HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Best wishes for a wonderful 2007 to you all!

We whiled away our new year's eve down here in good old Savannah with biking, shopping, shopping, eating, shopping, and celebrating.

We awoke to temperatures near eighty degrees which made all the cordouroys and turtle necks I packed a little obsolete. This meant (boo, hoo, hoo) a trip to the mall to get me something summery and then a little biking.

Our biking was short lived, however, since it misted rain for much of the day. So...more shopping! Mostly window, actually. But I found these mighty tempting:

Tempting, but alas, a little pricey.

We nipped in to a Scottish bar for lunch where Satan enjoyed this rather exotic traditional European fare and we both enjoyed a couple of beers:

You'll note a hard boiled THEN breaded and deep fried egg in the background, onion rings, and in the foreground, a meat pie. Which, you'll be happy to learn, all tasted way better than it sounds. Or maybe it was just the beer. Who knows.

Then it was off for more (primarily) window shopping. I totally need this chandelier:

We celebrated Satan's birthday with a FANTASTIC dinner at Fernando's, an Italian restaurant in downtown Savannah recommended by a waitress we had yesterday. Luckily, the place was everything she said it was. The entrees were to die for, and so plentiful that we left with not one, not two, but THREE to-go boxes (a personal record).

After that, we strolled to the riverfront where we enjoyed a fantastic midnight fireworks display.

I'm always amazed at the lengths to which the world goes to celebrate Satan's birth.

Tomorrow we're thinking of picnicking with our leftovers on Tybee Island.

We'll see.

Ghost Ride

After a somewhat late start this morning (or, I should say, afternoon) we finally loaded up the bicycles and set off for the historic district. Today's photo is of the entrance of Colonial Cemetary. If there's anyplace I love to ride, it's in a good cemetary. And Savannah's is particularly spooky this time of year, with the moss looking like wispy gray ghosts caught in the trees.

The weather is perfect for riding, in the low seventies. It is so damp around these parts that my hair, normally the straightest hair in the universe, is actually beginning to show faint signs of an actual curl here and there. Although...it could have become bewitched in the grave yard I suppose.


We rode all afternoon, until nearly dark, and then headed to the riverfront for some dinner and shopping. Satan bought a pashmina (sp?) for me from a pretty indian girl in the market. I'm not sure about that spelling, but what it amounts to is an incredibly soft scarf so large that it can be worn as a shawl. Mine is a shade of burgundy that is nearly purple and made (supposedly) in Nepal from baby lamb's wool. Which, of course, technically means that there is at least one if not more naked baby lambs out there potentially shivering in the cold who have sacrificed their incredibly soft coat so that I might have a soft scarf to snuggle in. It's enough to make one feel a little guilty.

But not THAT guilty.

Anyway, then it was on to more shops where Satan browsed for a birthday gift for himself (the big day is January 1st). Not too surprisingly, we ended up in a hat shop where, among other lids, he even tried a pork pie:

Which, damn if he doesn't almost pull the thing off, eh?

Well, yah, almost.

After that I tried to coax him into a few other far out styles and poses, whereupon he had the NERVE to accuse me (loudly to all in the vicinity) of planning to post said potential pictures IN MY BLOG on the INTERNET.

I mean...As IF. Sheesh! I gathered my baby lamb Nepalese pashmina around myself and huffed right on out of the store on THAT one, let me tell you.

Then, it was on to a Greek (don't ask) restaurant for dinner which turned out to be a TAD overpriced. After that, we made a final stop in order to make our traditional annual selection of a nice bottle of champagne which we will enjoy tomorrow.

Ah...tomorrow. Can 2006 really be over?

And, finally, I just wish to God they'd finally bury poor Gerald Ford and James Brown, already. It's time.

Savannah at Last

Oy vey, have we had a day.

It started out well enough in Louisville, we got away from the hotel there at about 9 a.m. We had only traveled for about an hour, however, before we became ensnared to bumper-to-bumper start-and-stop traffic with rabid flag flying UK fans on their way to the bowl game w/Clemson (?) in Nashville. This traffic crawl went on for better than TWO HOURS.

After that, we enjoyed a very short few hours of smooth sailing before we hit Atlanta at RUSH HOUR. Good lord.

It took us thirteen hours to get here and it should have taken only ten.

The good news is that we made it, and boy is it balmy around these parts. We brought the bikes and our hotel is wonderful. I'm looking forward to morning.

