eventual improvement.

Ugh!

Amy and I just podcasted about how we went to college so we wouldn't have to exercise, but unfortunately, our rock-star lives of dissolute pleasure and infinite carelessness have led us to the point that -- ugh! -- we really must exercise.

I know, it sucks, but I have to get through it all somehow.

So Wesley dragged me out to the our municipal park today to get me started on my exercise regiment, and damn if he didn't get me all sucked in by nature and joyful, fabulous flora and fauna.

The Philadelphia park has a 0.6-mile track that meanders up one hill and down part of the other side, around overgrown and misshapen soccer fields, basketball courts without baskets, and tennis courts that are bursting at the seams with weeds. I know there were winters when I ventured out there that held half a tree over the paved track. Now, the park is mostly patrolled by Mommy & Me classes and Loudon County deputies trying to catch high school students and their marijuana dealers.

But oh, that description does absolutely nothing for the reality of neither the workout nor the fauna of this magnificent walk.

I am torn -- seriously, torn -- as to whether or not I should write to the editor of the News-Herald about this gem of a park. It's so magnificent that parts of it smell like the deepest, darkest, most uncivilized portions of the Blue Ridge Parkway. It's so unspoiled by human contact that a pair of hawks squawked and complained as I rounded one corner of the track, trying to lure me away from their nest and -- I am merely guessing -- their delicate hatchlings.

It's gorgeous. It smells like the unspoiled boonies. There aren't tons of athletic yuppies checking their pulses and ruining my good time.

This is all entirely too good to last.

I swear, I really tried to capture both the cries and the images of the parent hawks. My sister Amy is a bird person, and I know she would be enraptured by such sights. I will keep trying to capture it all.

In the meantime, I know where I'll be picking blackberries come July. And I can't wait. If I happen to get healthy from walking in circles while keeping an eye on such delightful rural treats -- well, more power to me.

Night life in the boonies

2008-05-14T00:15:00.004-04:00

I keep forgetting to take pictures of the irises during magic hour. I think of it at noon, when the sun is the most unforgiving and unflattering, and then I think of it again when I'm putting the dinner dishes in the sink and it's already too dark.

Dagnabbit!

So here's a night time photo of the nearest iris to my house. I finally used the flash! It is a good one, as far as flashes go. I just really don't like 'em.

Every night, very late -- very, very late -- I usually get tired of being cooped up inside and run outside to breathe in the fresh night air. It smells really good outside right now, even though the cheese farm down the road is definitely fertilizing its fields. I captured a whiff of that particular rural scent earlier today -- nothing like tons and tons of cow poo flying out of a scary machine on the horizon. Wesley confirmed the fertilizing when he came home from the store with flowers for his mother.

But! I'm not s'posed to be writing about the stinky stuff over the hill. I'm s'posed to be writing about how delicious it smells in my own yard. At midnight, it smells like -- freshly cut grass with a hint of wild onion and blooming peonies. It smells like chlorophyll. And it's cool, clean, and fresh, and delicious.

I wish I slept outdoors in the spring. Even with the pollen making me sneeze, it's so much better out there than cooped up in the dusty old house.

Cereal box advice

2008-05-12T13:16:00.002-04:00

My Product 19 had advice for me this morning.

It has been a long, long time since I sat silently at a breakfast table with a bowl of cereal and stared at the box. Do you remember doing that when you were a kid? I certainly do.

As an adult, though, my breakfast is usually inhaled while running around doing 18 other things with the news running in the background.

Today was different. I was staring at my cereal box and I noticed a sidebar. "Embrace Your Day," it said. Then it -- the cereal box -- told me how to embrace my day.

1. Invite a friend over for breakfast.
Excuse me? Seriously? I can't believe I subject my own poor children to my early morning company, much less some non-family member who did nothing to deserve such wretched treatment. I am not fit company until I've been awake for at least three hours. If I took that advice, I would not have that friend for long.

2. Get involved in your local farmer's market.
We don't have a farmer's market. The one in Knoxville charges too much money and doesn't provide tables. I'm pretty sure I already ranted that rant. Didn't I?

3. Buy yourself some flowers.
Oh! OK, now we're talking! After I buy myself some flowers, can I also buy myself some chocolate and shoes?

The cereal box goes on, but I'm worn out from the arguing inside my head. I think I will just embrace my day the way I usually do -- homeschool the kids, write a newsletter, and take a walk with my camera this afternoon to get some springtime in Tennessee pictures for my sister. Is that embraceable enough for the Kellogg's company? Maybe I should write to them and ask them.

Smokies in May

2008-05-09T16:56:00.004-04:00

I like this photo for a few reasons aside from the obvious goof that I accidentally took a picture of my elbows. Yep, this is an uncropped picture! As is! Un-retouched! What you see is what I saw!

Except I didn't notice my own darned elbows in the side mirror. Snort!

We did, indeed, pile into the beloved Prius and hie ourselves off to the Great Smoky Mountains where we hiked and picnicked without a drop of rain falling until we were on our way home. Are we good or what?

And once again, the benefits of homeschooling outweigh all the hassles -- there was hardly anyone else out there on a completely perfect weekday. It was gorgeous. There were many moments on the trail when we couldn't see or hear another human being in any direction. And that was the easiest trail in the whole dang area!

I found a wildflower with which I was not familiar, so I identified it when I got home. It's a dwarf crested iris. Pretty, isn't it? Especially growing right next to the wild strawberry blooms. Makes me want to go back in a few weeks to pick berries!

In any case, the air was gorgeous, clear, delicious, lightly cool and blessed with a bit of a breeze that made the tops of the trees talk to us while we walked.

As we drove slowly back toward Townsend with our feet sticking out the windows, I told the children that if we're given warning of the end of the world, they'll find me there in the mountains. I cannot imagine any more glorious place for life or last moments.

The heavens opened up just as we approached Maryville. It rained all afternoon -- a good, soft, soaking rain the likes of which we didn't get last year at all. Maybe a hike in the Smokies is like a rain dance.

Maybe I should do it more often.

May days

2008-05-08T00:09:00.003-04:00

I love May. I do; it's the most glorious month of the year in both terms of weather and the things that bloom.

The bachelor's buttons in this picture aren't the best clump I've seen around here, but my neighbors with the daisies mixed in probably wouldn't appreciate me stompin' around in their yard trying to take a picture, y'know?

Tomorrow we're supposed to be hiking in the Smokies, so I am almost positive the rain will move in and prevent us again.

Dagnabbit.

At least the rain will cool things off, and of course, after last year's drought, I'm hard pressed to complain about precipitation. I think we still have a way to go before we've recouped all our losses last year in the water table.

So honestly, at this point, I don't know whether I want it to rain -- and postpone the hike -- or not.

Maybe I'll figure it out by the time I blog next.

In the meantime, listen to my and Amy's latest podcast. I giggled more than usual even though we almost got into a fight over Project Runway bizness.

"Get bent! TAX MAN!"

2008-05-05T02:10:00.003-04:00

I am supposed to be blogging about how I want a garden this year, and I'm afraid I have waited too late. And I don't want to call my mother-in-law to ask her advice about canning vegetables. I'm supposed to be blogging about springtime and the economy (which sucks) and why I didn't grow veggies last year during the drought.

I'm supposed to be writing about my guilt, and my worry, and staying awake at night while I worry that I have waited too late and I will never make a difference even though I love "The South" and "The Boonies" and "The Environment" more than anyone else ever has or ever will --

But I am completely and utterly derailed as "Stranger Than Fiction" comes on TV again. I love this movie. I love Will Farrell. I love Emma Thompson. I love Queen Latifah. And I love, I love, I love Maggie Gyllenhaal with her punk rock soul and her F-U attitude and her love of all things baked and yummy.

We all need that. We need anarchists who love cookies.

But ... Most of us are judgmental yuppies who think WalMart is more evil than, say, pushing little old ladies into traffic.

These are the things that keep me from blogging about gardening.

If you're here because Amy and I haven't posted a new podcast yet, don't worry -- we will. Amy went on vacation with her husband for his birthday, and she's enjoying San Francisco, the one city that resides at the top of my "wish list" for cities I want to visit before they're gone.

She's having a marvelous time, and so is Paul. Try not to be as envious as I am!

Watch a good movie instead. I recommend "Stranger Than Fiction." Not "No Country for Old Men," which I just saw Friday night with my husband. "No Country for Old Men" is not a good movie, and I can't understand why it was nominated for so many Oscars. "There Will Be Blood" was much, much better, and I can't say that it was sunnier or any more cheerful than "No Country for Old Men." I am genuinely confounded as to why the Coen brothers or anyone else thought "No Country for Old Men" would be a good movie. It isn't. It's bereft of good guys for whom to root. The sheriff (Tommy Lee Jones)? Good guy. His wife? Good guy. The wife of the main character (Kelly McDonald)? Good guy. Otherwise, no one is a good guy. I just can't figure that flick out, and my husband tells me that all Cormac McCarthy plots are similarly handicapped by unhappy endings for all concerned.

The last book my mother loved was "All the Pretty Horses" by Cormac McCarthy.

Lots of Knoxville bloggers are utterly enamored of McCarthy only because he was from Knoxville.

I love the fact that Cormac McCarthy doesn't hang out with writers. I agree with him. Writers are, for the most part, terrible, awful, jealous, mean, stingy people. I don't want to hang out with writers, and I am a writer. I don't even want to hang out with myself.

So "No Country for Old Men"?

I don't get it.

I loved "There Will Be Blood," though. Loved it. Go see that movie. Don't waste your time on the other depressing movie that won so much attention from the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.

Seriously.

Now I have to get back to "Stranger Than Fiction," where Emma Thompson is about to tell Queen Latifah, "I don't need a nicotine patch, Penny. I smoke cigarettes." I have quit smoking since this movie came out, and I still love that line.

Wanna Be Farmer

2008-05-02T02:13:00.003-04:00

Wesley has this fascinating and unforgettable theory that all the great story themes are "He just wanted to be a farmer, but [blank] pushed him to be a hero."

It applies to almost every movie you can think of. Star Wars? Luke just wanted to be a ... whatever it was that his uncle was, but Darth Vader forced him to be a hero.

The Godfather: Vito just wanted to import olive oil, but circumstances forced him to become a mob boss.

Gone With the Wind? Scarlett just wanted to trap Ashley into marriage, but the Civil War forced her to be a materialistic serial monogamist.

See?

I could go on forever. Try it out sometime. This theory doesn't work for "she had a lifelong dream" movies. Like, y'know, "A Chorus Line." Man, that flick was great.

So, all I wanted to be was a writer. That's all. Then the cable company sold me a wireless router that doesn't work properly.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Hector loves his ball. That's why the photo is pasted above.

Friday -- if I wake up, if the weather is nice, if the moon aligns with Mars, etc. -- Friday, we might go hiking. I'm not holding my breath. I really want to spend some quality time in the Smokies, but I'm afraid May 2nd isn't the right date for me.

And there's a Cuban restaurant in Market Square that I've been dying to try, but they're only open for lunch.

I do so love Cuban food. It reminds me of a trip to Miami with Amy, when we went to a Brazilian buffet and were the only Anglos in the whole place. In the middle of the night, there was a car wreck just across from our frighteningly kitschy hotel. And darn it, people, this place was in the middle of hip, downtown, near-the-beach Miami. I mean, the elevator had to be operated by an operator, for heaven's sake. And he didn't speak English. I loved that hotel! I wish I could remember the name.

I just wanted to be a writer, I swear.

Why can't fate just let me be?

(ROFL!)

Yay, spring bloggers

2008-04-30T01:52:00.002-04:00

I am, as I mentioned last week, completely enamored of a bunch of Knoxville blogs/bloggers. I wish I could claim that I belong in that group of cool people, but I don't. I'm not young. I'm not hip. I do not have the new taste of the blissful urbanite. I do love downtown/historic Knoxville, but from the distance provided me in my totally rural locale.

Thank goodness no one has to rely on me to be their taste monger.

My favorite Knoxville blog, bar none, is "The Sunsphere is not a wig shop." I wish it were a wig shop. When the Tennessee Stage Company was centered in the Candy Factory, we could get chocolate-covered Rice Krispie treats at the drop of a hat. I miss those 2003 days.

Hesitant? Why?

2008-04-29T01:34:00.003-04:00

I have been very hesitant to post, and I'm not sure why. I mean, after all, I've been reviewing plays in various places for ages.

The truth is -- we saw "Guy & Dolls" at the Clarence Brown Theater. It was the next-to-last performance of that show. Anything we might have to say about it could not possibly affect the box office receipts of the theatre itself. Yet I'm still hesitant to be brutally honest.

So I'll be glossily honest. It was an OK production of "Guys & Dolls." The director absolutely did indulge in type-casting the same tired graduate students in the same tired sorts of roles we've all seen all season.

However, the imported guy as Sky Masterson, and the under-the-radar 3rd-year MFA guy as Nathan Detroit were both totally bearable in their roles.

The male chorus absolutely out-performed the all-female Hot Box Dancers and such.

But -- dang it, I've seen community theatres kick Clarence Brown butt on "Rockin' the Boat." (Chattanooga Theatre Centre, take a bow -- they completely killed the Clarence Brown on sincere gospel singing.)

I didn't really want to post this snark. I would love to be nicer about productions at the University of Tennessee. I'm not holding my breath about the 2008-09 season, which sounds dull. Yes, I said dull. As in boring. Yawn. Wake me when it's over. I can't believe they're doing "A Christmas Carol" again. Yes, this last December's offering was good - that doesn't mean it should be reprised. So soon.

It's times like these that I wish I had more influence and power... and then I remember that with power comes responsibilities. What? Oh, my! Look! It's a free burrito stand! Gotta go...........

Twitcher (a.k.a. "evil genius)

2008-04-26T01:00:00.005-04:00

See? I said I had lots of cute cards to sell.

Anyway, my left eyelid has been twitching all day. It's driving me crazy. I keep having to hold it shut to make it stop twitching. Since I'm legally blind in my left eye, not being able to see out of it is not at all bothersome. I don't see out of it, anyway. That makes the muscle issues *really* annoying. I don't even need that eye. So why the twitching?

My sister Amy writes this promising explanation, though:
"The uncontrollable eye twitch is a classic sign of evil genius. I knew you were a genius, but the evil part is a surprise."

Oh! That makes me feel so much better. I always wanted to be an evil genius. Instead I turned out to be a cute, poetic, greenthumbed, bird-watching, Thanksgiving-dinner-cooking sweetheart. Dang it. All my plans are going awry.

Wesley and I are going to the theatre at UT tomorrow night, and I am almost sure that they're going to disappoint me. We saw "Major Barbara" last fall. Then the cast of Major Barbara pulled out the very same characterizations for the party scene in "A Christmas Carol." I'm willing to bet my last dollar that the very same graduate students will be cast in the very same corresponding roles for "Guys & Dolls." I haven't read any reviews. I'm waiting to write my own rant.

And yes, that might actually make me a genuine evil genius.

P.S. -- To those who wrote -- and Sara wasn't the only one! -- about the hummingbird nectar and whether or not I changed it. Yes! I did! I have left out nectar too long in years past. I always feel guilty when we go on vacation, too. Will my neighbors change my nectar for me? No? Well, could they just take down the feeder after two or three days? Poor little hummingbirds. I've been getting them inadvertently drunk for years!

Buggerhead!

2008-04-24T23:36:00.007-04:00

I can't get a good shot of this year's first humming- bird!

According to the Humming- bird Mig- ration Maps, the ruby- throated hummingbirds returned to my area on March 22nd.

Hmph. Not at my house. I have had nectar out for weeks and weeks, and it wasn't until Saturday that the level started dipping.

I guess my hummingbirds were having too much of a good time in Mexico, huh? They certainly picked up pointers in zipping away from a camera like Speedy Gonzolez.

[It just occurred to me that I don't know how to spell that character name. This wouldn't happen if it were a Disney character.]

Aside from the hummingbird activity, it was hot here in East Tennessee today. When I left my dentist's office in Lenoir City, the temperature gauge in my beautiful Prius said it was 91 degrees. Ow. No wonder I've already turned my air conditioning on again. I desperately need to plant more shade trees around my house to keep it cooler.

At least the weather forecast calls for more rain. Goodness knows we're luckier this year than last, but I'm glad it's supposed to rain this weekend. C'mon, precipitation!

Besides -- maybe a little water would slow down that blasted hummingbird so I could get a good look at him.

Selfish Bay; or, It's Always Something

2008-04-23T23:30:00.003-04:00

I have finally made so many cards that I can't possibly use them all or give them away to family members for Christmas.

So I thought I would sell a few.

I considered the methods. Flea market, mail-order website, yard sale, or standing in traffic and hawking my cards'n'books like a turn-of-the-21st-century paperboy.

Then I saw an item on the Knoxville News-Sentinel's website touting cake at the opening of the Market Square Farmer's Market. That led to a number of thoughts --

I love Market Square. I've loved it for years. When I was an ad agency copywriter working in downtown Knoxville, I loved going to lunch at the Soup Kitchen. Yet it was depressing because dang it, those beautiful old buildings deserved to be saved.

Later, I did a play with a small theatre company in the dilapidated and crumbling old Watson's building. Terrifying. And I loved it. So many ghosts.

I was a volunteer for the Tennessee Stage Company the first year they produced free professional Shakespeare in the middle of the Market Square construction madness. Again -- terrifying. But totally encouraging.