I was going to try to post at least a photo each day, but the one I post in this entry is another from yesterday taken at an amazing salvage yard we toured in L'ville. I didn't think you'd want any shots of miles and miles of brake lights which is what we spent today looking at.

Hopefully, more interesting posts to come soon. Right now I'm so tired I'm cross-eyed.

Tripping

It's been a long time, I know.

Suffice it to say I survived Christmas and Satan and I are now on a bit of a vacation. Day one was spent here in Louisville with Matt. I'm posting my favorite photo of the day of the three of us on a video display at an art exhibit in downtown Louisville. Up until I saw this photo, I didn't realize that, among the three of us, I am the shortest.

So, I know this is not much of an entry, but I'm trying to ease my way back into it.

Baby steps.

The American Experience

Last night, in the wasteland that is cable television, Satan and I lucked up on a gem. The latest installment in the PBS Series, The American Experience, on RFK.

I've spent most of my life fascinated by all things JFK-related probably because my birth and his assassination happened only a few months apart. I'm all too familiar with all the details of the events of November 22, 1963.

I'm a little hazy on the days and years that followed the assassination. Last night's program really brought home RFK's struggle first with the grief and devastation that came as the result of the loss of his brother and best friend and then the further monumental struggle he went through to be transformed from a right-hand behind-the-scenes man to being a out-front leader and visionary in his own right.

What really struck me, perhaps because it further reinforces a belief I've come to have over these last years, is RFK's ability to be thoughtful. To take responsibility. To change his mind, to become, to evolve, in a word, to LEARN.

It's a quality that seems to be in short supply in our country's current leadership (if you can call it that) today. Everyone is so sure they are right, that they have all the answers now. Today. No one, it seems, is willing to concede that they might have been wrong, ever, and to be open to a new paradigm or a better idea.

When RFK finally came out against the Vietnam war, along with suggesting a new course of action besides the endless slaughter of American troops, he took reponsibility for the role he played, during the JFK administration, in starting that war. He had learned, he had moved on, and realized there was a better way and wasn't afraid to say it.

There are lots of qualities that make a great leader. But I really think the most important quality in a leader is the ability to learn. Really absorb the lessons that life teaches and change tactics and even one's mind entirely if that's what the situation calls for.

To be fluid. To be open. To be thoughtful. To have the courage to change. Even when you're the guy (or woman) in charge.

Last night's special really brought it home to Tom and I what was lost in the Ambassador Hotel that day in the summer of 1968. The hope for an end to that terrible war, and racism and poverty. A leader who cared about all these things who had been through the fire of loss and self doubt, and having suffered himself, was ready to address the suffering of others.

A leader who wasn't afraid to change, to do the right thing.

Have we ever really recovered?


He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.
-Aeschylus
(Inscribed on RFK's tombstone.)

Thanksgiving: The Recap

I had a lovely Thanksgiving and hope you did too. I cooked this year, because I enjoy doing it and because we finally, thankfully, have a place large enough to host more than a couple of people at a time.

I took and would post pictures, but I’m having a HECK of a time with my computer. It has ceased to function normally and has somehow downloaded some new operating system (or something) and keeps having pop-ups about “phishing” whatever the hell THAT is. I am fighting the urge to chuck the whole damn machine out the guest room window so I can watch it land with a satisfying deadly crash on top of the giant semi trailer that is still parked in our back yard.

Anyway.

My favorite new recipe to come out of this year’s dinner has to be Caramel Pecan Pie. It is delicious, decadent, and as my Mother put while enjoying a piece for T-giving dessert, “Sweet enough to make you swoon.” It is from my friends at Southern Living, the only people I trust enough to make use of an untried recipe at perhaps the most important dinner of the year. As usual, they didn’t let me down (I also made, for the first time, their Candied Sweet Potatoes—delicious, which came from a “Best of Southern Living” cookbook I received for my b-day from Christa—Thanks Christa!).

Here’s the pie recipe:

Caramel-Pecan Pie

Prep: 20 min., Bake: 38 min., Cook: 7 min.
1/2 (15-ounce) package refrigerated piecrusts
28 caramels
1/4 cup butter
1/4 cup water
3/4 cup sugar
2 large eggs
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon salt 1 cup coarsely chopped pecans, toasted Chocolate-Dipped Pecans (optional) Fit piecrust into a 9-inch pie plate according to package directions; fold edges under, and crimp. Prick bottom and sides of piecrust with a fork.