Since then, of course, the construction has been completed. I go to the Preservation Pub to see my far-flung friends come back to Knoxville to play there. Wesley loves to dine at the Tomato Head. I still like to walk through and just see what's on tap at Vagabondia.

(The prettiest scarf I own was purchased at that darling boutique, and I still feel like it was a decadent splurge -- but man, I love that store.)

So, I guess what I'm saying is -- I really love Market Square. And I thought, "Oh, hey, that would be a cool place to sell my paper wares." So I called the phone number for more info, and the nice Charlotte directed me to the Market Square Farmer's Market website, where the vendor applications and regulations are posted.

Dang it.

The regulations point out a couple of things that make it difficult for me to commit to selling my card in the Market Square Farmer's Market. For one thing, they don't provide tables. I don't mind that they don't provide chairs, umbrellas, fans, air conditioning, or any particular paper-specific displays. I mean -- that's just common sense. It's a Farmer's Market, not an art show.

But not only do they not provide tables? They charge $15 per space. Per Wednesday.

Seriously?

How is anyone supposed to make any money?

OK, I know that is just me being seriously whiny. I can't cram any kind of table into my beloved Prius. I don't have any money, so I don't know how anyone scrounges up the moolah for gasoline, the truck rental, the table rental, and the booth fee. I just wanted to display some pretty cards and hang out on Market Square once a week.

Oh, well, there's a side-of-the-road flea market south of Sweetwater. I'll call there tomorrow to see how much their tables cost.

But man, I wish I had an investor -- or a sugar daddy. Hmmmm. Note to self: Dress more scantily and abandon all scruples.

Back to Blog, back to semi-reality

2008-04-23T01:52:00.002-04:00

All right. Let's face it. Despite the name of this blog (Bay's Travel Blog), I genuinely suck at travel blogging. I just can't finish a trip report to save my life. And truth be told, I'm not very smooth at the whole blogging thing in general. I mean, other bloggers are able to set aside entire sections for things that have been blogged all in the same thing, or things that have been blogged out of order, or things that are blogged about and linked to at other blogs.

I haven't figure that stuff out yet.

Maybe I will in 2008. I mean, now is as good a time as any. Right?

Right.

So it's springtime, and I'm happy about that. Winter was short and mild, but the lack of rain throughout 2007 was worrisome. I'm happy that 2008 is going better.

And I've been enjoying reading the Knoxville and East Tennessee blogs. I'll be linking to my favorites in the next few days. I started reading them because I wish I could publish my own East Tennessee arts-and-entertainment podcast. But I can't figure out how to podcast by myself any more than I can figure out "Technorati" tags. Whatever those are.

I need a Learning Annex course. Or two.

Six Months

2008-02-21T00:29:00.004-05:00

A quick post, before crashing.

My neck/head feel much better! I really should get back to work on my trip report!

Today (Wednesday the 20th) was my six-month anniversary. I haven't had a cigarette since August 19th!! Woo hoo! It is really weird, and maybe it's because it's such a major anniversary, but I dreamed that I smoked, and there have been a few cravings in the last couple of days. Like, "I am bored; I wish I were breathing black death in the form of lung cancer," or, "Gosh, I wish I had a cocktail and a stick of dynamite with which to kill myself."

OK, that was perhaps a bit of an exaggeration. Still, the cravings are weird. Especially since I still think cigarette smoke smells incredibly gross every time I smell it out there in public. Like, incredibly, incredibly disgusting and gross and bad. How did I ever...? Oh, yeah, I was young and stupid.

Oh, well. I'm older and wiser now.

And smoke-free, yay, me!

In other news, I've been thinking about selling my spare scrapbook layouts. I've made tons and tons of blanks in the last year, and I don't think I can possibly use them all. I haven't even kept up with posting pictures of my blank pages. There are that many of them. I mean, I think I could flood the market in a matter of minutes.

Maybe I should just get a booth at a local craft fair. Oh, yeah, baby, that's the ticket. I could post my clips from the mags, and then sell the blank layouts. Cool!

And finally, I have job prospects. Don't want to say what; don't want to spoil my mojo or juju or whatever one's karma is, but keep your fingers crossed for me. Make the phone ring.

Patience, please!

2008-02-19T01:49:00.002-05:00

I swear, the rest of my last LV trip is coming! I injured my neck/shoulder last week, and it's still really hard to sit up and type for any length of time. Since I still have newsletters and stuff to do, I am afraid that my trip reports aren't my first priority.

But I did take fabulously thorough notes, and I will finish my trip report. I have to tell you, the best part does come on the Tuesday night report, when Amy and Paul and I went to Rao's at Caesar's Palace. Delish! Faboo! And swoon-worthy!

Stay tuned. I'll try to get the trip report done soon!

Vegas in winter, Pt. II - Monday night

2008-02-01T12:38:00.000-05:00

I can't believe I spent so much of today doing things other than writing this part of the report! I was bad. I will try to catch up *Wednesday*. [Added Wednesday afternoon -- OK, maybe I'll catch up Friday!!!]

Anyway, when last I stopped writing, I was running out the door with Amy and Paul. We drove downtown, and I told Amy as we drove along, "You know, Las Vegas is very pretty in the daylight, like when I landed today. But it's *so much* prettier at night!" And it really is. All those bloomin' lights! Amy pointed out one new building that she calls the Borg building. It's a massive brick facade with just a couple of jagged swatches of windows. Looks *very* Borg!!! ROFL!!!

We found Harrahs, and right off the bat, I have to say that is the most circuitous and least direct route I've ever seen at any hotel to find the "front" door. It doesn't have a front! You drive in concentric circles to the center of a rectangular courtyard -- *that's* where the front is? Nuh uh! It's like a secret hide-away, for cryin' out loud.

It's probably that way because they don't have a *ton* of front mileage on The Strip, so they make the most of their property by putting their entrance in the center and surrounding it with buildings. Makes sense, I guess, but it doesn't make for the prettiest hotel from the outside.

We left the cars with the valet, and Amy and I grabbed our bags and went inside, where Paul checked us in while Amy and I played around in the lobby. They have the *niftiest* thing. If it isn't already at Disney World, it soon will be. Projected from the ceiling, straight down onto the polished marble floor, there's a ... like a ... well, it's a moving image. So it's a movie, right? But wait. It's so much cooler than that. One screen is gold fish. So it looks like there's a pool on the floor, and the goldfish are swimming around in it. Right? But if you stick your foot in that image, the water appears to ripple and the gold fish swim away from you!!! Seriously!!!! We scooted around, chasing gold fish. There's another screen with hats, and another one with red and blue dice, which rolled as you walked across the screen. SO COOL!!!! I want one. I want a screen with puppies, and a screen with kittens, and maybe one with earthworms. Well, why not? That could be fun!

After we were checked in, we went up the Carnaval [sic] Tower to room 2114, which Amy pointed out is 3 times 7 and 2 times 7, so that's five lucky number 7's.

As we were headed down the hall, Paul said, "Hey, I'm going to a Las Vegas hotel room with two beautiful women! Fantasy number 349!" Which cracked us up, and we spent the rest of the evening coming up with and ranking various aspects of fantasies that Paul could be fulfilling that happy night! ROFL!!!

In the room, Amy and Paul repeatedly told me not to get into the mini bar, and I repeatedly kept either threatening to get into it or whining because they wouldn't *let* me get into it. I don't remember the last time I was in a hotel room with a mini bar. I was trying to read the menu on the mini-bar, and it said, "Intimacy pack," and I didn't get much further because Amy said she didn't want to know what was in an Intimacy Pack, and Paul said, "Intimacy pack, two beautiful women... fantasy number 117!" Or something like that.

We needed to hie ourselves down to the Paris hotel for our ressies, so we considered how to get there -- walk a couple of blocks, get a taxi, or ride the monorail. I was trying not to whine too much, but I really wanted the monorail. Amy and Paul said we might as well walk to the hotel instead of taking the monorail, so we started walking. It was getting a *little* chilly, but I was warmed up by the exercise. Amy and Paul both had coats. I had left my coat back at Amy's house -- I just didn't think. I thought, "I'm hot," and I thought I would always be hot, I guess. OH! I had also left my driver's license at Amy's house. BAD me.

We walked briskly down to the Paris hotel, and Paul videotaped me and Amy. We also got hooker cards from the porn slappers. (I don't know if y'all are familiar with the term "porn slappers," but that's the moniker they've come up with the describe the guys who stand around handing out cards and flyers with hookers and strippers and stuff on them.) I swear, I think the hooker cards have become dirtier in the last two years.

We got to Mon Ami Gabi fifteen minutes early, and there was this horrid line at the door. We got in line, but it wasn't moving. And we had a reservation. I couldn't understand and neither could Amy, so we talked Paul into going past the line to the podium to inquire about whether we were supposed to wait in line like that, since we had a reservation. I mean -- this line was not moving at all. So Paul went up front, and we stayed in line.... and we didn't move... and he was gone for several minutes... and when he got back, he said, "Yep, we're supposed to be in this line." ARGH! The people in front of us turned around and chatted with us for a while. They didn't even *have* reservations, and they were worried. And well they should have! After a while, a hostess walked down the line asking people if they had reservations. The people without reservations were told they wouldn't be seated until sometime after 8:45. It was now 7:30 or so. Finally the line started moving, and when we checked in with the podium, we were told it would be only fifteen minutes.

I really don't understand why. It's not the busy season, is it? And it was a Monday night! So... where did all those people come from, anyway?

Well, we waited. We were all really looking forward to this meal, after all. And when we were called in, we were rewarded with really good seats in the very front part of the restaurant. So I got a view of the Bellagio fountains. Wooo hoooo!!!! They did have those big outdoor heaters outside so you could sit outside and watch the fountains, but honestly -- that's just going to make the food get colder faster, isn't it?

Our waitress was *wonderful*, I just liked her soooooo much. And they're very attentive here. The moment we looked at the menu, we decided to get two appetizers for the three of us to share. We got the "baked cheese and tomato," which comes with garlic bread, and we ordered the same fabulous crab cake we had last June. Amy and I also tried to order a mojito, because last June the mojitos had pomegranate juice in them, and they were extra delicious. We were sad to discover that not only don't they still add juice, but they don't even make mojitos at all.

Amy got a drink off the cocktail menu, and ... I can't remember what it was. I'm very sorry. I got something called the Harvest Apple Martini, myself.

Our drinks came, and we sat and soaked in the ambiance. It really is a little loud in Mon Ami Gabi, cheerfully so. The lighting in the front section of the restaurant is very, very dim -- I suspect so you can see the fountains and the lights of Las Vegas more easily -- but I couldn't take pictures of my food. I apologize for that. The food was good, after all.

Our appetizers came, and the crabcake and vegetable remoulade (a crunchy slaw-type salad thingie with some kind of incredible dressing) were just as spectacular as I remembered them. The "baked cheese and tomato" surprised me -- I expected a tomato covered with cheese. It looked like a disk of brie baked in the center of tomato sauce. Whatever it actually was, it tasted wonderful spread over points of garlic bread. Delicious!

I nursed my Harvest Apple Martini -- it was an acquired taste. It was very, very sweet and had lots of cinnamon and nutmeg in it. It just wasn't what I was expecting, but I did finish it before the end of the meal, and it had quite a nice kick to it.

Now, Amy had ordered the bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin with pureed potatoes and orchard sauce. That's what I had in June, and it was spectacular. She loved hers, but we noticed it was plated differently. When I had it last summer, I had two pieces of pork, the potatoes, and a dish of spinach and crunchy thingies. Amy had no spinach, but she did have an extra piece of the pork.

Paul got the arctic char special on a bed of pureed sweet potatoes. I can't remember what all the sauce was made of on his fish, but I remember when the waitress was telling us about it, we all said, "Oooooooo!" He loved his dish, too.

I got the "hanger" steak, which was the simplest steak on the menu, served only with merlot butter. And all the steaks, since Mon Ami Gabi is a "French steakhouse," are served with what they call Frites -- or french-fried potatoes. I wish I had asked for a substitution of the pureed potatoes like the ones Amy got with her pork tenderloin. That stuff was sublime. The Frites were just french fries.

I couldn't eat all of my dinner, and I was hoping to save room for dessert. HA! I shouldn't have had any dessert, but Paul ordered a dessert, anyway.

Now, some of you may recall that we all shared the Bananas Foster Crepes last summer, and they were just perfection on a plate. So when Paul ordered the Flourless Chocolate Cake, Amy and I -- separately and silently -- thought, "Oh, that might be a mistake."

We shouldn't have worried.

We've all had tons of flourless chocolate cakes, but I swear, I've never had one as fluffy yet rich and decadent as this one was. It was warm and served with a sauce as well as a blob of incredibly light and perfect whipped cream. It was de-licious and easily the very best part of the meal for me, and that includes the crabcake. ;)

Waddling out of the restaurant, I wanted to visit a ladies' room. I remember thinking the restrooms at Paris were so pretty -- but I found a weird one off to one side of the casino, and it was not pretty. It was also loud and stinky and full of loud, smoking, arguing, mouthy party girls. I was *very* surprised. That was not at all the way I thought this casino was last summer.

Then Amy and Paul and I all traipsed out to the street, where I discovered it had become much, much colder and much, much windier, and I was freezing in no time flat. I made Amy and Paul let me walk between them with my arms linked through their arms, and ... OK. Maybe I was a little tipsy from that Harvest Apple Martini. Maybe that's what it was. But I swear, I was laughing so hard on the walk through the terrible cold. And everything Paul said was *hilarious*. This walk took us past the Flamingo and a couple of other hotels, but I can never remember which ones. I just laughed and walked, walked and shivered and laughed all the way back to Harrah's.

Paul bid us adieu, and we went back upstairs so I could change shoes and freshen up a bit, then we went downstairs to go to the flair bar to get drinks. That bar was set up in a kind of a semi-permanent tent outdoors, but the walls had been pulled in around it fairly closely, and they had heaters set up pumping hot air as hard as they could.

It was kind of crowded. And every once in a while, the wind would find a way in, whip through, and carry all the heat away with it. Just across the way, there was a disco cover band playing very, very loudly, and all the musicians were wearing gigantic afro wigs. Some people were dancing, especially one guy about my husband's age who was seriously cutting a rug out there. That man obviously had spent a great deal of time dancing in the late 1970's.

We sort of thought about getting a drink, but there was only bartender doing the flair thing, and the bottles he was juggling (and dropping, every time the wind blew through) were dummies, anyway. Most people were just drinking beer and chatting. OMG, there were some blackjack tables out there. Far from the heat. Crazy people.

So we went back inside and walked past the piano bar. Then we walked in circles for a while, trying to find the Toby Keith's I {Heart} This Bar & Grill bar. We had a hard time finding it because it was on the second floor. Ah ha! So we went up the escalator and found the Toby Keith's I {Heart} This Bar & Grill bar. I so love calling that thing by its full name. I want to have business establishment with a name longer than a novel.

By the way, I have no idea how that song goes. Is Toby Keith the one who married Nicole Kidman?
Edited to add: A friend of mine took pity on me and told me that Toby Keith is not the one who married Nicole Kidman. That's some other Toby something. Or Keith somebody. I'm really not "up" on country musicians, am I?

We found the Toby Keith's I {Heart} This Bar & Grill bar, and it was very crowded right around the bar and up next to the stage. We got a table way, way, WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY in the back right next to the entrance. And we sat there for a few minutes while nobody waited on anyone. We finally decided this must be the kind of place where there aren't waiters or waitresses, and Amy went to the bar to order us a couple of mojitos. And dang it, the Toby Keith's I {Heart} This Bar & Grill bar doesn't *do* mojitos.

OK, y'all, what happened? When did mojitos not just go out of style, but fall totally out of the good graces of the bars and gin joints of America to the point that you can't even get one ... in frickin' Sin City??? I know I can get fresh mint at my dinky grocery store in Podunk, Tennessee. So why is it so hard to get a mojito out here in the Mojave Desert, huh?

Whatev. I find it curious. Maybe it's just me.

Maybe I'm too demanding and picky!!!

Anyway, after that, Amy and I threw in the towel and returned to our very lovely, very comfortable hotel room in the tower, and we washed our faces and got ready for bed. My first night in Las Vegas was coming to an end! And it had been perfectly lovely! Woo hooo!!!!

Las Vegas in winter, Part I

2008-01-31T10:51:00.000-05:00

I'm heeeeeeeeeeeeeere!

It was a very eventful night. I packed almost all night long and finally fell asleep around 3:00 in the morning, with one more load of clothes in the dryer. Wesley woke up at 4:00 and he woke me up around 4:25. I got those last three things out of the dryer and crammed them in the suitcase. The kids had made me *promise* to wake them up to say goodbye, so I did. Dang it, teenagers are cute when they're all sleepy like that!

Wesley drove me to the airport -- a 45-minute drive (or so) -- and I got in line at the Allegiant counter, which is way slower and less efficient than any other airline I've ever flown on. Allegiant is discontinuing service between Knoxville and Las Vegas, so everyone had to complain about that. "This flight is always full! How can they claim they're losing money on it??" Blah blah blah, whatev, just please make the line move!

Amy had asked me to bring Smoky Mountain Taffy with me. Apparently she and Paul brought back a couple of boxes to share with their co-workers, and the Nevadans went crazy for it. Hey... this stuff is *everywhere* in East Tennessee. So while I stood in line, I asked Wesley to get some taffy from the gift shop. He did, and he handed it to me while I was still in line, so I was able to cram it into my suitcase before checking it.

When I got through the line, the guy said, "And your flight is delayed by at least an hour." Hmmmmmmmmmmm. The flight was supposed to leave at 7:30 originally, that's 8:30 now, and I was standing there getting this info at 6:10 in the morning after one hour of sleep and absolutely no breakfast.

I turned around to find Wesley and I said, "Quick, let's leave the airport and go get breakfast!"

So we got the car out of short-term parking before we were charged for it, and we drove down the road to Waffle House. Mmmmmmmm, Waffle House!!! I haven't eaten there since Tennessee banned smoking in restaurants. This is a whole new experience in dining. ROFL!!! Wesley had already had breakfast and coffee, and he was hoping to get a few winks after he got back home,... so he had nothing. I had a sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich with a cup of coffee and a small glass of orange juice. Yay!!!

Having wasted a little time and gotten fed in the meantime, Wesley took me back to the airport and dropped me off at the front door this time. And we went our separate ways.

OMG, y'all, there were two guys in the security line in front of me who haven't flown in years, if ever. They didn't know to take off their shoes, and the whole time, they were standing there with big cups of coffee. And they were mortally insulted when the TSA agent said, "Sir? I'm sorry, but you can't take that coffee with you beyond this security checkpoint." You would have thought someone had said, "Sir? Your mama's ugly." Those guys huffed and puffed and shrugged their shoulders and rolled their eyes and carried on for several minutes while I'm standing behind them, my carry-on bag in a plastic bin, my shoes off my feet, and no discernible liquids or fire hazards on my person. I mean.... I was ready, even if those guys weren't!

Got to the gate, and it was crowded, and there was no plane in sight. I started reading my magazine. Then I decided I was reading too fast, so I went to the ladies' room. Went back to the gate, started reading again.... and then stared at the wall because I was afraid I was reading too fast. I had another magazine in my bag, but it had Heath Ledger on the cover and I didn't want to cause some young fan to fall over bawl again. Then I remembered that Amy had warned me that Allegiant charges for snacks, so I went to the nearest gift shop and bought myself some snacks. I spent a good amount of time trying to decide what to get. For some totally inexplicable reason, the Bumblebee tuna salad kit looked yummy. Since I am extraordinarily mean and picky about tuna salad, I ignored that nutty craving, chalked it up to insanity or lack of sleep, and instead bought a pack of cheese-on-wheat crackers, a pack of Milano cookies, and a 20-ounce Diet Dr. Pepper. Delicious and nutritious! Well, delicious, anyway. ;)

When the plane landed, the ground crew spent a good bit of time trying to figure out how to attach the tunnel thingie to the plane while the guy sitting behind me commented on the ineptitude of the ground crew. "The instructions are printed on the side," he said to someone with him, "See? Right there. Those are the how-to's. Now, how come these ol' boys cain't figure it out? They must be new... I hope the pilot ain't new...."

Whereupon I tossed over my shoulder in my deepest tone of sardonic humor, "Why do you think this is called a DISCOUNT airline?"

:D

Cracked up everyone in the area.

When they finally figured out how to attach the tunnel to the plane, the first people off the plane were a Red Hat Club full of happy women with giant red hats, red feather boas, lots of sequins and rhinestones, and those women were genuinely happy.

Everyone else getting off the plane seemed somehow less happy. The fellow behind me couldn't stop commenting on it. "He lost. She lost. That guy lost a lot of money. Dang, the tables were bad for these people. Ain't nobody happy!"

They finally started boarding, and that took longer than I thought it would. While I was walking on board, the tunnel thingie that had been so much trouble to hook up swayed *so* much back and forth. I was kind of just waiting for it to collapse and thinking, "Well, if I survive, I will be rich." As we boarded, I called Wesley to let him know we were boarding. He was at home, in bed, asleep. Bugger! Then I called the Grits to Glitz voice mail, because I knew it was just 5:30 Las Vegas time, and I didn't want to wake Amy.

Before we took off, the pilot got on the intercom and said we couldn't take off until four people from the front of the plane moved to the back of the plane. Now -- that's not normal. But I think I've heard it once before. And honestly, if I had been sitting in the front, I would've jumped up and moved *immediately*, because we were just sitting there on the runway getting hot. The girl next to me said she had never heard such a thing, and we agreed that if we had been sitting up front... we would've moved. But it was five or six minutes before the flight attendants talked some people into moving, and those of us in the back of the plane applauded them.

Then the pilot got back on the intercom and apologized for the delays, saying it was windy in Las Vegas and everything was late yesterday which made everything late today. And he hoped to take a couple of shortcuts so we could get to Las Vegas close to on time today.

And the girl sitting next to me and I exchanged glances, curious about these mid-air shortcuts. What? Are we gonna run *through* the cemetery, holding hands with our eyes closed and yelling, "I'M NOT SCARED OF HAINTS," or are we gonna go around it like we usually do? I mean... where are the shortcuts halfway across the continent? We're flying into a fierce headwind, for cryin' out loud -- even I could tell that on the Weather Channel! And I'm... an ... IDIOT!!!

Ahem.

OK. We finally took off. It was a very bumpy flight, very, very bumpy, and honestly, the flight *to* Las Vegas always seems to take FOREVER, anyway. Every once in a while the pilot would tell us that he still was trying to get on the shortcuts. AUGH!!! The girl next to me brought her own pillow (because you have to buy them on Allegiant), but I'm the one who dozed off every once in a while. I was *so* zonked. An hour and twenty minutes of on-and-off sleep isn't really conducive to staying awake, even on a bumpy flight.

I ate my crackers and got a cup of ice from the flight attendant -- free! -- to go with my Diet Dr. Pepper. I finished my first magazine and the in-flight magazine. Napped every once in a while. When the flight attendants came around for the second round, I got another cup of ice -- STILL FREE!!! -- and opened up the cookies. I even offered one to the girl sitting next to me. She was very nice, but, oh, I wish she had been sitting somewhere else. I'm much fatter than I ever was before, and man, those seats were *crowded*.

We had one of the roughest landings I've ever had, while the wind blew us around like a teeter-totter on three legs, but we did indeed land safely. Everyone applauded, and the flight attendants even laughed a little nervously. Still, it wasn't the worst landing I've ever experienced! it was just... interesting!

Got off the plane, and... I was in VEGAS, BABY!!!!! I do love this town. I called home to let them know I made it safely, and then just as I hit the concourse, I called Amy to let her know I was here. We were doing things differently this time because I was landing in the morning while she was at work. The plan was supposed to be: Land, call Amy, get luggage, go get picked up, go to Amy's house, learn new alarm system, take Amy to work, then go get Amy at lunchtime to go to Fatburger.

However! My flight was so late that by the time I got my luggage and found Amy (eeeeeeeeeee!!!!), it was already after 11:00. Now, I'm not totally sure, but I think Amy usually takes lunch around 11:30. So with those hours....

I did, indeed, find my luggage. I'm always, *always* amused by the people who stand right next to the carousel. It's so much more pleasant to stand back until your bag comes around, and then fling it off the carousel and get out of the way! So I got my huge bag and went right off to find Amy. That was not as easy as I thought -- Somehow I thought she would be able to drive through on the first driveway, but that's for taxis and buses. I've got to remember that! I went through to the parking garage, found Amy on her level, and we squealed and hugged and eeeeeeee'ed our way back to her car.

We discussed what to do and decided that since I was so zonked and it was nearly lunchtime, anyway, we would just go on to Fatburger... and then Amy would bring back to her house.

Now. It's many hours later, and I just found out we have reservations in an hour and 35 minutes, so I've got to wrap this up --

- We did go to Fatburger, and we ate inside for the first time. Well, I've eaten inside at the one on the Strip before, but never at the one near Amy's house. It was DI-VINE. I always think I have built up those chocolate milk shakes in my head, then I taste one, and it really is as spectacular as I thought it was!

- Came back to Amy's house, Leon loves me, Noah loves me, Georgia loves me!!!! I am popular with the animals. Amy went back to work. I called Wesley and the kids, and I fell asleep. I meant to sleep just a bit, but I really crashed and slept through my 2:15 alarm.

- Woke up around 3:00, started writing my trip report. Decided to freshen up my hair color. Looks OK!

Now I've showered and put on make-up, and I'm dressed, and I need to throw a few things in an overnight bag. We're staying at Harrah's!!!! We have reservations at Mon Ami Gabi at 7:30!!!! I'll write more tomorrow when I'm back at Amy's!!!!!!!!! Much debauchery to indulge in!

Long overdue

2007-08-26T00:36:00.001-04:00

OK, I have been neglecting my travel blog. I'm sorry, but in the first flush of romance with my travail blog, something had to slide. And this was it. Sorry, Travel Blog -- I have more important suitors to woo!

Seriously, I did not successfully quit smoking on August 8th. My sister Amy quit smoking on August 9th, and I kept taking Chantix. I set another quit date for August 20th.

That was last Monday.

And I did, indeed, quit smoking on that day.

Since then, I have not smoked once. Although -- as another Chantix blogger noted -- I still feel like a smoker. I'm just a smoker who isn't smoking at the moment.

For the first couple of days, I tracked my cravings and cigarette desires like a statistician for major league baseball.

Then I had a tooth that totally abscessed.

If you have never had an abscessed tooth, count yourself among the world's luckiest people. Ever. It hurts worse than any pain I've ever experienced. Including childbirth and kidney stones.

Since roughly late Tuesday night -- and certainly Wednesday morning -- I spent most of my energy just trying to survive my abscessed tooth. My dentist was out of town. And he didn't have a back-up. I finally got hold of a friend of a friend's dental office -- and by the way, that dentist was at the same conference as my dentist, so honestly, it must be one heck of a conference -- and finally someone called someone who called someone else, and I finally got a prescription for antibiotics.

It still took an entire day for the antibiotics to take effect and do some good for me. In the meantime, I've discovered that I certainly CAN choke down straight vodka if I absolutely must.

So while I was dealing with the sheer, towering, quivering pain of the tooth, I kind of forgot about the quitting smoking thing. My mind was somewhere else for a few days.

An acquaintance of mine said, "Oh, my gosh, you've had such bad luck healthwise this summer!"

I hadn't thought of it, but now that she mentions it -- yeah, it sucks to be me! I threw out my back, and then I quit smoking, and then, to top it all off, I had an abscessed tooth. OMG! It *sucks* to be me!

Then I remember that it doesn't really totally suck. For one thing, no matter how much pain I'm in, I still have hummingbirds.

See? Every cloud has a silver lining!

Like an ol' pig

2007-08-08T01:47:00.001-04:00

I'm scared. I'll admit it. Tomorrow is my Quit Day, and I'm just scared.

I've started another blog just for the withdrawal fits. I know I'm taking the latest'n'greatest smoking cessation drug, and I've been hearing all about how it really, really helps a lot of heavy smokers quit. I'm just so afraid that I'll be one of the rare failures.

If you want to glance at that blog, you can. It's public. I named it Bay's Travail Blog. It's all one topic, though, so it might not appeal to everyone who reads this blog. I was lucky and another Chantix blogger found my blog and invited me into the circle of Chantix quitters, so I'll be getting some moral support from people who are going through the same thing. Four of us actually chose 8/8 as our Quit Day, entirely apart from each other. And that's cool.

In other news, I bought a new kitchen faucet today, and Wesley and I spent much of the afternoon trying to wrestle the cruddy old faucet out of the sink. We did not succeed. The cruddy old faucet is still half attached and shows no signs of budging. I have mental images of us hiring a plumber to replace a stinkin' faucet. And the horrid thing is -- the directions on how to install the new sink are so easy, I could do it by myself!

So while I chain smoke for what might be the last time -- really! and truly! -- I just wanted to tell a little, tiny, nostalgic story about my mother.

I always liked to have my back rubbed when I was a child. I would sit next to Mama anywhere we went, and I would lean against her until she started rubbing my back. Mama never even noticed that I was manipulating her for several minutes. I mean, it was pure habit to her -- here's a child's back, rub it.

When she did finally notice that I was totally, selfishly getting great backrubs without ever giving anything in return, she would laugh and say, "You're like an ol' pig! My mama used to say that about me!"

I finally asked her what that meant -- "like an ol' pig" -- and Mama told me that apparently, pigs like to be scratched. And her mother had noticed as a child that if she went near the pig pen, all the older pigs would crowd up to the rails of the fence, begging to be scratched or rubbed. As long as Mama's mother would stand there, I guess in her little dress and pinafore, because that simply must have been around 1910 or so, rubbing and scratching those pigs, they would grunt and lean against the fence and be very still to enjoy the luxury as long as they could.

Tonight Emily was scratching my neck and lightly fluffing my hair, and when she started to leave, I kind of leaned over until she was back within reach of my head. And of course she went back to scratching my neck, and I laughed and said, "I'm like an ol' pig!"

Emily laughed and laughed. I can't imagine why she hasn't heard that expression before, or why she hasn't thought about it if she has heard it. So I explained that Mama used to say that to me, and that her Mama said it to her before me.

And it can't be an insult as long as the scratcher actually likes the scratchee.

I hope if Emily ever has any daughters, they're like ol' pigs, too.

Stuff I should've already posted

2007-08-05T01:19:00.000-04:00

I'm still a lazy slacker blogger.

My daughter Emily just got her driver's license. For real. Like, she can drive without anyone else in the car.

So if you are headed to East Tennessee, stay off the roads.

I need to get my hair done. I have to wait until Friday for that. My roots are showing. So I think I'll send my legally-driving daughter to WalMart twenty miles away and ask her to buy me some scarves and bandannas. I can't be seen in public looking like this. Mama would have a fit.

Heck, *I* am having a fit.

I went to the doctor Tuesday and she prescribed Chantix to make me stop smoking. Lots of conflicting thoughts about that. I almost blogged about it Wednesday night, but it was so mean and acerbic that I decided my attitude must be bad. Bottom line: I like smoking and I love smokers. Love, love, love them. I want to keep hanging out with smokers in the designated smoking areas all over the continent.

I used to think that the non-smokers would succeed in making tobacco illegal, but now I think I was wrong. I think they're just going to make it too expensive for regular people to smoke. The state and federal folks are raising the taxes so quickly and so biliously that I just don't WANT to afford smoking. (Rich people have all the fun, right?) And that's why I'm quitting. Not because I want to quit, but because I want to use the money for things I love more than cigarettes.

Like going to Las Vegas to visit my sister. And going to Disney World to hug Mickey. And dining at fabulous restaurants. And buying more scrapbooking paper. And more Crocs. And buying another beloved Prius for Emily to drive.

(OK, that last one is pretty much a pipe dream. Emily has saved only $1500 for a car so far. I'm sure we'll have to buy her an absolute junk heap eventually.)

Yep. I'm trying to quit smoking merely because I'm Greedy People. Yeah, quitting might make me slightly healthier, but with my family history, I'm gonna die of some kind of cancer no matter what I'm ingesting. So health is not my motivation. Money. Makes the world go 'round, and makes me actually try to quit smoking.

This isn't the first time I've tried to quit. And I was hesitant about Chantix, although all my nurse friends swear that it is the best thing since sliced bread. Chantix is a dopamine replacement therapy, y'know. And it has some nasty side effects. I lived through some of the worst of those Friday, after the drugs had been building up in my system for two and a half days. I was terribly nauseated Friday and spent much of the day curled up on the couch in a fetal position refusing to *look* at food much less eat it.

I did still smoke, however. That's how Chantix works: Take it for a week, slowly increasing the dosage and the amount of the drug in your bloodstream. Then quit smoking on the 8th day. My quit date is Wednesday, August 8th. In the meantime, I have to log every cigarette, analyze the data, and formulate strategies for what to do if I have a craving after my quit date.

Oh, yes, I almost forgot: Chantix is more than a drug. It's a drug with a "support system." I get daily emails reminding me to go to the Chantix website and perform my Daily Activity. I have to print something out almost every day. I gotta tell you, I hope the printings stop soon. I don't like using the laser printer that much, what with the toner particles in the air being potentially carcinogenic.

[That was a joke. Feel free to snort audibly.]

In the meantime, I have already experienced some odd sensations thanks to the fake dopamine. If you've never smoked, or if you quit easily, then you don't know what it's like for someone who *likes* smoking to try to quit. It's ugly. I've tried cold turkey and I've tried with the nicotine patch. Oh! I just remembered, I even tried hypnosis once! (Well, I was young then, and honestly, even then I was rolling my eyes and trying not to snort audibly while my best friend sat next to me and tried really hard to get hypnotized so she would quit smoking.) Nothing worked for me because I *wanted* to smoke. The desire combined with the nicotine addiction proved undeniable.

So for me to be sitting around, smoking, and thinking, "I think I'll put this cigarette out. I just don't like it," is REALLY strange. Like... maybe I'm being replaced by a pod person. Like... maybe I'm not *me* any more. Because the Bay *I* know loves to smoke and really wants everyone else to love her smoking.

That's where I am tonight. Well, actually, I happen to be smoking at the moment. I'm counting down the hours 'til Wednesday.

And I'm having a nice, therapeutic cocktail like the Over Clover. Enjoy your herb gardens while ye may! Autumn's blush is just a few weeks away, and I'm desperate to enjoy the last bits of cicada-song-filled summer!