Bake piecrust at 400° for 6 to 8 minutes or until lightly browned; cool on wire rack.

Combine caramels, butter, and 1/4 cup water in large saucepan over medium heat. Cook, stirring constantly, 5 to 7 minutes or until caramels and butter are melted; remove from heat. Stir together sugar and next 3 ingredients. Stir into caramel mixture until thoroughly combined. Stir in pecans. Pour into prepared crust. Bake pie at 400° for 10 minutes. Reduce heat to 350°, and bake 20 more minutes, shielding edges of crust with aluminum foil to prevent excessive browning. Remove pie to a wire rack to cool. Top with Chocolate-Dipped Pecans, if desired.

***

After our guests moved on, Satan and I enjoyed a leisurely viewing of Alfred Hitchcock’s “Rebecca” during which we debated the merits of Joan Fontain versus Olivia DeHavilland (they were sisters) and speculated on the supposed sexual orientation of Mrs. Danvers (we both concluded that she was crazy, not gay).

On Friday, I had plotted a secret mission with my friend, Julie, to procure, for the first time in my married life (ten years if you’re counting), a flocked Christmas tree. And here I suppose I should interject some back-story. At the time I married Satan, I had a lovely fake but VERY REALISTIC (mind you) Christmas tree that had served me perfectly well for several years.

Shortly after we moved in together, Satan and I—well really just Satan, decided we should have a (I shudder at the very phrase) “yard sale” in order to get rid of the overflow that resulted from combining our two households. My perfectly lovely and serviceable, but ultimately defenseless, Christmas tree was packed away in its storage box and parked in a dark corner of the garage with items that were DECIDEDLY NOT for sale.

Satan, being, well, Satan, and believing that fake Christmas trees are a sin against nature, dragged out my defenseless fake tree during a time when I was away cringing in the house from sheer embarrassment (I spent a lot of time doing that while perfect strangers pawed through my crusty old junk in the driveway) and sold the tree to one of our first customers FOR A DOLLAR.

One Dollar.

It’s been downhill from there as far as the Christmas tree goes.

It’s generally a struggle every year to agree on the type/size/and décor of the tree. According to Satan it must be a) REAL and b) NOT FLOCKED. Last year, in one of my worst Christmas tree defeats EVER, he finally wore me down, convincing me that it would be a REALLY GOOD IDEA to decorate the spindly branches of a live Norfolk Pine houseplant we have.

Ya’ll. It was ugly.

I resolved at that time to do better this year and, to that end, had conspired with my friend Julie to take a trip out to a local nursery and order up a BEAUTIFUL tree and have it flocked, festooned with lights, and delivered. Our plan was to meet up the Saturday after Thanksgiving and head out to the nursery together to pick out The Perfect Tree.

As it happened, on the Saturday in question, Satan and I had just gotten in from a lovely long walk to the river and back when it came time for me to head out to the nursery. As those who know me well know, Satan almost never accompanies me on outings with my friends and so, when he asked where I was going, I didn’t give it a second thought and told him.

Evidently, his evil satan senses were working overtime, because this time, of ALL TIMES, he decided he’d just come along.

Which is how I found myself at the nursery, with Satan, my friend Julie, and my friend (and nursery employee), Sherry, surrounded by beautiful Douglas Firs as far as the eye could see with Satan loudly proclaiming to everyone in the vicinity that, should he find a flocked tree in his house, he would, “throw it off the balcony”.

At which point, I had no choice but to turn to my friend Sherry and say,

“Obviously, he’s just determined not to get flocked this holiday season.”

To which she replied,

“I see that.”

The good news is that I picked out a beautiful three that will arrive on Friday. Hopefully by then I’ll be able to post a photo.

Be Prepared

Last night at the Wal-Mart Pharmacy, the lady in line behind me had the cutest Cairn Terrier EVER in her cart. The dog was very patiently standing in the belly of the cart wearing a stylish multi-colored sweater and a matching pink rhinestone collar with a pink leash attached.

I couldn’t resist asking her if I could pet the dog. She said yes, and I launched into my “pretty girl” talk in my ridiculous doggy voice while giving the puppy an enthusiastic (and much appreciated) petting.

I first mistook the dog for a silky terrier, but her owner corrected me saying the dog was in fact a cairn. “Like To-To!”, I commented still scratching the puppy under her chin.