Lazy slacker blogging

2007-07-30T13:01:00.001-04:00

I've been missing, yes. Sorry 'bout that. I have at least one more part of my Las Vegas trip report that I could post, but I seem to have trouble getting around to doing it.

See, I injured my back a couple of weeks ago. That seems innocuous enough when you say it like that. "I injured my back." I've never had real back trouble or serious back pain, so I had absolutely no idea what it was like to really hurt your back.

I'm just gonna say -- don't hurt your back. Take care of your back. Be really, really nice to it. Because you just don't know how good you've got it until it's gone.

Seriously.

So for a week and two days, I couldn't move for any length of time, and I couldn't sit, stand, or lie anywhere that didn't hurt.

I think the most upsetting thing about it was realizing how fragile my grasp is on the day-to-day activities of life. The moment I took to the couch with a heating pad, everything around here fell apart. I had just started making great strides in housecleaning (not my strong suit on a great day, much less during a rush for a deadline or something). When I stopped making an ingress on the housecleaning and stopped doing anything -- oh, it got icky here. Rapidly. Dishes piled up in the kitchen until they threatened to scrape the ceiling. The floors became positively grimy as teenagers with dirty bare feet tromped around on them, blithely ignoring my pleas to sweep or mop or at least wipe up that Gatorade spill they carelessly made.

It just overwhelmed me in no time flat.

So when I was able to stand up without crying, I spent all my tremulous energy on trying to just get the house back to normal. Ow. Sweeping really, really hurts when your back is recovering from something like that. I would sweep for a minute and rest for five. Then sweep for another minute and rest for ten.

Don't ask about the dishes.

And no, you can't use my bathroom. You just can't. I don't know when my back will be restored enough for me to scrub anything.

Last weekend was the deadline for a summer cocktail recipe contest at the totally fabulous How Much Do We Love podcast. I totally would've told y'all about it so you could enter, too, but I wasn't spending any time at the computer other than the absolutely necessary minutes that it took to write my usual newsletters. Deadlines wait for no back muscle recovery.

Anyway, my entry was the Over Clover, pictured above. You should have seen me tromping around my neighborhood, trying to find a suitably summery backdrop for my cocktail while the rainclouds above not only blocked out all the light but also threatened to drench me and my camera. The poor scoop of lime sherbet was melting away so fast, I started taking pictures without thinking about composition, just hoping there was enough light to see the shape of a glass.

I seriously doubt I'll win, although I humbly admit that my recipe is pure mixology genius. It's light, refreshing, and slightly tart and sweet, with a fabulous hint of mellow herbs and mint for a counterpoint. Yummy! I'll share the recipe later when the winner is announced.

2007-07-13T02:18:00.000-04:00

So after our late lunch, Amy and I went to the drug store, and then we went to her house, where I leapt into my swimsuit and galloped toward the back yard.

I totally forgot to mention that Sunday was "breezy," which really means, "batten down the hatches." A hot wind was blowing across Las Vegas that day, and I learned it the hard way when I discovered the Sunday paper (which I had left on the patio) had blown across the yard. I gathered up pieces of it and still managed to harangue Paul and Amy into giving me a coozie for my Coke Zero. What sweeties they were! The only coozie in the whole house was being used as a pen holder! Paul dumped out the pens and handed me the coozie for my Coke Zero, and it worked for the rest of my trip like a trooper!

In the pool, all my pique with the unpleasant lunch experience melted away. In fact, that was the *best* afternoon in Amy's backyard swimming pool! The pigeons were feeling free to come back and I enjoyed many sessions with chasing off unwanted birds. There's one pigeon that Paul calls Einstein, and I had staring contests with Einstein that resulted in my ultimate win. Woo hoo! I beat a pigeon!!!

Of course, Amy and I laughed until our sides hurt all over again. And this time, I managed to stay in the pool until the afternoon sun got low enough for shade to cover parts of the pool. This is when it's the most fabulous. You can lie there across the steps in the shade, and it's just... *perfect*.

Oh, how I wish I had my own swimming pool!!!!

Hours later, I finally did climb out of the pool and start getting ready for our night on the town. We had been planning for weeks to go to the Mix Lounge just to see the sunset, and some The Strip Podcast listeners decided to join us there.

I wore my favorite trampy camisole and a shrug, and Amy wore a gorgeous golden sweater and khakis, and we toodled off to Mandalay Bay. Which is *really* way down south. We went to the valet parking under the garage, and I asked Amy later if there is a prettier entrance somewhere. I can't imagine arriving at Las Vegas and going to my expensive hotel, only to be dropped off in an unattractive, fume-filled garage. She assured me there is a prettier entrance somewhere out front, but this entrance was closer to our destination.

We found elevators, and we went up. All the ads say that the bar is on the 64^th floor, but I think they're fudging their numbers. As the elevator rose, the numbers were ticking off, and they jumped from 30-something to 64^th without going through the forties or the fifties. That's OK with me! I was a little worried about my fear of heights, anyway!

We walked through the restaurant, which is gorgeous and utterly white, and were soon in the bar, which is black. We turned left and headed immediately for the balcony, and then a girl followed us out the door and stopped us, saying something like, "Are you Amy and Bay?"

She invited us indoors to sit with her and her husband. Amy said, "Let's sit outside," and she said no, they had already ordered food. And Amy said, "But the main thing was to be able to watch the sunset from out here," and the woman looked at Amy like she was crazy.

Our new friend exclaimed, "I thought WE were the main thing!"

Well, OK. I guess we really hadn't been precise enough about our plans. We had read so much about the view. And the sunset. And... we had meant to sit outdoors and enjoy both. But meeting new people can be fun, too, so -- OK! Inside to meet Rob and Suzie! Malya never showed up, and I wish I could have met her.

During a really lively conversation about business, Las Vegas businessmen (I still can't stand Steve Wynn and his towering ego that allows him to shove his own elbow through a Picasso and then turn around and sue his own insurance company because it won't pay for HIS egregious error), Suzie's X-Games cycling son, and really, lots of other stuff, too -- I kept having to run outside and take pictures of the stunning view and sunset. It really was gorgeous up there, and sometime I'm going to have to go back so I can sit on the balcony and breathe it in whilst sipping a cocktail.

I *highly* recommend the Mix Lounge at Mandalay Bay's THEhotel!!! The service was incredible, and the fare... oh, the drinks and food!...

Rob and Suzie were having crabcakes, and I was sorta jealous and really thought about getting the same thing. But after having had such a *perfect* crab cake at Mon Ami Gabi, I didn't want to take a chance.

We ordered an appetizer, duck spring rolls with "sweet & sour sauce," but I've never seen a sweet & sour sauce that color before. It was light green. And it was good. The duck spring rolls, though, were *divine*. OMG, they were fabulous!! And HOT!! Spicy hot!!!! I thought at first that it was the sauce that was hot, but on my second bite I got hardly any on my spring roll, and that bite set my mouth on fire. I didn't care; that duck spring roll thing was delicious, and I wanted to lick the cute little bamboo bowl clean when we finished our duck spring rolls.

And, oh, they were expensive, too. The drinks were $15 each. (Amy got a mojito, which was a classic mojito instead of the pomegranate one like the ones we had a Mon Ami Gabi the night before. And Amy liked the pomegranate ones better.) (I had a luscious and refreshing watermelon martini. YUM.) The tiny little delicious duck spring rolls cost a whopping $18. Compare that to my delicious and huge dinner at Mon Ami Gabi for less than $20, and I have a hard time recommending Mix Lounge's duck spring rolls…. Except, honestly, they were fabulous. I can't figure out a way to justify saying no to them.

Even though they're expensive.

When it was about 9:00 and almost time to either order more drinks or pay the tab, Amy and I realized, "Oh, we need to call Paul and figure out what to do about dinner." Darn it! We said goodbye and bolted for the elevator, worrying about how late it was. When we got downstairs, we found the ladies' room -- *I* didn't know this, but the ladies' room in Mix Lounge is quite ... something to see. I've heard and read about it *since* I was there, but when I was there, I didn't think to go to the ladies' room upstairs. Now that I was downstairs... well, whatEV, as my kids say.

We called Paul, but he didn't really want to come all the way down south to meet us for dinner. We wandered over to Mandalay Bay proper and walked around looking at stuff. Amy always goes to the Red White & Blue Café for Thanksgiving dinner, and we looked at the menu. We looked in at the restaurant that has the "wine angels," but we didn't see an angel procuring any wine from the three-story wine tower.

So I think I said, "Hey, we haven't eaten at Raising Cane's yet. Why don't we go there?"

Amy was all for it.

By the time we got out to the valet area again, it was *really* smoky and dim. I don't know if it was the fumes from the cars or if the "breeze" had kicked some desert dust into the place, but it looked positively dangerous for one's lungs.

But of the things I saw, Mandalay Bay is really pretty. Amy says I didn't see a fraction of it, so I guess I need to go back sometime, huh?

Amy loves Raising Cane's. They sell nothing but chicken fingers and fries with a special chicken dipping sauce. I got a 3-piece snack and a lemonade, and Amy got the snack with a Diet Coke. They cook the fingers fresh when you order them, so I stood there and read the poster about the guy who started Raising Cane's. He had a dream and no business experience or degree, so he couldn't get financing. He went to work at the worst jobs that pay the most money – like fishing for Alaskan crab? Yeah, that kind of thing! He saved up his money and worked hard, and then he got financing and opened on the campus of LSU. Smart boy!!! It was a great story.

And the chicken itself is *great*. We took it back to Amy's house and dined there, and yum, yum, yum! The special sauce is *very* good. Amy loves it. I happen to already love honey mustard (if you can get the *good* honey mustard), so I was a little harder to impress, but I *am* impressed. I wish there were a Raising Cane's here!!!! I would go there instead of a burger place any day of the week!

I watched some TV with Paul, and then I crashed. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz! Busy day! Once again, I had a fan to keep me cool, a fabulous bulldog to keep me company, and I had had a wonderful day. I know there were some mishaps, but really, the flippy baby dolphin, the marvelous views from a tall tower (that was so stable it didn't trip my fear of heights into high gear), the fabulous chicken strips and yummy dipping sauce, and of course, my wonderful, warm, companionable afternoon in Amy's pool more than made up for getting bitten on the tush. And I've decided I'm gonna write to the Hash House A-Go-Go people and let them know about our experience. Might as well give 'em a chance to make it up to Paul, if not to me!

And I had only one more full day in Las Vegas to look forward to. Ah, what a wondrous weekend!

Weekend in Las Vegas, Part IV

2007-07-10T02:20:00.001-04:00

Sunday, June 24th

Plan:
- Siegfried & Roy's Secret Garden & Dolphin Habitat
- Hash House A-Go-Go
- The Shark Reef at Mandalay Bay
- 7:30 drinks at Mix Lounge atop THEhotel at Mandalay Bay

Actual:
I woke up Sunday morning with more than fawns and bluebirds on my mind.

I knew my swimsuit was hanging in the guest bathroom, and I knew the backyard swimming pool was beckoning to me.

}:>

When Amy got up and started the coffeepot, I made up my mind -- I needed a swim along with my cup of fabulous coffee. So I did the only thing I could do -- I put on my swimsuit and headed downstairs!

I literally fixed my cup of coffee, put it on the patio table, and walked directly into the pool. Ahhhhhhhh, heaven!!!

Here's the thing about a pool in the backyard -- it's yours. And it's private. It doesn't matter how fat you are or how unkempt your hair might be -- this pool is not open to strangers, and no one but you is in it. You can act like an idiot, or you can behave like a goddess. It doesn't matter, because no one is going to break into your water-logged reverie.

Dang, *dang*, that is one fabulous way to start the day!

I was pretty lazy as a result, and we didn't get out of the house as early as we had originally intended. At least we didn't totally scrap the whole plan for going to the Mirage to see the Secret Garden. As usual, Amy drove right up to valet and had the bright yellow Solstice whisked away, and we made our way through the casino toward the outdoors. In general, I liked the Mirage. It was my first time walking through there. The music playing inside was good -- I recall hearing the Eagles and Jimmy Buffett. It kind of had a Miami-Vice-party vibe to it, in a strange way. Very tropical in general, which I didn't expect from seeing the towering edifice from The Strip.

Once we were out back, we turned slight right and headed up the path to the Secret Garden. I was very surprised that they didn't offer Amy a local discount. That makes the Secret Garden pretty darned pricey, in my opinion. We walked up a path, across a bridge, and were stopped by an employee. He made a bunch of us stand there for a while, waiting for more visitors to gather up behind us. I saw the most children I had seen in Las Vegas while standing in line. There were little kids everywhere; it was almost like Disney. The path was covered and had fans and misters blowing on us, so that was nice, but we didn't smoke. We *could* have smoked, but we didn't. I read the very short brochure about the Secret Garden being an "experience," not an animal show, and then the employee told us that this was the only place we could smoke. He gave a very brief rundown about what to expect inside, and then he let us in....

... Where we were stopped under the only canvas-covered shade in the whole place so another employee could tell us pretty much the same things that were covered in the brochure. This is an experience, not a show. Um, OK, we get it.

Then she turned us loose, and everyone left the misted, fanned, canvas-covered shady spot to go stand in the direct sun next to the water, where nothing was happening. Amy and I stayed in the shade for a few minutes, so we could see the dolphins being prodded from their back pool to the front one. Once a handler slapped a fish on the water surface, those two dolphins zipped out of the back and directly to the slapping fish. Ah ha! This experience is called, "Feeding dolphins fish"!!!!

I'll be honest -- this part was pretty boring. We left the big pool and went to the little pool where the baby dolphin was swimming with his mother and two other females.

*That* was cool. And it wasn't even *really* cool yet -- at this point in the day, they were just swimming in circles! The handler explained that the mom is kinda old, so the younger females help out. Also, the mother is teaching those younger female dolphins how to mother; Duchess is the most successful breeder in the Siegfried & Roy dolphin habitat!

We checked the downstairs windows to see if we could see the baby from under the water, but there aren't windows at the small tank. I *did* notice, however, that the big tanks with the male dolphins is WAY WAY WAY *WAY* cleaner and easier to see through than ANY of the tanks at the Miami Seaquarium. It's like night and day. Literally. You can't see anything through the murky, dirty water at the Miami Seaquarium. At the Secret Garden, I could count the bumps on the fake coral reef way off in the middle of the big pool!

After watching the cute little baby dolphin swim several laps around the smaller pool, we wandered over to the actual Secret Garden part of the Secret Garden, where the exotic cats are kept. I have to admit, that is the most vegetation, and the most *dense* vegetation I've seen in all of Las Vegas. And the "theming" really reminded me of the Maharajah Jungle Trek at Disney's Animal Kingdom.

And while the shade is, indeed, better than the direct desert sun, it was still stinkin' hot, as all those big cats can attest. OMG, those poor kitty cats! They didn't want to *move*, it was so hot! I'm sure that the big rocks are artificially cooled, but honestly, we all know how hot it is in Las Vegas. Those kitties don't want to move!

After *lots* of watching kitty cats and Alpacas (poor Alpacas!!!!), Amy and I went back to the pool with the baby dolphin, and there we snagged a lovely bench in the shade at the far end, away from most of the crowds. The handlers were just finishing feeding the females and the baby some fish, and this is when it got *really* interesting. That baby was feeling *so* frisky!!!!! He was zipping around the pool at a breakneck speed and he kept leaping up out of the water in awkward, cute, semi-dolphin flips! He was *so* dang cute!!!! Amy and I laughed out loud many times at his escapades. He was just so wiggly and happy!!!!

And then -- and *then* -- something bit me on the butt.

I'm not kidding!

I was sitting on the bench, and all of a sudden, something bit me! I stood up and said, "Ow, something bit..." and then it bit me AGAIN!!! I said, "OW!!!! Seriously, something bit me! Ow, ow, ow!!!"

Amy was really nice, and she followed me to the ladies' room -- all the way on the other side of the big pool, so it was a pretty long walk -- with me complaining like a big baby the whole way. Something bit me! What *was* that? It stung! It hurt! Ow! Oh, my poor derriere!!!!

By the time I got to the ladies' room, of course, the biting thing was long gone. And as much as I tried to investigate, it's really hard to look at your own tush even in the comfort of your own spacious bathroom at home. It's impossible in a public restroom stall! At least by that time, the stinging was beginning to abate.

Although, honestly, I could have watched that baby dolphin at play for hours longer, we threw in the towel and called it quits. And of course we laughed about my sorry condition. I am the only person I know who can go to Las Vegas, pay to see the Secret Garden, and get chased out by a biting insect.

Before we totally left the Mirage, I made Amy take a detour to see the giant fish tank behind the check-in desk. WOW! The pictures on the Internet do *not* do it justice. I don't know *nothin'* about fish tanks, but that thing is huge and FILLED with exotic, colorful fish. Amy and I both wondered about that big, ugly, vicious-looking eel, and if it was going to eat the pretty fishies. Pretty!

Then we wandered out to valet and requested our car. Once again, we were in the midst of misters and fans, and Amy pointed out that she thinks the exterior of the Mirage looks a bit dated. She said it looked 80's to her. It was the first time I'd seen it, though, and I didn't think it looked dated. I thought it looked really Disney, but not necessarily dated. It was bright and tropical and themey. Heck, I thought it looked less dated than the Polynesian.

*Far* less dated.

And the music was still pretty darned good!

When Amy's bright yellow Solstice came, we headed out into the Las Vegas traffic. I *did* notice *lots* of people heading out with their suitcases. I guess Sunday is check-out day even in Las Vegas, huh? They all looked happy and tired.

We headed toward the Hash House A-Go-Go, which has the darling tagline, "Twisted Farm Food." That makes me think of tornadoes, of course, which is probably what they intended all along. Paul *loves* the Hash House A-Go-Go. I think it's his favorite restaurant in all of Las Vegas, and he was *really* looking forward to this lunch. In fact, I was looking forward to it, too, because I've read the raves and reviews. Even the menu is mouthwatering. What's not to love?

Well. Hmmmmm...

Amy and I got there before Paul, and we walked across the sweltering parking lot to get inside, where we were informed that it would be a twenty-minute wait. That's not too long, is it? Nah! So we would wait. But all the benches in the waiting area were full, and there was no way I was going to go wait outside. After just a few seconds, Amy and I looked around the bar area, and we went back to the hostess stand. We asked a hostess if we could please sit in the bar -- I think Amy literally said, "Could we please sit in the bar while we wait?"

And the hostess looked around and said, "Oh, yeah! We're not as busy as we were an hour ago. Go ahead and sit in the bar!"

So Amy and I made our way to one of three empty tables and sat down. I had just put down my purse and camera, when a brute addressed us. This nincompoop was a bartender with self-esteem issues. And he yelled in an obnoxious tone across the entire bar at us, "HEY, GUYS, YOU CANNOT SIT AT THAT TABLE UNLESS A HOSTESS SEATS YOU THERE!"

Being Southern, being polite, and being quite taken aback at being addressed in so rudely and obnoxious a manner -- my sister and I honestly gaped at him for a couple of seconds before Amy protested, "But the hostess... the hostess *told* us to sit here."

And the dolt got even madder and yelled in an even more snide, sneering, and obnoxious tone, "WELL, I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU SAY! YOU CAN'T SIT IN THE BAR UNLESS A HOSTESS SEATS YOU HERE, AND SINCE YOU DON'T HAVE MENUS, YOU WEREN'T SEATED HERE AND YOU SHOULDN'T BE HERE!!!!!!!"

I'll be honest, I was mad. I wasn't mad enough to go off on one of my tirades, unfortunately. I do *so* wish I had gotten that mad, but I was a little tired from the half day of swimming and watching dolphins play, and darn it, there was still a tiny part of my brain that was thinking, "Maybe this isn't as unpleasant as it seems on the surface. Maybe I don't really have to be a harridan to put this blackguard in his place."

Amy said to him, as she was gathering her things and preparing to dismount that tall bar stool, "Perhaps you should discuss this with the hostess, since she was operating under the conception that we *could* sit here."

The beast stomped off toward the hostess station with steam rising from his cretinous shaved head.

I struggled to get off my own tall bar stool, embarrassed (although I shouldn't have been), and struggling to disentangle my camera strap from my purse strap so that nothing hit the floor. By the time we joined the crowd at the hostess station, the villain was stomping off back toward the bar with his hands flung up in the air as if to indicate his distress at dealing with idiots like us, and the hostess was picking up menus and chirping at us cheerily, "Would you like to be seated now?"

And we looked at each other, and I think I am the one who first said, "No."

"No, thank you," Amy said, "I think we'll find someplace else to dine."

And I added eloquently (snort), "That guy is a jerk."

I didn't use any vulgarities. I'm so proud of me.

The hostess agreed with me completely and said, "Yes. Yes, he is. I'm so sorry."

Amy and I left the restaurant, made our way across the hot parking lot, and started the Solstice's air conditioning. Amy called Paul.

Paul was upset.

He *really* wanted to eat at Hash House A-Go-Go. And I can't blame him; he loves that restaurant, and he's eaten there a dozen times without once getting treated like a rowdy toddler by a bartender with a steroid-abuse problem.

And darn it, I was a guest in Paul's home. I wouldn't even *be* in Las Vegas if it hadn't been for Paul's generosity and loveliness. Paul *deserves* to get to dine in his favorite restaurant, and I shouldn't be a spoiled brat and complain just because one misogynistic cretin decided to spread his testosterone poisoning all over my lovely day.

By the time Paul got there, Amy and I were resigned to dining at Hash House A-Go-Go even if it meant swallowing our righteous indignation. Paul went inside and talked to the hostess. I think he also talked to the manager, and he procured a promise that we would receive stellar service from this point on, and an apology from the rude fellow in the bar.

We went inside, were seated immediately in the dining room, and got a lovely, lovely server.

A few minutes after making our order, the loud, obnoxious bartender came to our table in the dining room. He yelled, and I'm quoting, "HEY LADIES, I'M SORRY FOR THE MISUNDERSTANDING. THE HOSTESS SHOULDA KNOWN BETTER THAN TO TELL YOU TO SIT IN THE BAR!"

So I sat there looking at him with my most disdainful "you're an ignorant little bug" expression. I really, really, really *wish* I had gotten mad enough to say what I was thinking, which was, "OK, you're sorry -- for 'the misunderstanding?' But you're not sorry you were wrong, you're not sorry you berated us in public as if we were children, and you're not sorry you behaved like a numskull. Okie dokie. In the vernacular, you're an asshole, and you have single-handedly wrecked my dining experience at this dining establishment."

Mostly, I just tried really hard to pretend like everything was OK and I wasn't still utterly peeved at the whole thing.

The food was good. It was giant and it was good. I got a chicken salad sandwich and fries. The grilled sourdough bread alone had to be an inch and a half thick -- per slice. And the chicken salad itself was HUGE.

The waiter was good -- although he did make a few mistakes, he corrected them as quickly as he could and was really contrite about them.

The food was undeniably tasty.

But will I ever go back to Hash House A-Go-Go? No. The malignant bartender never really apologized. And to make matters worse, Paul paid full price for that meal. No one ever did anything to really make the thing right. That's just bad management, in my opinion. First of all, they hired a loud, blustering dunderhead to run the bar, and secondly, they did nothing to correct the wrong done to me and Amy when we went back to the restaurant after being treated so badly. That is a system-wide failure, and they won't get my business again.

Martha Stewart and Dr. Phil just love Hash House A-Go-Go.

In my opinion, they can have it.

Weekend in Las Vegas, Part III - Sat., cont'd

2007-07-09T01:33:00.000-04:00

I dressed in white denim capris that I just bought and which, to be honest, were a smidgeon too big for me. Eek! But they looked good, as long as I kept them pulled up. I accomplished this -- without a belt -- by putting my hands in my pockets. Well, it worked! I also wore a really nice pale pink t-shirt with beads and mother-of-pearl buttons around the neckline. Cute tee! Amy looked like a million bucks in black slacks and a light blue short-sleeved sweater.

We headed off to the theatre in Amy's car, the yellow Solstice. I know that Amy probably doesn't realize it because she gets in and out of the car two or three times a day, but a seat that low is quite a workout for a lazy chubby chick like me. ROFL!!!! It's like sitting on the ground! Only cushier, with air conditioning, and more stylish than the ground. But, oh, I would have to hold onto the side of the car and *slide* down to the seat. Getting out, I think I just rolled out on my side and hoped one of my feet would catch me. Tee hee!

I had grabbed some of my handmade cards before I left home, and for Brad Oscar, I chose one and wrote a note to him while standing in the gorgeous lobby of the Paris hotel. I think I said something like, "I first saw you on October 10, 2001, and I knew you were a star right then. I have been waiting so long to see you as Bialystock! And I can't wait to see whatever your *next* show is!" Something like that, gush, gush, love bomb, gush. We asked the box office to to give it to him, and we asked where the stage door was, but they wouldn't tell us. Dang it!

The theatre was nice, and we had *great* seats halfway up the center front section. There was a couple already seated when we got there, and that guy wouldn't give up the armrest to save his life. On the other side of them, though, our whole row was empty. I kind of wish they had moved down a couple of chairs so I could have that armrest. Snort! I am greedy people.

On the other side of Amy, some rowdy drunk boys sat down. They spent most of the play getting up and going to the bar to get more drinks, and at one point they became so noisy that the usher tried to find them and shush them. She failed. She was in the row in front of us, fussing at the innocent people who sat up there instead of the rowdy boys on our row.

Well... the play... Was fabulous. The cuts that they made for time were very, very good, although I missed the song "Betrayed" a lot. Brad Oscar was geeeeeeeeeenius, just as I knew he would be. The guy playing Leo Bloom was terrible. He pandered to the audience and totally phoned in the performance, *and* he couldn't dance at all. The guy playing Franz Liebkind was very good, but he couldn't dance, either. (Brad Oscar can sing, act, *and* dance, so he was a much better Franz Liebkind as well as a fabulous Bialystock.) I was interested in the guy who played Roger DeBris, because he replaced that Hasselhoff guy. He wasn't anywhere near as good as Gary Beach (the original B'way actor), but he was adequate. He pandered to the audience and hammed it up a bit, and when I commented on that later, Amy and Paul assured me that the Hasselhoff guy was *much* more offensive in that regard.

A note for those of you who've seen the movie: You know how the choreographer's pants are stuffed in "Keep It Gay"? I swear, the stuffing gets bigger with every show I see. It wasn't really noticeable in the Broadway production. It was big in the movie. And in the Las Vegas production, the crotch is practically a whole 'nother actor. It was HUGE.

The audience was quite iffy to begin with, but they really got into it by the time "Keep It Gay" was performed. I think they figured out that "The Producers" is dirty enough to work in Las Vegas.

In general, though, I loved it, and I cried off most of my makeup just from the overwhelming sense of nostalgia and happiness. It is *such* a good show. I'm so glad I saw it -- especially with Brad Oscar in the lead!

When it was over, Amy and I went to the ladies' room (which is gorgeous) and then we went outside to find Paul. We didn't find him, though. Emily called me and I chatted a bit with her -- my family had gone to see the Spider-man movie and it was dark and drizzly back at home. That's so hard to comprehend when you're standing in the evening desert sun in LV. I took a picture of the Eiffel tower, and then we went back inside where Paul was waiting at Mon Ami Gabi's front door. We were whisked to a table and seated for the best, most magical meal of the whole trip.

Amy and I ordered mojitos because we've heard so much about them, and I don't know what Paul ordered. We also ordered *one* crabcake to share between the three of us, a very wise decision because by the end of the night, we were all overstuffed.

The waitress chatted with us while pouring water for us -- I drank more water in Las Vegas than I ever, ever drink at home, and most of it was at the beginning of meals. She and Amy briefly discussed the way Las Vegas locals hardly ever go to The Strip unless they have comp'ny. But she was *really* nice, our waitress was, and I in general I just loved the waitstaff at Mon Ami Gabi.

The crusty French bread came first, in a long paper bag. That was a tidy way to serve the bread, I thought -- you break the bread inside the bag and then just pull out your piece, so your hands aren't all over the entire loaf of bread, and the crumbs fall mostly inside the bag. Tidy! They had real butter and some kind of spread (which may have been couscous, but I'm not sure). OMG -- the bread was tasty and crusty. I could've eaten the whole loaf, it tasted so good. But I restrained myself and just ate a little chunk of it.

Then the mojitos and the crabcake arrived.

The mojitos had pomegranate juice in it, and OMG, it was delicious. I kept getting bits of mint stuck in my straw, but I didn't let that stop me.

The crabcake.... Well, words escape me. It was a delicious crabcake, very close to Maryland-style, and you know how picky I am about my crabcakes. I love Maryland, I hate low country style. The crabcake was wonderful. There was an orange-colored sauce with the crabcake, and it was very good, too. But the really divine part of the dish was the slaw. I have no idea what they put in that slaw dressing, but it was so yummy I wanted to lick the plate. I couldn't lick it, though -- even if I hadn't been in a fancy restaurant, I was sharing with Amy and Paul. They were really nice and let me get four or five forkfuls of that delicious slaw to go with my bites of crabcake. Even now, I want more of that appetizer!

With our palates thusly set for culinary delights, our main entrees arrived, along with the glass of ordinary iced tea that I had ordered when I finished my yummy mojito.

Paul got the herb-crusted ribeye roast with cheddar potatoes and green beans. Amy got the sea scallops and a spinach side dish. I got the bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin with scalloped potatoes and the same spinach dish that Amy had.

And OMG, y'all, every single dish was absolute heaven.

Amy's eyes rolled up in her head at the first taste of her scallops, which she declared simply perfectly cooked. Paul dug into his hearty portion of beef -- which was medium, and looked wonderful -- and wouldn't let us steal it from him.

I had my pork, and it came with a citrus and berry sauce that was to die for. I finally had to ask what those sweet soft lumps were, and it turns out they were plumped golden raisins. I have had plumped golden raisins before. I want to know what they plumped 'em in, because these were the sweetest, softest plumped raisins I've ever tasted. And they were *sublime* in that golden sauce that smothered my pork tenderloins. And the scalloped potatoes were divine. And the spinach -- hey, I haven't eaten cooked spinach (outside spinach cheese dip) in 30-some-odd years. That spinach thing was *wonderful*!!!! I do not know what the pale straws of crunchiness were -- they might have been apples or ... I don't know what they were -- but they added a flavor and crunch that made the whole spinach experience worth trying!

When I just could not possibly eat another bite, and I was full beyond fullness, I pushed back my plate and tried not to groan. Fortunately, I was wearing those loose white capris, so I didn't have to unbutton the top button. But oh, I was full, and every flavor had been *so* fabulous. I actually understood the appeal of bulimia for the first time. It wasn't as if I *wanted* to stop eating -- oh, no! I wanted to eat more. I just *couldn't*!!!

Then the waitress did the *meanest* thing. She brought the dessert menu. That WITCH! I thought she was *nice*!!!! I was *wrong*!!!!!!

Amy started reading the menu, and I think the first item was Crepes Bananas Foster. That was it, we were all goners. It didn't matter that I was already in pain from having eaten crusty French bread, yummy crabcake and slaw, and pork, spinach, and potatoes. I wanted that Crepes Bananas Foster! And I'm usually a chocolate or citrus kind of gal!

The waitress reverted to her kind ways and assured us that one dessert could easily fill three people. And so Amy ordered the Crepes Bananas Foster. I was so giddy with rapture that I forgot to take a picture, so you'll just have to believe me when I tell you it's absolutely huge and completely fabulous. I guess the traditional Foster chocolate in our dish was combined into the caramel, because it was not overt enough to differentiate chocolate on its own. It was a crepe wrapped around vanilla ice cream, smothered in sauteed banana slices and what looked like caramel sauce and whipped cream.

OMG.

Heaven.

After I exploded, died, and went to heaven, we gathered ourselves up and waddled out of that glorious restaurant. I really cannot recommend Mon Ami Gabi highly enough. It is not as noisy or as crowded as a Las Vegas buffet. It's not the most expensive place in the world. (For instance, my wonderful pork dish and the side veggies cost less than $20.) The service is warm and friendly, and the food cannot possibly be surpassed by a fancier place. It just cannot be. I don't want to eat octopus or truffles, so I do not miss them from my fabulous meal. (Actually there are truffles on the Mon Ami Gabi menu; I just didn't order anything with 'em.) I have to give Mon Ami Gabi 10 stars on a scale of 1 to 10.

For comparison's sake, I would have to give the Concourse Steakhouse Disney's Contemporary Resort *8* stars out of 10. Eight stars is still enough to make me sad that it'll close before I get back to WDW, but... Mon Ami Gabi is a better experience overall, and that's saying... a *lot*. Because y'all know I love the Concourse.

We went back to Amy's house, and I think... yes, that was the night we stopped at a drug store and a security guard gave me a hard time. I was soooooooo tired and so full that I didn't understand him. Remember, I was wearing the too-big capris, and I had my hands in my pockets to keep them from falling down to my hips. This security guard or cop said to me, "I see you have your work gloves on."

I kept having to ask him, "What?" It took three tries before I understood that he was implying that one puts one's hands in one pockets when one is a lazy good-for-nothing. I was actually kind of insulted. I got over it. I don't even remember what I bought at the drug store that night.

Then we went to Amy's house, and I ... don't remember if I did anything before I crashed. It had been a full day, and I was a full girl. I washed my face and collapsed, with a snoring bull dog next to the bed and a lovely fan blowing a breeze for me all night long.

This whole Las Vegas trip was shaping up to be quite a wonderful memory! And it was only one-third through!

2007-07-08T23:56:00.000-04:00

Plan:
The Petcast studio recording 9:00 to 11:00
BagelMania for brunch
The pool in the afternoon
"The Producers" at 6:00
Mon Ami Gabi at 8:15

Actual:
I woke up Saturday morning, and bluebirds landed on my shoulder and fawns came to the window to greet me, and Leon wiggled with glee to say good morning, and of course, Amy started the coffee maker. She has the fanciest coffee maker -- it grinds the beans and then makes the coffee, all in one swoop. And she made really good coffee! (Note to self: Starbucks Tanzania beans -- yummers!)

I took my coffee outside to the patio. I wish I had gotten some pictures of the patio. It's covered, and Amy has a lovely glass-top table out there. There are also some dials and things on the walls to tell you the time, the temperature and the humidity. ROFL -- humidity in the desert! Amy and Paul joined me very soon, and we watched hummingbirds and chatted for a while. Amy offered me a NutriSystem cranberry granola bar, and it was delicious. Diet food has come a long way, baby!