“Yes,” she said “like To-To. Not many people know that.”

I smiled.

The owner continued, “Well, like To-To except for she’s blonde,” the owner added.

“I’ll be she has more fun than To-To,” I said.

She laughed. She’s actually watched The Wizard of Oz a couple of times,” she said, gesturing at the dog.

“Oh yah?” I said, “What did she think of it?”

The owner shrugged, “Eh. Not much.”

This made me giggle.

I looked more closely at the woman. I guessed her in her mid-fifties, thin, no make-up, with a kind face. She had on a knitted sock cap. There was nothing in her cart besides the dog and a small doggie dish with water in it in case she got thirsty. The dog was standing on a cart-sized square of cardboard.

I suppose the woman mistakenly thought I wanted an explanation (I was actually thinking how nice it was to see a dog in Wal-Mart) so she told me, “I can bring her in here because she’s working on becoming a certified therapy dog.”

“How nice,” I said.

The woman went on, “She used to be just a plain old pet until this happened.” She drew back her knitted cap to reveal a completely bald head. On the left side of her scalp was a huge c-shaped open gash at least two inches wide at its widest point.

“She must be a huge help to you,” I said looking back down at the dog that I was still reflexively petting.

“Oh, YES,” the woman said, “I don’t know what I would have done without her. Sometimes I have seizures and she can actually detect one coming on.”

“I’ve read about that,” I told her.

She asked me if I had a dog and I told her about FurGirl. She was in the midst of telling me about how Retrievers make great therapy dogs when it got to be my turn in line. I turned away from her, took care of my business, and when I turned back she was gone.

I couldn’t get her off my mind as I walked to my car. And then I thought about her all the way to my next destination. Finally, I realized: I should have invited her to Thanksgiving dinner.

Because maybe? Maybe she has a husband and three kids and two grandchildren and four invitations for Thanksgiving? But, somehow I doubt it. And if she does, it’s always nice to have another invitation, right? Also, I never learned the woman’s name or the name of her dog.

I wish I had.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone. Don’t miss your opportunities this holiday season. I’ve resolved to be ready the next time the universe presents me with one.

Succulent Sunday Cont'd

So! Blogger continues to annoy the hell out of me by being contankerous about allowing me to post photos. Today, it allowed me to post the previous photo, but then--annoyingly!--would not allow me to post any text (without then disappearing the photo).

I've overcome the problem by posting this here text in a new entry. Just pretend they're all together. Because, indeed, I did pot the little succulent garden pictured in the last entry just this morning. You probably can't tell by the photo, but the carmel colored container (alliteration points!) I used is very shallow and is, in fact, the bottom component to what was my ceramic water fountain earlier this year in my balconey garden. When the pump stopped working, I resolved to pot it with succulents. Fortuitiously, I came across a succulent sale last night at Lowe's, where the plants ranged from a mere dollar to fifty cents in price. I have three other plants that I did not pot, and I'm already scouting the house for charming shallow ceramic dishes to transform. This whole succulent thing plays into not only my love for plants but also into my obsession with all things tiny and thus I'm wondering if I could possibly quit my job and become a miniature succulent farmer/potter?

Yah, probably not.

Otherwise, I am FINALLY getting around to reading Running With Scissors. The universe has, luckily, made sure I didn't miss this fantastic, hilarious, and disturbing book. In a literary world rife with memiors about dysfunctional childhood (i.e., "The Glass Castle" and "The Tender Bar", and let's not forget the original, "Angela's Ashes" to name a few), "Running with Scissors" has to take the proverbial dysfunction cake. Augusten Borroughs tells the story of how he, after growing halfway up with an alcoholic father and mentally disturbed drama queen mother (who enjoys cigarette butt and smoked oyster sandwiches), is then shuttled to the bazaar home of his mother's therapist to live. The place really defies description. Please read the book. It left me laughing out loud three seperate times. And that's just this morning. (You can read it next, Mom!) But, you need to get a move-on, the movie release is upon us.

Let's hope they don't screw it up.

Succulent Sunday

Something in the Air....

I know.

I've been away a REALLY long time. SO long, in fact, that someone actually e-mailed me to request a blog post.

So! Here I am.

Has this been a week or what?

Don Rumsfeld...GONE! House...BLUE! Senate...BLUE! Pelosi...SPEAKER! President...eating sh--!

It's been so long since I've had hope for this country? That I almost forgot what it felt like. And actually? It feels wonderful. But, to be honest, a little scary.