Then I went inside, showered, and put velcro rollers in my hair, hoping it would get big and poofy. It got big for a little while. I put on make-up, and got dressed in my favorite new outfit. The jeans are made out of the softest buttery-feeling pre-washed denim-type cotton. The tank top graduates in shades of blue from dark to light. And there are beads around the neckline. Then a white crocheted top goes on over that. I love that outfit. It makes me feel skinny and chic, even though I am neither.

Amy and I left for the studio insanely early, and we got there before Steve, so we stood outside in the shade of a scraggly pine tree and smoked a cigarette while we waited for Steve.

I was already learning about the desert in June -- it is really crazy hot there this time of year, and this isn't even the hottest month. July and August are supposed to be hotter. I don't know if Amy knows this, but I spent a good bit of time on this trip standing in shade and sticking my hand out into the sun to *feel* the difference in temperature. The shade is at least 10 degrees cooler than the direct sunlight. Weird!!!!! And cool!!!!!!! Well, I mean, *hot*, not cool. I mean, shade feels cool in Tennessee, too, but the sheer *volume* of difference between shade and sun in Las Vegas is *way* more dramatic.

Also, the studio parking lot was pretty close to the Stratosphere, and I watched the rides up there in motion. It wasn't even 9:00 in the morning, and people were already riding the rides. Weirdness! Las Vegas surely wakes up early for a place that's called "Sin City"!!!

Then Steve came, and I got to hug him. It's Steve! Steve Friess! AP writer extraordinaire and podcaster god! He is *so* cute in real life, and so animated and adorable. We went upstairs and into the studio where I met Jimmy, the owner of the studio and the engineer of many of Steve & Miles' shows.

'Kay, I'll be honest about the studio. It's a little... well... polite little middle-class chicks like me are probably not the most common visitors in this place. I think most of the shows that tape there are about porn, strippers, and, uh, more porn. And strippers like to leave their pictures and things lying around. Steve even noted at the end of the taping that Jimmy must have removed the red white and blue butt plug. I'm so glad. I didn't need to see a patriotic, er, adult toy.

We talked about the show notes -- Steve's notes are a work of art, complete with articles and pictures to back up what's going to be discussed -- and we decided that I would get to take part in the show at the beginning rather than at the end. The first show had topics that really interested me, like how chickens are being kept as pets. Hey, I live in the boonies -- pet chickens are not uncommon here at all! But I draw the line at using the eggs of pet chickens, as some city folk are doing. Amy coined the phrase "pets with benefits," which just cracked me up.

In the middle of that first show, I started wanting to sneeze. I was allergic to something in Nevada, and it was driving me crazy. I sorta halfway participated in the second show, but Jimmy turned off my mic and I stopped participating after that. I was doing back-up -- when Amy had a question about something, she wrote me a note and I got on the internet and looked up the answer for her. So she could go on and ask the guest an intelligent question.

The whole taping was weird and cool -- I really don't like getting that close to a microphone, so whenever the shows come out, I'll be the faintest voice in the studio. Jimmy fussed at me -- gently, but pointedly -- about that. But it was really nice to meet Jimmy and of course Steve -- I've been listening to The Strip for more than a year, and I've been on the Petcast a few times, and it's great to be in the actual studio. Jimmy is the *best*. Even if he does have porn shows taped in his studio.

The two hours of taping was over in no time flat, and just in time, because I really needed to sneeze. We went outside; I sneezed, then we followed Steve to BagelMania.

Ahhhhhhhhh, BagelMania. OMG, I finally found a bread source west of the Colorado River that tastes like bread! They must use bottled water or something.

Steve turned into the quintessential Jewish mother and ordered a ton of Jewish food for us to try. I have never had most of those things you hear about -- knish, bialy, latkes, I can't remember it all. There were two sweet things, rugalach and a "black and white." The rest of the things were savory and delicious. I got a sesame bagel for myself, and it was divine. You *really* cannot get a decent sesame bagel in Tennessee, and every time I have a real one, the difference strikes me all over again.

And Miles joined us for this meal.

Miles. My Miles.

I can be honest with y'all. I took one look at Miles and fell head over heels. He's a little bit sarcastic, has a touch of attitude, and he's got these gorgeous, dramatic, deep, penetrating eyes. Miles is a hottie. This is the first gay man I've met since I met Chad that I just looked at and *knew* he was my kind of fabulous gay boy. We clicked immediately. And I ... just can't say why or how or what we talked about, because it was *so* fast, and my head was reeling with massive amounts of adoration for Miles.

That's the kind of guy Miles is -- *my* kind of guy. Rapturous sigh!!!! I'm so glad there are people like him in the world.

I only wish we could have hung out together more and longer. I'm not the only person who thinks he's the bomb. His employers are well aware of Miles' fabulosity! But that also means that Miles works ... a ... *lot*. So I just have to be happy to know that he's out there somewhere.

Oh, also! He actually came over to my chair and taught me how to send text messages from my cell phone. ROFL!!!! That's a long story, and I'll tell it some other time. I don't really "get" text messaging, but Miles and Steve are big on sending text messages.

And! Furthermore! With my allergies and sinuses acting up so badly, at one point during the meal, I snorted. BADLY. I can't describe this snort, but my sinuses locked up and made this god-awful loud noise, and I could have absolutely died from embarrassment. I was dying, and I said something like, "Oh, my gah, I am so embarrassed," and Miles said, "Oh, stop. You are fabulous." And the strange thing is... I think he actually *meant* it.

I love that boy!!!!

OK, I have to stop ranting and raving -- but I loved Miles to death, and I just wanted to try to communicate that adoration in some small way.

So Amy and I drove away from BagelMania. It's hard to describe, but I really am getting more accustomed to Las Vegas and where everything is. BagelMania is somewhere in the southeast corner. Amy's house is in the northwest corner. It took us a little while, but we did get back to her house, and the views were stunning as we drove. Saturday's weather was incredibly clear and beautiful, and I kept telling Yamy that I don't know how she drives without getting into a wreck from looking at the mountains. The air seemed crystal clear, and those mountains appeared as if they were right next to us. Gorgeous!

Back at Yamy's house, I washed my face, pinned up my hair, put on my swimsuit... and *ran* to the pool! This was the afternoon that was the *most* frivolous and ridiculous while Amy and I played in the swimming pool. I don't remember what made me laugh so hard, but I was constantly laughing, holding my sides, and thinking that if i fell off the raft, I would surely drown.

I also spent a lot of time saying that I never thought I would be *that* chick -- you know, the one who has her hair pinned up and is stretching her neck to keep her head out of the water. We used to see *those chicks* at the public swimming pools. And as a kid, I always thought, "How crazy. Pools are for swimming. Get your head wet!" Now I get it. They probably just got their hair colored red-brown.

In between dips in the pool, I would get out and sit under the shade of the covered patio, smoking a bit and drinking Coke Zero. This is the trip that got me switched over to Coke Zero, a beverage I have resisted. It still doesn't taste exactly like *real* Coke, but it's close enough, and if you drink it fast enough, it doesn't have time to go flat.

The desert is really very different from the humid South. You get into a pool, get wet, and get out. Then the completely arid desert air starts to blow over you, and it's so cool and lovely, it's quite deceptive. You can be quite comfortable in your wet swimsuit for about twenty minutes before it starts to feel warm again, at which time you get back into the pool and start the cooling process all over again.

Also, Amy had bought the *best* sunscreen that really does spray all over you. I could cover my entire self -- including my back -- without assistance. Still, I didn't want to just *soak* up the sun, and I was quite conscious of getting out of the UV rays on a regular basis. I don't want to get burned, after all! I have my alabaster, fair skin to think of, after all.

(Honestly? I am so vain about my skin. I've been getting compliments on my pale, pale, alabaster skin for decades now, and I don't want to risk a freckle or a tan on this glorious complexion of mine. Isn't that vain? Yes, it is. Next week, I'll tell you about fond I am of my perfect, fair, beautiful hands and how I should have been a hands model.)

All too soon, it was time to get out of that glorious swimming pool to get ready for the evening. I could have happily stayed in the back yard for hours more! But there was a play to see and a fancy meal to be eaten. The evening called!

Weekend in Las Vegas, Part I

2007-07-07T14:11:00.000-04:00

As I look back on my whirlwind weekend in Las Vegas, I have two all-encompassing thoughts.
1. That was the most relaxing fun time I've ever had in Sin City, and...
B. I am absolutely exhausted, but I wish I were still there.

Amy and I made plans -- and I'll recap them as I go along -- but we kept it flexible. As a result, we didn't do a lot of things we talked about doing. I wish the trip had been longer so I could have done them. On the other hand, it keeps me lookin' forward to the next trip! Woo hoo!!!

Friday, June 22

I'll start with the flights. My first leg to Atlanta was short and the plane was totally full. There were a bunch of big, burly, good-lookin' young men on the flight, which made me wonder if they were baseball players or something. They all seemed to know each other. The guy sitting next to me was one of 'em, and he sat down while sniffling, sneezing, coughing, and carrying on. After a minute of this, I turned to him and said, "Tell me those are allergies. OK? Just tell me that."

And he was surprised and said, "Oh, yeah! Of course! Allergies!" And then we laughed. They really *were* allergies. But dang, no one wants to sit next to the guy with a cold on a plane, y'know?

The flight to Atlanta was totally ordinary, and we landed a bit early. As I battled my way to the A concourse (had to take the train), my phone beeped -- I had voice mail. I was in a rush because my connecting flight was *fairly* soon, and I wanted a chance to have a cigarette before the long flight. Fortunately, as I checked my voice mail, I had one message from Amy and one message from Delta -- my second flight was delayed a bit. Woo hoo!!!! I had plenty of time to have a cigarette, go to the ladies' room, get situated and such.

The second flight... Well, I had my usual window seat -- I *need* to be able to see the earth -- and the guy sitting next to me was feeling crowded, I guess, because before the plane took off, he moved across the aisle to a more spacious seat. That was fine with me; I like to have my elbow room, too. I read my magazines (latest issue of Entertainment Weekly and the in-flight mag Sky) until the movie started. IPod earbuds work on planes! That was good, because I never remember to pack the $2 headphones I bought years ago. The movie was "Starter for 10," I think, and it was a very strange British movie. A college freshman in 1985 traverses the perils of university life. It was OK, it was just ... incomplete. Also, they bleeped out the cursewords.

About halfway across the country, we hit a storm system. That was probably the worst turbulence I've ever encountered, and it was not fun. But I didn't actually think we were gonna die.

Then I started getting hungry. We had already gotten a snack of crackers and Havarti cheese, with raisins and Oreo cookies. I got a Sprite Zero to drink because they only had regular Diet Coke. But I wanted more food. Then someone in front of me pulled out a sandwich. OMG. That thing smelled so good, I thought about climbing over the seatback and taking it away for myself. My mouth watered. Then they brought out the second round of snacks, and I got a tiny bag of Sun Chips with the Sprite Zero. I was licking the inside of the bag by the time they started taking away the trash. Sniffle. I was *hungry*.

When we started our descent to LV, the guy who had moved away came back to my row and placed himself in my lap so he could see The Strip. He was a newbie and had never been to LV before -- and then, as we conversed, it turned out he wasn't even staying in LV. He was gonna catch a plane to someplace *else*. And he was very unhappy about that. I think this one was part of a church group or something, but I have no idea where they were going after LV. He kept exclaiming over the sights as we landed, and I finally explained to him that The Strip is not as close as it appears. He flipped out about that. I think he just didn't believe me. He asked if there was a place to smoke in the airport, and I broke the bad news to him. Las Vegas has gone non-smoking. Then I told him, "But there are slot machines in the airport." And his eyes just about popped out of his head. ROFL!!!!!!

Soon we were off the plane, and fortunately, no one stopped in front of me on the moving sidewalks or escalators, because I think I would've run right over them if they had. I was *dying* to see Amy!!!

Strange thing happened on the monorail to the terminal -- a pair of brothers, a young kid, maybe 18, and a little kid, about 10, passed through the train, and then turned around, and the opposite doors closed before they got back to where they were supposed to be. They asked people around them where this train was going, and then they looked a little panicked. I don't know how that happens, but there it was -- it happened right in front of me. When the train stopped, they stayed on to go back to the concourses.

I got to Baggage Claim, and there Yamy was!!!! Skinny, but there!!!!! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!! We hugged, and then we clasped hands and skipped past Paul toward the door outside for a cigarette and some squealing. DANG! It was hot outside! We were next to the limousines, and it was HOT HOT HOT. I couldn't believe how hot it was, because the sun was down and I would've thought it would get cooler at night. But it wasn't much cooler at all!

Still laughing, we went to gather my suitcase, and because mine is so nondescript and boring, it went around three times before I finally said, "I think that one might be mine." Paul pulled it off the carousel and we laughed on our way to the parking garage, where I got my first glimpse of Paul's new hybrid Ford Escape. OooooooooooOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOo

oo!!!

It's gorgeous!

It's big!

And it hugs trees!!!!

That Ford Escape really is a beautiful machine, and I am terribly impressed.

In no time at all, we were headed toward Amy and Paul's house -- with commentary from the navigational system that is built right into the Escape -- and the moment I spied the red-and-yellow sideways diamond sign, I hollered, "FATBURGER!!!!!!! Yaaaaaaaaaayyyy!!!!!" And Amy and Paul laughed at me, but I think they probably secretly agreed with me.

I got a FatBurger and Fat Fries and a chocolate milkshake. Amy got a milkshake, too. Paul was *really* good and didn't get anything that night. (Amy and Paul are both losing weight on the NutriSystem plan. They both look fabulous.)

Soon we were at the house, and I tackled the meal right there in Amy's kitchen. Oh, y'all, Amy's house looks sooooo good!!!! It's just as clean as can be, and her art collection looks so good! And her little birds said hello, and -- oh, poor Leon! Leon the bulldog had been to doggie day care that day (he always goes to day care when the housekeepers come to clean the house). And he plays *so* hard, and he exhausts himself. So then I came along and totally wrecked his nap. He was so tired, but so excited to see me. What a good dog!

I didn't stay up late because we had so much to do on Saturday. Paul brought a fan to the guest bedroom -- yay! -- and Leon's bed came to the guest bedroom, too. Yay!!! I had a dog and a nice breeze, and all my luggage made it to Las Vegas, and I had had the rapture of a FatBurger meal and milkshake -- dang, this trip was off to a great start!!!

Fun quiz

2007-06-28T14:47:00.000-04:00

I was totally honest and said that I do say "I" as "ah" sometimes, yet this is the result I get? No way!

What American accent do you have? (Best version so far)

Northern

You have a Northern accent. That could either be the Chicago/Detroit/Cleveland/Buffalo accent (easily recognizable) or the Western New England accent that news networks go for.

Click Here to Take This Quiz
Brought to you by YouThink.com quizzes and personality tests.

Edited to add: If you'd like to find out what kind of accent you boast, then try this link:
http://www.youthink.com/quiz.asp?action=take&quiz_id=9827

I'm here, I swear; I'm OK!

2007-06-25T21:17:00.001-04:00

I'm so sorry. I meant to be writing daily updates about my fabulous long weekend in Las Vegas.

I realize that some of you might be worried that I've been incapacitated by an unexpected foray into the darker, seedier side of this oft-maligned city of sin.

Rest assured, I haven't been seduced by the gaming and the debauchery. I haven't gambled away the family fortune, nor have started snorting drugs off the tables in the nightclubs.

Instead, I have spent all my glorious days here happily involved in the lovely, mild pastimes offered to people who don't gamble.

And the very best pastime is hanging out with my dear sister in her lovely backyard pool.

I cannot adequately describe how completely fabulous it is to just put on a swimsuit at 8:00 in the morning and hit the pool running. Every morning I drink my coffee at the table on her covered patio; every afternoon is spent lazily -- and laughingly -- playing in the swimming pool and getting out to sip a Coke Zero or a Starbuck's Mocha Frappuccino.

I've had the pleasure of meeting Steve and Miles of The Strip Podcast, and they are -- genuinely -- truly -- magnificently nice guys. I love 'em to death. (And Miles is such a hottie! I'm madly in love with him!)

I will post a detailed trip report when I get home, but in the meantime, I'm just too busy relaxing and having fun to write.

Gotta go dry my hair -- we lucked into tickets to see The Mentalist tonight. Both Amy and Steve recommend it, so I cannot wait!!!

P.S. to Kathi -- I'm sorry, Kathi, but I haven't spent any time on the Strip this trip, so I haven't had a chance to collect any hooker cards. Maybe tonight?)

VEGAS, BABY!!!

2007-06-22T13:39:00.000-04:00

I'm leaving this afternoon, and I'm soooo excited, I can hardly keep my hair on. VEGAS, BABY!!!! (Don't you love that movie "Swingers"?)

Amy and I have talked and planned and scheduled and rearranged the schedule and made reservations and bought tickets -- this is going to be *such* a fabulous trip!

Here are our plans:
FatBurger -- For the luscious chocolate milkshakes. The burgers and thick-cut fries are awesome, yes, but the chocolate milkshakes are, for me, a religious experience. My mouth waters at the very idea!

BagelMania -- We plan to meet some favorite podcasters at Bagel Mania for breakfast. I hope they've got sesame!

Siegfried & Roy's Secret Garden -- I'm conflicted, but I've gotta see it. I just read about how white tigers are the result of inbreeding and overbreeding, and most white tigers have severe birth defects and die young. I kind of hope that practice is stopped, and soon. But in the meantime, there are other things to see in the Secret Garden, right? Right! Like dolphins!!! There's a new baby dolphin there. Woo hoo!