Also? I can't stop writing. Short. Staccato. Sentences.

I blame the Toad Hollow Chardonnay. Which? I highly recommend. If you don't mind. A little brevity. Also? Sounding a little? Like. William Shatner.

Bones!

Anyway. The Toad Hollow? After much research over some really delicious spaghetti? We discovered it wasn't aged in oak and therefore does not taste smokey. WHICH? Is a really good thing. We speculated that, perhaps? It is aged in Tupperware.

Not that there's anything. Wrong with that.

In other, hopefully less staccato and question mark ridden news, a friend of mine and sometime blog reader (La Donna) has a daughter (Stephanie) who along with her friend (William Sledd) has made just about the CUTEST YouTube video EVER. It's called "Ask a Gay Man about Denim" and it's getting quite alot of attention. IN FACT, along with receiving a bunch of designer jeans...FREE...they have been contacted by WARNER BROTHERS and will be transported to California to produce yet another YouTube video about an up and coming rock band (I'm not sure which).

So when my friend (La Donna) told me that her daughter (Stephanie) wasn't mentioning her new found fame and fortune much around town I was all, "WHAT? Well, then, I'll just have to post on my blog about it and I DON'T EVEN KNOW THE GIRL (Stephanie)".

And it totally doesn't matter if the previous two paragraphs are too convoluted to understand. The point is: GO WATCH THE VIDEO.

And then go buy yourself some long and leans.

(Have I noticed this entry is WITHOUT PHOTOS? Yes. Am I pissed about it? Yes. It's this thing Blogger does sometimes. WTF?!)

(Edited the next day to add: The Toad Hollow Chardonnay? Is actually aged in stainless steel. Who knew? Also? It's made by Robin William's brother. We DID know that much last night. And? Despite having now sobered up. The staccato thing [not to mention the annoying question marks] are still with me. And? You're probably wondering? Why I'm not being more specific about my Big Outing last night [yes, I was out until NINE P.M. I am a Party Monster]. I'm not being specific about certain out-of-town friends because. Because the whole thing is a SECRET and cannot be discussed at this time.)

The Hike

It pains me to report that this is the only photo I have with which to document a lovely event yesterday. The Annual Hike, otherwise known as New Laketon Woodstock. I realized just after I snapped this photo that my photo stick was full and I had, brilliantly, forgotten to pack any spares.

Pictured here are: The Pope of New Laketon Woodstock (completely obscured for security reasons) and then from left: Eva, Dennis, and NLW mastermind, promoter and organizer, Mary Ellen. In the background, is the Pope's tent which was the only tent at the event sporting an actual porch on which the Pope could lounge and think popely thoughts. Not pictured here is the Pope-mobile in which the Pope may or may not have later circled the festival.

The weather was beautiful, if a little unseasonably warm. FurGirl and I picked up Mom and then drove down to the rondezvous point. The twenty or so of us set off at two p.m. for Sandy Creek (bottom?) hiking for the first leg of the journey through dense steep (downhill) forest to an old gravel road where we encountered a few small snakes, large earthworms, and were passed by a few hunters in pick-up trucks. Experienced hiker Toby was charged with the important responsibility of carrying The Pope's medication in a large backpack. Thus fortified, The Pope tolerated the trip surprisingly well.

Once at Sandy Creek,which looked to be the sandy bottom of (guess what?) a dried-up creek, several brave souls in the group hiked a ways up the bed in search of arrowheads. Many of us stayed behind (as one jaded hiker observed, "You've seen one arrowhead you've seen 'em all.") and were rewarded for our laziness with a lively impromptu management seminar by an up and coming young professional in the group.

Which goes to show you never can tell what might happen on The Hike.

We then posed for the obligatory Group Photo (and if any of you readers have a good one, will you please e-mail it to me?) before setting off on the return hike.

FurGirl was in her element, trotting happily along, usually among the hikers at the front of the group, but occassionally dropping back to do her duty and check on me. She managed to charm Cindy out of some of the snacks she had brought along doing her, "My Mommy never feeds me" schtick.

The return hike was actually a work out with the second leg being the reverse climb of the earlier downhill slope. We returned to base camp at 4 p.m. tired but invigorated.

I'm already looking forward to next year.

World News Tonight

We awoke this morning to the ABC news crew filming a segment in the alley behind our house:

Immediately, Satan went down and bossed them around for a while. They seemed to take it a whole lot better than I do.

Closer to Fine

I've just arrived home from my little tour of southern cities. It's a balmy October afternoon. The perfect day for a drive. I was welcomed by the slightly psychotic meowings of Tigger from up above on the ledge of my balcony has I dragged my suitcase across the sidewalk and lugged it up the steps. It's good to be home.

Christa and I met as planned at a hotel in downtown Nashville on Tuesday night excited to be away and together and at the prospect of seeing the group whose songs we have sung together perhaps more than any: the (warning: noise on the next two links) Indigo Girls. Adding almost more excitement than we could to bear to this prospect was the fact that our lastest musical obsession, a group called The Weepies, was to be the opening act at the historic Ryman auditorium, original home of the Grand Ol' Opry.

I snapped the picture above in our room at the hotel just before we boarded the shuttle that took us to our desired destination: a bar really close to the Ryman. As you can see from the picture, Christa wore The Cutest Shirt Ever to the show. It's a wonder one or both of the Indigo Girls didn't run clear off with her.

Once at the requested bar, as we sipped our TWO DOLLAR (I ask you, how lucky can two girls get?) margaritas as we discussed our usual topics i.e., Botox: should we? and the perfect haircut: possibility or urban legend?, etc. I told Christa I had come very close to buying a set of tickets to the concert that were second row balconey for a fairly insanely expensive price off e-bay, but had decided against it. She told me what everybody had been telling me--that there really aren't any bad seats at the Ryman. I statement which, frankly, I had decided weeks ago was likely horse hockey as I obsessively studied the seating chart on the Ryman website and silently bemoaned our seats in row Q, floor, center.

Guess what? There really aren't any bad seats at the Ryman.

It's a wonderful intimate venue, sort of like being in somebody's really big living room. The seats aren't seats at all but rather curved church pews and, as we made our way to Row Q, seats four and five, I could hardly believe how close we were to the stage and what a wonderful view we were to have of the concert. The building is a national landmark, and while new entrances and lobbies have been constructed around it, the original hall has remained the same small untouched space as when the opry was first broadcast there.

Our concert tickets clearly stated that no photographic equipment would be allowed at the show and so I had left my camera back at the hotel. And it is my sad, sad duty to report that, when the announcer introduced The Weepies, he also announced that photographs WERE to be allowed from one's concert seat only.

People, I had to choke back a sob on that one. From where I was sitting with my 12x zoom I could have catured zillions of wonderful images from the show to post for your enjoyment. I'm still sniffeling about it even now.

Anyway. Bygones.

As expected, The Weepies were wonderful. Fun, sweet, smart and talented, they came onto the stage with little fanfare and a guitar a piece, which they traded with lots of informal giggling and fiddling, back and forth between them depending on the song. They didn't do a whole lot, maybe--eight songs? Many were from their newest, "Say I am You": "World Spins Madly On", "Gotta Have You", "Nobody Knows Me at All".

Christa and I later agreed that Deb Talen sounded spot-on and fantastic on every note, but that Steve sometimes struggled through the notes. We also both also later discussed that I had thought, before the show, that Deb and Steve were simply musical collaborators, Christa had thought them brother and sister, but we both came away with the impression that they are a couple. For no particular reason we could say.

Both Deb and Steve were charming and talked seemingly, anyway, off-the-cuff about Deb's case of raging "band envy" for the Indigo Girls back-up band and Steve about his time in NYC living with a roommate in an apartment so small that he sometimes had to write as he put it "angry little songs" in a bathroom the size of a broom closet at night. They each did a song from their solo days. They both seemed thrilled to be at the Ryman and still surprised by their success. And just...NICE. So genuine.

And, before we knew it, the Indigo Girls were introduced.

Now, I don't know why, but I for some reason just had this idea that the IG's would be a couple of girls perched on simple wooden stools on a darkened stage strumming away earnestly on their guitars .

Not so much.

As Deb had alluded, they have a great back-up band--all girls except for a male drummer. And Amy and Emily rocked. Hard. For two hours.

As I watched, it made me realize just how infrequent it is that you see two strong women fronting a band. Not often enough, I think. Both girls played an instrument the entire concert, but they almost never used the same instrument twice. After each song a new banjo, acoustic guitar, mandolin or electric guitar would be carried out to each of them by the crew. They sounded, seriously, better than the CD's we've been listening to all these years. And they both looked great. We couldn't have asked for more.