The Producers -- I'm very, very excited about this one. Amy and I saw The Producers in NY in October, 2001, and I became Brad Oscar's biggest fan. OK, maybe not his biggest fan -- but still, he's totally brilliant, and I have been dying to see him in the role of Max Bialystock. They recently announced that some substitute is going to take over the role in August, so I'm doubly happy that I'll be in LV before Brad leaves!

Mon Ami Gabi -- Dinner at a nice restaurant? You bet, baby! A few of my friends are even envious that I'll be dining here, so I'll be sure to take pictures and post a complete report and review.

The Shark Reef at Mandalay Bay -- This is the "animal" trip, so we're going to take in the sights at Mandalay Bay. I've always liked the name of that hotel. I've never seen it.

The Mix Lounge -- Atop THEhotel at Mandalay Bay, Mix gets great reviews and boasts some stunning views. I wanna see the sunset! We're also going to meet some podcast listener friends for drinks! Yes, I'm taking a trampy camisole or two so they will recognize me.

The Atomic Testing Museum -- I wanna see things blow up! Then I want to worry about residual radiation. Yay! I get both wishes!

Springs Preserve -- We may skip this one if it's just too darned hot. But I would love to see what the Water District did with this historic site.

Now, I'm sure we'll be doing lots of things besides these plans, and we might have to cancel some little things. But isn't it funny -- I'll be in Las Vegas for three whole days, and I can't for the life of me understand how anyone ever has time to gamble! There's just too many other things to do there!

Gotta run finish packing -- Eeeeeeeee!!

Pardon me whilst I gush...

2007-06-22T00:23:00.001-04:00

I went to a salon in Lenoir City this morning to get a haircut. I ended up getting my hair colored, cut, and styled, and my eyebrows colored and groomed. It was *heavenly*. I wrote out the whole experience for a business-review website, but I ended up not posting it because it was so long that I was afraid it would irritate people. Some folks just aren't ready for the full-on patented Bay love-bomb.

Here's the website with the reviews that already exist:
http://www.merchantcircle.com/business/Beyond.Bella.Salon.865-988-5785

I went to bed early and got up insanely early for this appointment, and I was really just about ready to chop off all my hair. (When is the last time I had really short hair?)

Here's my insanely long review that I didn't post:
Listen, I'll be honest. I was leery of going to a place I'd never been before. And I was due a major change in hair, both cut and color, which can be emotionally trying. *And*, to make matters worse, I'm a reality-TV junkie. Have you ever seen "Split Ends" or "Shear Genius"? I'm tellin' you, going to get your hair done can be scary.

And none of that even addresses my severe eyebrow trauma. Long story. Can't tell it without crying. And that was *years* ago.

Thank heaven I called Beyond Bella and told them how emotionally needy and tress-challenged I am. They gave me an appointment with Karen, and I counted down the minutes 'til it was time for my image consultation.

Beyond Bella is in a new location (near Home Depot) which I found easily, and honestly -- just walking into the place is a breath of fresh air. Sure, I've had my hair done in trailers, strip malls, malls, and even nice salons in some cities -- but I honestly think this is the nicest salon I've ever seen in East Tennessee. It's beautifully decorated and spacious, and the products for sale aren't just clumped up on a plastic-and-faux-chrome shelf unit. Someone really put some thought into comfort and beauty, which can be so soothing to someone who's worried about her hair.

I was offered coffee while I waited, and soon I met Karen, who was really nice and very calm. She took one look at me and seemed to know instinctively what color my hair *ought* to be. She asked -- rather hesitantly -- if I wanted to go blonde, and when I shouted, "NO!" she just immediately went to the right color, a warm chocolatey red-brown.

While she applied the color to my hair, we chatted a bit. Karen is warm and very nice, and again, very soothing and calm. It was just the balm I needed for my jangling nerves.

When it was time to let the color set, she guided me to a seating area -- and just as I was about to sit down, Karen looked at me really hard and said, "Your eyebrows are really pale. We need to color them."

OK, I kinda almost sorta had a heart attack. I'm very sensitive about my terrible eyebrows. I'm scared of letting anyone do ANYTHING to them because of that previously mentioned eyebrow waxing incident. But Karen assured me that I would be pleased, and she mixed up some medium brown dye and stood right there and painted my eyebrows.

Then she went back to her station, and that's when I was able to focus on the seating area, where an aromatic candle was burning, and yes, there was more coffee for the taking. The chairs were comfortable without being so fluffy as to induce sleep, and there were plenty of magazines to read. Every once in a while an assistant would come in and gather up one customer or another for a shampoo, and they were just as nice as the receptionists and the stylists. Everyone seemed really personable and concerned about the clients' level of comfort.

After a while, it was my turn. I am afraid I didn't catch the name of the woman who washed my hair, but man, she was soooo conscientious and careful! My hair grows really far down on the back of my neck and shampoo girls usually leave soap and conditioner and stuff back there. Not this gal! She very carefully checked, and honestly, she was so gentle with the entire shampoo and the water temp that it ended up feeling like a great scalp massage. Heaven! While she washed my hair, she also chatted about her grandchildren and kids, and Easter baskets and such. She was *so* nice, and she also comforted me about my eyebrow dye.

When it was time to cut my hair, Karen very wisely steered me away from the severely short cut to which I was leaning. She expertly cut my hair, and I am still amazed at how fresh and clean and *hip* it looks, without me lookin' like a middle-aged lady trying to reclaim her youth.

By this time, I had been staring at my furry, freshly-brown eyebrows long enough to know I needed someone to pay attention to them. Karen brought over Kim Burr, the aesthetician, who guided me to her little haven of happiness -- the room devoted to just facials. Now, seriously -- this was an experience all by itself. That table feels fabulous. You shouldn't be able to call it a table; the cushion top is so perfectly firm and soft at the same time. I would like to sleep on that "table," and I never once wanted to recline on my dining room table, y'know?

Kim totally understood my fear about eyebrow waxing, and she set me at ease. Then she started the waxing, and then she started plucking. Honestly, just when I was starting to panic ("She's gotta be over-plucking! There can't be anything left!"), she stopped and handed me a mirror so I could check one eyebrow before she moved on to the next. It was PERFECT!!!!! It was gorgeous!!!!! I looked like someone out of a magazine!!!! I swear, I want to take pictures of my eyebrows and put 'em in a scrapbook!

Kim also put some kind of ultra-soothing solution all around my eyes, and it felt so good that I literally exclaimed, "Oh, my gosh! That feels great!"

In the meantime, something in that room smelled yummy -- I don't know if it was another candle, because I had my eyes closed most of the time -- and calm, New-Age-ish music was playing with bird songs and nature sounds mixed in. It was all very relaxing, calming, soothing, and honestly, except for that brief moment when I worried, the whole thing was a magnificent experience.

And ... that was just an ordinary old *eyebrow wax*. Imagine what a full-bore facial must feel like!

Kim tells me she also does facials and massages, and I am definitely going to try one as soon as possible. The Bella Signature Facial sounds like a winner to me.

At the end of the whole fabulous experience, Kim took me out to the cashier and thanked me. She also gave me a brochure and some business cards. I'm keeping the brochure for future reference; I'm definitely passing out the cards to my friends!!!

The cashier then told me how much it cost, and I'm still absolutely in shock at how inexpensive the whole thing was. As I said, I've been to nice salons before. This was by far the best experience I've had, and it was by far the least expensive price.

I will be going back. Without hesitation, I recommend Beyond Bella highly. Everyone I met was professional, courteous, and kind. I know everyone has an off-day, and I'm sure that happens every now and then, but for the overall experience -- I just can't say enough good things about Beyond Bella.

Sorry this is so long -- but I honestly thought y'all should know what to expect!
-------

I had a very good morning.

-------

Now it's after midnight, and I'm packing to leave for Las Vegas. (EEEEEEEEEEE!!!! Las Vegas!!!!!) I'm still very happy with the color of my hair and the shape of my newly-brown eyebrows. I need to do some serious fluffing on my hair before I leave for LV, though -- it is really flat at the moment, and I can't wash it for a while yet. I do not want to risk fading this gorgeous color. Heck, I even stuck my head in a scanner so I could remember my hair color! That's how good it is!

Someday I should write a blog post about my poor eyebrows. We've been through so much together.

Father's Day

2007-06-17T18:04:00.001-04:00

It's Father's Day, so I made a card for Wesley using the Chapter One Greetings to Go kit. This kit rocks. The card is a gate-fold, so one frame goes one way and the tag goes another way, and they lie together very nicely when the card is closed -- the way it's shown here.

I also stamped the envelope -- I do love stamped envelopes -- and then Woodrow bought Wesley a DVD and we needed to wrap it. No problem -- I grabbed a bit of paper from the roll of newsprint (which we keep on hand for the birds' cages). Once it was wrapped, I just inked up the uncut Chapter One UM's and pressed 'em on the wrapping. Finished up with some Extra! Extra! printed tape, and voila -- a manly package that coordinates with the card.

I love paper.

Oh, and Wesley did like his card.

Visiting glorious Franklin

2007-06-17T00:25:00.000-04:00

I have *got* to spend more time in Franklin, Tennessee.

Today was the FFC Banquet in Franklin, and I leapt up at the crack of dawn and headed out for the wilds of Nashville in plenty of good time.

OK, so, that's a total lie. I overslept, then I ran around like an idiot trying to drink coffee and iron my shirt at the same time, then I threw things in the car, and then Woodrow decided he was coming with me, and then we finally got in the car, and *then* I headed out for Nashville, and I was already running 55 minutes late.

Fortunately, I drive like a maniac and I made up almost all that time, getting to my Franklin exit at about 12:10, only ten minutes late.

Sadly, I got lost at that point and wasted untold piles of time driving back and forth on one single road, trying desperately to find the road that Mapquest said I was supposed to turn on. Mapquest doesn't give you landmarks. I wish it did, because I drove past my road five or six times. In the meantime, I had left all the phone numbers at home and couldn't call Pam the hostess or Shona the teacher to ask them where the heck I was.

Very, very luckily, Sabrina was there, and she asked Shona for my number and called me. I literally answered the phone yelling, "I'M LOST!!!!!" Sabrina is the *best*. She told me exactly where to go and how to get there. YAY, SABRINA!!!!

So I was something like 49 minutes late for the party... but I did make it.

YAY!

I got there, and Pam greeted me -- and she's *so* lovely and warm and friendly and fun! -- and I said hi to Shona, and then I went to the kitchen to look at people's albums and chat. Girls were doing make'n'takes in the dining room, and there were margaritas and snacks in the kitchen (yum! but I didn't drink because I knew I would have to drive back). A few of us chatted in the kitchen, and I met a lovely gal named Mia who is a mostly digi scrapper. She didn't know that CS has a digi kit. She does now. I'm just sayin'. Is all.

After a while, we gathered in the dining room and Shona started her spiel with an intro to CS and then we all introduced ourselves. Then we dived into the project, which was a mini Wild Wild West ALSB, and it was *so* cool.

While all that was going on, my son Woodrow was doing his best impression of a ghost that I've ever seen. I had told him I needed him to be nice and quiet, but I had no idea how quiet he could really be. It was almost like he wasn't there! That is weird, and it's definitely new to me. Usually he pesters me to death. Does this mean Woodrow is growing up?

Also, I was kind of going through baby-withdrawal. Pam just had a baby, and I could hear her cooing and gurgling in other parts of the house, but I didn't get to hold her. That's probably best. Wesley might divorce me if I suddenly developed baby cravings at this late date. But man, I wanted to snuggle me a baby, and I didn't get to. Dang it!

It seemed to take a little longer to do the six pages than I would have thought, but that was probably just me. (I'm still a member of the "special" class, y'know.) I did totally mess up one of my cuts, but I used the gold foil CS sticker from a package to "adheze" some paper back together and fix my mistake.

I'm trying to do the math -- I think there were five real guests. Some of them were CS members; two of them were not. Then there was Pam the hostess, and Shona's MIL Mimi, and me.

Everyone seemed to have fun, and Mia the digi scrapper was attaching photos on every one of her layouts before moving on to the next!!!!!! That was amazing to see. She really does go for the most efficient way of doing *everything*!!!!! Sabrina had brought a ton of supplies, and I borrowed some Ranger Distress Ink from her at one point. Almost everyone at the workshop fell in love with inking, and they were all hogging the Palette inks that Shona had brought. I'm not complainin'... I'm just sayin'... is all! ;)

I got to chat with Sabrina just the teensiest bit before every thing finished -- she's going to be in Knoxville this week, and I'm really kind of thinking -- I need to go say hi when she's here. I'll email her and see what we can set up. She's going to the Knoxville Zoo and the children's museum, but she's staying in West Knoxville which is very near me.

The last thing Sabrina told me was to drive over to old downtown Franklin, and I'm so glad and so sorry I did. Glad because... it's GORGEOUS. Sorry because... it's gorgeous and I didn't have enough time to play and explore!!!!!!!!!!!

There I was, trying to drive and gawk at the same time, and I kept yelling to Woodrow, "I wish Mama were here -- she would've loved this. OH! Look! That house's plaque says it was built in 1850 -- GORGEOUS!!!!! Dang, I wish Mama could see this!"

Maybe Mama did see it -- after all, she stomped around on this earth for 39 years before I came along -- but dang, if she didn't... I'm feeling badly for her right now. Franklin is *exactly* the kind of place that Mama would have loved.

I glimpsed one plaque that said the house was built in 1805. I absolutely must go back to Franklin and build in more time for touring. That place is sublime. Why does anyone live in Nashville? Or Brentwood, for that matter? Franklin has all a body could want, and more.

Then I hit the road for real, and I tore up the interstates to get home before dark. I don't know why "dark" was my time limit -- I just wanted to get home. I called Wesley and let him know where I was, then I called Amy and left her a message. Much later, I got hold of her and she confessed that she had forgotten I was going to a Banquet today! Then we spent twenty minutes talking about what we're going to do in Las Vegas next weekend.

Las Vegas is fun, but man, it could use some houses from the 1850's to spiff up the joint a little. I'm just sayin'.

Woodrow and I stopped at a Waffle House for dinner, and we still made it home just as the sun was setting. At the Loudon exit, I pointed to the big red ball that was the sun, and by the time we ran into Philadelphia, that big red ball was below the horizon. Coooooooooooool.

Wesley was asleep when I got home, so I'll show him my pages some other day.

In general, I just have to say that it was a lovely day. I met some wonderfully nice people, hung out with old friends, made some gorgeous pages, and saw an absolutely breathtaking antebellum town that I never even knew existed in Tennessee. I expect to see architecture like that in Georgia and South Carolina, but not in Tennessee. I am totally undone by the beauty of Franklin.

So if you're ever in the area -- visit Franklin. Seriously. Would I lie to you? No! So go see Franklin! And tell Pam and Sabrina and Mia that I said hey!

How I defy authority (politely)

2007-06-13T12:20:00.000-04:00

Finally, being a middle-aged mama is starting to pay off.

Saturday morning, I took Emily to work as usual. I use old country roads for most of this route; I could use a highway or an interstate, but the traffic and scenery are better in the boonies, y'know. One part of my route is real and old, very curvy and narrow. Another part is a newish road that has been built in anticipation of a "business park" being here someday. (Is "business" doublespeak for "industrial"? I don't know, but I hope it's business and not industrial.) Anyway, that newer road is straight, smooth, wide, has inoperative street lamps and a black rail fence running the length of it. It's probably a mile or two long; I've never measured it.

On my way home from dropping Em off, I turned right onto this "business park" road. Waaaaaaaaay back in the distance, I could see a car coming. I have only seen two other cars on this road all spring. It bummed me out, because it meant I couldn't go as slowly as I usually like to go on this road. It's a pretty road. Wildflowers. Trees. Fire ant hills and possums. Y'know. Pretty.

So I'm driving along, and I glance in my rearview mirror, and the car that had been waaaaaaaaaaaay behind me when I turned on the road was now filling up my mirror. He was *right* on my tail. I sped up a little to get him off my bumper. He sped up. I sped up a little more. Next thing I knew, I was doing 50 mph. Now, it was a straight road and there is no posted speed limit, but I was a very unhappy camper.

I stopped at one stop sign, wondering how I was going to get this guy off my tail, when I realized -- this is the boonies. I can just pull over to the right and wave him around me. So before I got to the next stop sign where I would need to turn left onto the real country road, I pulled off onto the shoulder and waved at him. He didn't move. I rolled my window down, stuck my hand out, and waved at him again.

So he pulled up next to me, and this is when I realized, "Oh, heck, this guy is a cop." He's not a REAL cop. He has a white car with "Drug Task Force" painted on the side. There are other slogans like "Stop Violent Crime" and "Just Say No." But he doesn't have bubble lights on top of his car. I mean, I didn't *know* he was an authority figure just from watching him crawl up my tailpipe.

Hoooo, boy. I got a mini cop.

And he was annoyed.

When he was next to my car, he stopped and rolled down his passenger window to holler at me, "Is there a problem?"

And I said, "No, sir, I'm sorry, I just felt you were following me too closely and wanted to go faster than I did. I want to go slower, so I thought the polite thing to do would be to let you get past me."

He raised his eyebrows at me and ground out between clenched teeth, "I thought YOU were going too fast back there."

And I couldn't help it. I couldn't. I know I'm bad, but I just couldn't help it. I laughed.