About midway through the show, Emily introduced Mindy Smith, who came on stage and played and sang a song--what a great break for her. Of course, she really did sound (just call me a broken record here) great.

Perhaps the high point of the concert came when the girls did "Closer to Fine". They broght The Weepies back to the stage to help them sing. Every single person in the place stood and sang the song with them. No kidding. I saw no one NOT singing. Pretty amazing considering how little airplay the IG's get and just how old the song is now.

As we walked back to the hotel, a group of guys were behind us discussing how disappointed they were that the girls didn't sing a song called "Kid Fears". I mean seriously. Kid Fears. We were in the company of some seriously die-hard fans.

We are both a little closer to fine for the experience.

(coming soon: Part Two: On to Louisville)

Little Miss Sunshine

Greetings all—I keep hearing from more and more people that they read or have heard tell of my blog.

It’s a little scary.

I had a wonderful, if busy weekend, what with the barbecue, shopping, cleaning, and getting ready for my big trip to NashVegas for the Weepies/Indigo Girls concert—woohoo! I was thrilled to receive not one, not two, but THREE CD’s chock full of the appropriate pre-tunes from my concert-going companion, Christa,—we are READY! Also, we will be sure to take jackets, pack Aleve, and both of us remain hopeful we still possess the ability to remain vertical past 10 p.m.

Sunday, after a delightful dinner of my increasingly popular Pad Thai with charming friend and neighbor Mark, we all caught the last showing of “Little Miss Sunshine” (stupid blogger will not let me post a photo today...DRATS!) at our local cinema. Three thumbs WAY UP on that one. Add it to your Netflix queue, pick it up at Ballbusters when it’s released, you will not be disappointed. LMS is the story of a dysfunctional family with a capital DYS making a cross-country trek in a VW bus in order that the youngest member of the family, little Olive, played by a charming Abigail Breslin, can compete in the “Little Miss Sunshine” pageant in California.

Along for the ride are Olive’s stressed-out parents, played by Toni Collette and Greg Kinnear, her silent teenaged brother played by Paul Dano, and way left-of-center grandpa played by Alan Arkin. Perhaps most surprising is the performance given by Steve Carrell who rounds out the cast hilariously playing Olive’s depressed gay uncle. You’ll recognize Steve from his role as a wacky reporter on The Daily Show. (IMDB tells me he got his start on SCTV—who knew?) Anyway, this one is headed for Oscar-ville for sure. And deservedly so. It is easily the best movie I’ve seen this year.

Otherwise, Satan and I continue to lose ourselves in the hit TV series “Lost”. Initially, I added the first few episodes of season one to our Netflix queue, but was pleasantly surprised yesterday to discover our local library has the entire first season available for FREE check-out. I was able to pick up the remaining DVD’s from season one yesterday and I’ve now added all of season two DVD’s to the Netflix queue.

We’re both loving “Lost”, a series about a commercial airliner that takes off from Sydney, Australia and crashes a thousand miles off course on a tropical island. Miraculously, forty or so passengers survive the crash. The show splits its time between telling the stories of the sometimes practical and, more importantly, sometimes creepy going’s-on on the island and showing the back-stories of the castaway’s previous lives in civilization off the island. The show is sort of a cross between adventure and thriller and could be classified as sci-fi (which may be the channel that originated it).

I know season three of “Lost” is airing on TV this season in real time, but Satan and I have found we much prefer immersing ourselves in TV shows this way, after the fact, watching as few or as many episodes as we want to at a time SANS commercials. In this fashion we’ve discovered “Project Runway” as well as “Dead Like Me”, of which I’m in love with both, Satan only the latter. Sadly, “Dead Like Me” was so good it had to be cancelled. I am eagerly anticipating the release of season three of “Project Runway”.

Otherwise, I can hardly believe it’s October…OCTOBER! How did this happen? Didn’t we just have Christmas? The only good news is that sweater weather is, or should be, here. Frankly, I’ve already busted out the sweaters, eighty degrees or no eighty degrees.

And, I'm prattling on like this because I'm afraid to say, what I should be saying for fear the universe will hear me...

(I had a lovely weekend. I am happy.)

So there.

Stopping to Smell the Barbecue (on the river)

You know, it's hard to get anything done around the house when, just around the corner, 10 tons of haunch of beast is slow cooking in its own juices.