I laughed at a mini cop.

I laughed and I said, "I was only trying to give you some space!"

He rolled his eyes and snorted, but he drove around me and went on his way. He probably *couldn't* give me a ticket. His car didn't have bubble lights, and he wasn't wearing a uniform -- just a plaid shirt and a baseball cap -- so it's not like he was a *real* cop.

So what do you think? Why didn't Officer Leadfoot give me a speeding ticket? Was it because I told him he was going too fast, or was it because he couldn't?

Back to life!

2007-06-11T00:13:00.000-04:00

While I was writing up my trip report, I was a totally lazy slacker and didn't do any proper blogging. Bad Bay! And darn it, there are so many interesting things to rant about. Like, for instance, how my air conditioning broke again. It does that every summer. I'm really tired of it. But luckily for you, I didn't blog all about my frustration. It just gets whiny after a while.

So now that I'm more comfortable, I can talk about more interesting things!

Like... wait a minute, I'll think of something. Ooo! I thought of something! I'm going to a Food For Craft Banquet in Nashville next weekend! And I'm really looking forward to it! I'll report it all here, of course. I'm going to be carpooling with the FFC Crafter who's teaching the Banquet, Shona. It'll be nice to have some company on the three-hour drive!

And! My darlin' stister Yamy had a birthday on the 6th -- happy birthday, Yamy! -- and for her present, she got me! Yes! I'm going to Las Vegas for the weekend of the 23rd. Watch out, Sin City! Me and my trampy camisoles are comin' back!

What else?

Oh, yes, I've been scrappin'. It's not easy, considering the office was the second hottest room in the house. (The kitchen is the most hot room in the house, but I avoided it by not cooking anything at all while the temperatures were the most unbearable.) I finally tackled the Surf's Up kit from last summer. I loved it when it arrived -- it's such an unbelievable combination of light, light green, lime green, blue, orange, and pinky-reddish-orange. I *loved* it on first sight. When I was cleaning out my scraproom and selling stuff off? I kept every single piece of Surf's Up. I feel like I've been waiting 11 months just to scrap this gorgeous kit, and now that I finally have -- it totally lived up to my expectations!

I'm getting beach photos and vacation photos printed, and as soon as possible, I'm going to start putting pictures on these pages. I just love the way they turned out before the photos arrived! And most of them aren't even copied from the Scrap Rap -- I actually designed most of 'em myself.

(It's so nice to finally be happy with the scrappin'. It's been *so* long since I did it just to be happy!)

Now I have to run and make a book for Peytyn. I got the prints from our South Florida vacation, and I got plenty of copies of the pictures with the kids in 'em. Gift book time!

Oh, and for tomorrow -- I really must tell about how I chastised a policeman and shamed him into leaving me alone!

Leaving S. Florida, Thurs., May 24th

2007-06-06T02:21:00.000-04:00

Well. We didn't oversleep. We didn't have any breakfast, either, since no one had picked up anything at Dunkin Donuts the night before, and we were all too busy packing to go out.

Look, I'll be honest. We were horribly disorganized and lost on Thursday morning. I was disoriented, and Wesley told me in the middle of packing that he couldn't find our pre-printed driving directions from Pembroke Pines to the glorious Seahorse Oceanfront Inn in Jacksonville, so I had to get on a computer and get directions. And there was no printer, so I had to write out those directions by hand. *And* I had to get directions from the Seahorse to home. I mean, it was not a small task, and I was hot as hell.

Furthermore, in the middle of all this, I had to actually get *other* driving directions. I haven't *even* included the whole Emily-wants-to-meet-an-online-friend-of-hers saga that was unfolding for the entirety of our vacation. Nyxy (not her real name) lives in Port St. Lucie, an hour and forty-five minutes north of Pembroke Pines. For more than half of the week we were there, I kept hearing different plans to get Em and Nyxy together. One of them -- not my favorite -- involved getting up at 6:00, driving 45 minutes north, and picking up Nyxy to take her to Parrot Jungle with us, which was 45 minutes SOUTH. And then there was the whole, "Put Em on a train to Port St. Lucie" scheme. Since I couldn't FIND any freaking trains, I was not eager to do that.

On the other hand, I do know what it's like to want to meet one's online friends. (Hello, online friends!!!!)

Since Port St. Lucie was on our way north, I said we would get off the turnpike and meet her somewhere. I had to talk to her uncle to get a place to meet (Walgreen's???) and get the directions off of Mapquest for both getting there and getting on toward Jacksonville.

That's why things fell apart in the taking-our-leave department.

I dropped the ball. I handed Emily a bag at some point and said, "Check ALL OVER and make sure you get EVERYTHING that belongs to us."

Emily only heard, "Check the upstairs bedroom," and she did not check all over.

Unfortunately, neither did Wesley, and I really kind of thought he was going to at least *check*.

When I finished writing four pages of driving directions (from Pembroke Pines to Port St. Lucie, from there to Jacksonville, and from there to home), I foolishly gathered up my purse and declared that I was going to say goodbye to Peytyn. I went to the Tobins' house and spent forty minutes leisurely chatting with my old friend. I thought the car was being loaded in the meantime.

Foolish. Stupid. Boneheaded. In the extreme. And it was all my fault.

We finally said a tearful goodbye to Peytyn, and as I walked to the car, I really did think, "Hmmmm... that doesn't look as full as I thought it would." But I didn't say anything, because I knew we had gone there with a birdhouse to leave for a hostess gift for Debbie. Maybe the lack of a birdhouse compensated for the emptiness of the car.

We got on the Interstate... and promptly missed our exit. We were lost.

We got off a road (I have no idea which one) and asked at a gas station how to get back to where we needed to be. Time ticked away while we drove around, and finally we were on the road again. I had Emily call Nyxy and tell her we were going to be late because we got lost.

We did manage to find Port St. Lucie, though, and we got off. Scary traffic! You might as well be in Miami! And we met Nyxy at the Walgreen's and walked across the parking lot to the Wendy's, where I had a totally mediocre chicken salad. At least it was cheap! Em and Nyxy squealed a lot and took pics of each other, and I took pics of them together, and they exchanged gifts and were very excited. I tried to talk to Nyxy at one point, but she was *exceedingly* shy and could barely put together three words for me. I'm glad the girls got to meet, though. It made Emily happy, and from what I hear, it made Nyxy *very* happy.

Then we started trying to get out of Port St. Lucie. OMG. I was driving by that time, and I thought I was going to kill us. I crossed three lanes of traffic at one point. That was the scariest traffic moment of the whole trip!!!!!!!

We were back on the turnpike soon, though, and making our way up to Jacksonville.

Unfortunately, we were making such terrible time that I could literally *see* Wesley getting more and more disappointed. We were supposed to have spent at least one afternoon on the beach in Jacksonville, and it was getting so late -- I just knew it wasn't going to happen.

Finally, we reached Jacksonville just in time for 5:00 traffic. Poor Wesley. I know he was dying. We did, however, find the Seahorse Oceanfront Inn, and we got checked in smoothly. It wasn't until we were taking our overnight bags upstairs that things fell apart for real.

Because that's when I discovered... We left our main toiletries bag in Debbie's house in Pembroke Pines.

I had ALL my toiletries in that bag. Claritin, Afrin, skin care products, razors, shampoo, lotions, rash creams, feminine things, toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant, make-up -- you name it, it was in that bag. Everything was in there. I was having trouble breathing, believing that this was happening.

I called Peytyn's cell phone... and Jim answered.

And he confirmed that we had left our toiletries at Debbie's house.

Now, this is the part where I skip all the histrionics in which I indulged.

I.

Was.

Horrified.
......

......

.................

I walked toward the beach, where thunderclouds were gathering. It was gorgeous and the light was turning pink, so I went back to the room and got my camera and family for some photos.

The whole time we were at the beach, we were getting misted with ... I can't call it rain. It was sprinkling, I guess, but the wind was blowing so it turned to heavy mist. Some surfers were trying to surf the growing waves. We finally called it quits and headed back to the room.

Then we tried to decide where to have dinner. Wesley wanted real seafood. I looked at the guides in the room and we decided to try to find Sliders. By this time, it was really raining, and although the restaurant was less than two blocks away, we drove there. Just as we parked in the parking lot, the heavens opened up and dropped a deluge on us. We ran to the restaurant door, and we were still soaked when we got there.

As we were seated in a very noisy restaurant, I was literally wringing out my hair. I mean, I was dripping wet. We all were. And it seemed to me that people were *looking* at us. I looked at the thingie on the table which said, "Happy Hour! Thursday night! Beer and oysters!" And then I looked around and realized Woodrow was the youngest person in there.

OH. That's why everyone's staring at us. We just brought our kid to happy hour!

Woodrow -- the kid who won't eat shrimp to save his life -- got a platter of crawdads. *With* the heads still attached. Wesley got a trio of seafood (I totally forget what), and Emily got shrimp tacos. I got the crab-stuffed shrimp.

It was the blandest crab-stuffed shrimp I've ever had, and Emily didn't like her shrimp tacos, either. The boys loved their meals, though. And the restaurant did get quieter as the Happy Hour customers got into their cars and drove away, sloshing with beer and oysters. Wesley got the carrot cake for dessert, and I got the key lime pie. We both ate the pie and I saved half of the cake for later. It was very good carrot cake, with the notable elimination of nuts. Carrot cake usually has nuts, and it's one of those *extremely* rare foods that I'll eat even if it does have nuts. I have to admit that I *missed* the nuts in that carrot cake. It was tasty, but it lacked the crunchiness of nuts.

Weird, I know. I usually don't want the nuts, but in carrot cake... well, they seem necessary.

Then we drove around in search of a drug store and a Dunkin Donuts. We bought toiletries and breakfast food.

Back in the room, I watched "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip" -- I didn't even know it was back from hiatus -- and soon crashed. Sleep that night was terrible. I kept waking up. Wesley kept waking up. Woodrow kept waking up. I think Emily was the only person to get a bit of sleep. Lucky her! We should have made *her* drive us home!

Part II - S. FL, Wed., May 23rd

2007-06-04T02:47:00.000-04:00

Off to lunch, continued from Part I...

We went back and asked the keeper of the gate if we should get our hands stamped again. Some of us were sweating off our hand stamps. They said no, we didn't need it if we still had our ticket stubs. We went to the cafe; everyone went to the incredibly clean, big, shiny restrooms, and then we got in line. This place was cafeteria-style dining, and I couldn't make up my mind, and there were people getting in line behind me. Since I didn't want to hold up progress, I got out of line and went to the courtyard to get a table right next to the ashtray.

And I had a cigarette while watching approximately 4500 blue-t-shirt-clad second graders beat the snot out of each other while waiting to board their bus. One mother-chaperone tried not to weep in jealousy and longing.

Hey, man, I didn't designate the smoking area.

I just took advantage of it.

By the time I finished my cigarette, Wesley and the kids joined me bearing their trays of food. Wesley was having difficulty breathing at the prices, but the food was definitely better than the slop we had gotten at the Seaquarium the day before.

I went inside and got a turkey and cheese wrap, a diet Pepsi, and a piece of cake for $11.89. Not too bad. And Emily let me have her crinkle fries. She had gotten way too much food. (Which probably contributed to Wesley's apoplexy at the prices.)

During lunch I discovered that my forehead was hurting. I think I got a little too much sun. It never did look sunburned, but my forehead is the driest thing on my body. The least little irritation is too much for my poor baby forehead, so I spent the rest of the day covering it with my hand. (It reminded me of junior high when we would try to cover up zits by just holding a hand over the affliction. ROFL!!! I was constantly smacking my forehead as if to say, "Wow!")

As we finished dining, Wesley noticed that it was getting toward lorikeet feeding time. I was feeling much restored, more forgiving of the total fiscal hijacking of photo ops and the dropping of "Parrot" from "Jungle Island," and we were all dying to feed the lorikeets. He and the kids went that way while I finished cleaning up the table and took Emily's unopened yogurt to the car to put it in the trunk.

When I got to the lorikeet aviary, Emily and Woodrow already had near-empty cups of nectar and were covered with birds. I bought my little cup of nectar -- for a dollar, and it was the best dollar I spent all day -- and I got covered up with greedy little hungry lorikeets. Those are the *best* birds. They're not great for pets because they don't bond with humans; otherwise, I would get myself a flock of lorikeets.

However, they do become tame like these lorikeets. They're sloppy eaters, so they flung droplets of nectar all around. When they finished the nectar in the little cup, they then crawled all over me, licking drops of nectar off of me, which tickled. When they ran out of nectar drops, they crawled all over us, just preening us and playing. It was a blast!!!!

They even crawled all over Wesley, who didn't have nectar, but he did wear some interesting toys like that button at the top of his baseball cap.

Best. Dollar. Spent. All. Day. Seriously!!!

We wandered around a little more -- not much, honestly -- and the reptile show was set to start in a little bit at the back of the park. So we made our way there, passing the petting farm full of goats and an Alpaca, and more orangutans, and in the amphitheatre was an albino thing. I don't know if it was an alligator or a crocodile. I don't much care. Seen one, seen 'em all.

This was the best show of the day. First of all, there were fewer people there thanks to the departure of the school groups. Secondly, I could hear the guy talking. Thirdly, HE TALKED. He didn't singsong and dance his way through an insipid script. The only problem I could perceive was that he wouldn't let us hold the turtles. He had diamondback terrapins!!!!! But I couldn't take pictures or hold 'em because he said I could get salmonella. HEY!!! I'm an adult; I can WASH MY HANDS!!!!

Hmph.

And yeah, he ended his spiel with, "Enjoy the rest of your day at Jungle Island."

Other people touched the python. Yawn. Who cares about snakes? I wanted to see more parrots.

We made our way out of the amphitheatre and I found the backside of the island where the other smoking area was. I sat in deep shade and chatted with my happy little family. Then I kissed a palm tree for Krisi, and then we started to leave, but we were suckered in by the petting farm. There were some giant tortoises, but since I couldn't feed them or touch them... eh, what's the point?

Then I got totally charmed by the goats and Alpaca. The pellet vending machines are right next to the fence, and if you start to get a handful, the animals all gather right there next to you, bleating for a bite. Except the Alpaca, which is big enough to stick its head over the fence and right into your hand while you're still getting pellets out of the machine. ROFL!!!! It startled me!

I spent 50 cents in no time flat, feeding goats and the Alpaca. Then I gave my last quarter to a little girl who didn't speak English whose mother had run out of quarters.

I said goodbye to every parrot I passed. There was a small aviary for budgies and cockatiels, but there was no way to hold them, touch them, or feed them, which drove Emily and Woodrow crazy. They wanted to play with the little birdies. Also, a cockatiel had worked its way out of the three-layer-deep roof of the aviary, and it was clinging to the side and crying to get back inside. Emily was VERY concerned about it. I was more angry that no employee was doing anything about it.

It's kind of... Jungle Islandish to ignore a bird like that. I don't believe that would've happened at Parrot Jungle.

We made our way out and went upstairs to the photo developing center to see our pictures. The prices took my breath away. I chose the "two 5x7's" package for $22 plus tax, and we chose the family pose -- mostly because Wesley claimed that he smiled. (I still can't perceive any teeth, but I'm taking his word for it.) Then I regretted that decision and asked Wesley if I could please have the pictures of the kids' pose. Again, I chose the 5x7's, saying, "8x10 is too big for the scrapbook."

The girl behind the counter perked right up and asked, "Are you a scrapbooker???" Wesley laughed out loud and bragged that I used to write for a scrapbooking mag, which set the girl off on a tangent about how much she loves scrapbooking but wishes she spent less money and time on it.

So I said, "Welllllllllll... since you asked. Club Scrap. I'm just sayin'. Is all."

We talked a bit about Club Scrap and Assembly Line Scrapbooking, and I wrote down the URL for her. She said she was going to check it out.

When she rang up the second photo package, it wasn't as expensive as the first. The guy behind the counter (who had been silent and unresponsive as a rock during this whole transaction) registered my surprise and scowled, "She gave you a discount."

Then we went to the gift shop and Wesley got a shotglass. The t-shirts were overpriced and mostly covered with tigers and monkeys and boring stuff like that.

I forget what the kids got.

I had gotten pictures, so I didn't buy anything else.

Altogether, even with our discounted tickets, we spent about $200 at Parrot Jungle Island. It was *not* an inexpensive day, and when you consider that I think the best dollar spent was the tiny cup of lorikeet nectar....

I can't really recommend it.

Unless you really love parrots and don't mind lots of other exotic animals. I don't know, maybe if you want to see an albino whatever-it-was....

Maybe.

Back at home, we thought we had until 7:30 to clean up for Debbie's return, but she surprised us and came home three hours early. Ugh.

Wesley and Jim went to Costco and bought a big chunk of beef that Jim carved into steaks and grilled. They were superb. We also had baked potatoes and salad. It was a good night, and then I had to go back to Debbie's house. Emily spent the night with Perry, Wesley took the guest bedroom, Woodrow took the couch, and I took the son's bedroom, because Debbie had taken the master bedroom back. She had also turned up the thermostat. OK, I deserved that. I had been keeping the house ice-cold while she was out of town.

I aimed a fan at myself and crashed for the night. I didn't want to leave the next day. I was in denial. We had had such a good trip in general, and I had so enjoyed Peytyn's company. I just didn't want to leave.

Oh, well. At least I got to feed some parrots and lorikeets!