My Dad will be surprised to learn that Satan and I have taken a total of two strolls to the barbecue specifically to enjoy a particular haunch of slow-roasted beast: brisket.

Second favorite activity: shoe shopping:

Third favorite activity: anything on a stick:

Renegade

Since my "A Place for My Stuff" entry recently, I've had some questions from readers wondering if there REALLY is a semi trailer in my back yard.

It's a fair question. And so today I snapped the photo above from the very chair I'm sitting in now. This is the current view of our back yard from window of our guest room where my computer is located.

Pretty, huh?

You'll note the back end of my car protruding from where it's parked at the far end of the trailer in the distance. Beyond my car is the alley that borders our property. To the left is Satan's vehicle, and to the far left is the edge of the red barn that is soon to be demolished. Right after we move the crap out of there and into the semi.

In the foreground, you can probably tell there is a sign on the front of the trailer. Though you can't make it out in this picture, it is an advertisement for the semi trailer company telling one where to call in case you! too! would like to experience the joy of an entire semi trailer in your yard!

As you might imagine, there are absolutely a thousand and one uses for a semi trailer in your back yard: a place for your crap, a place for your husband to hang out when he's in REAL trouble, as a source of additional shade, etc.

Yesterday, however, when Satan was out in the back yard working on a little painting project and enjoying the weather, he discovered a use we hadn't quite counted on: hiding place for a fugitive from justice.

As Satan scraped the windows he was working on, he suddenly heard a noise coming from the far side of the trailer. When he walked around the corner to investigate, he found the fugitive. He was a young man, looking desperate and shifty and he asked Satan if it would be okay if he, uh, relieved himself in the outdoor shade of the semi?

And, go figure, Satan told him he'd prefer he didn't, just as a couple of police cruisers roared up the alley. The suspect then immediately took off running.

That was the last Satan saw of him until we awoke this morning to find his mug shot in the paper. Turns out he had been apprehended and is suspected in the small-time burglarly of a downtown business.

Yep. It's just non-stop excitement around these parts.

***

Let's see, otherwise, I continue to enjoy losing myself in the Mary Tyler Moore show. I've just purchased season three. While I knew I would enjoy the stories and the gags, what has surprised me most about seeing the episodes again is THE CLOTHES! At the time, I thought Mary and Rhoda wore the MOST stylish outfits.

Seeing them now is an endless source of amusement.

One thing I'd definitely forgotten about those days is the prevalence of the color ORANGE. It is everywhere in MTM. In the clothes, as carpet, an extra in a recent episode had on a pair of bright orange cordouroys. I thought nothing of it at the time, but now I realize it's just a color we don't wear like we did in those days.

Maybe we should.

Found

Lost

We had a terrible scare with the kitty.

It was all Satan’s fault, of course, although he continues to disavow any responsibility.

See, the kitty had been settling in fairly well to his new surroundings spending much of his time out front on our balconies (also where his food, water and litter are located, so go figure).

Last Thursday, Satan decided to bust out the hose and water the zillions of plants on the balconies. Unfortunately, the kitty (who I erroneously called “Willow” in my other entry, his name is really Tigger), was out on the balcony as well and as those of you familiar with cats know: cat plus water equals badness. Kitty became so agitated that he actually leapt from the (second story) balcony and was lost.

Thereafter ensued much disruptive searching about the neighborhood. As in:

SATAN
(across the street calling to kitty near midnight Friday night)
KITTY!

ME
(coming out the front door of our house)
Kitty-kitty-kitty-kitty!

SATAN
KITTY!

ME
Kitty-kitty-kitty-kitty!

SATAN
KITTY!

ME
(crossing the street to join forces with Satan)
Kitty-kitty-kitty-kitty!

SATAN
(Pauses. Looks at me.)
What the hell are you doing?

ME
Gee, I’ll give you three guesses and the….

SATAN
YOU’RE IN A NIGHTGOWN WITH NO SHOES ON.

ME
Yah?

SATAN
KITTY!

ME
Kitty-kitty-kitty-kitty…

And so on. I sent an e-mail with a picture of Tigger and word of our plight to our neighborhood association group at which time we started receiving word of all kinds of “Tigger” spottings, none of which actually turned out to be Tigger.

We eventually stirred up every cat in the neighborhood, stray and otherwise over the course of the two-day and night search.

Thankfully, Tigger was found in the pre-dawn hours of Saturday when a sleepless Satan wandered outside, called out from the balcony, and heart a faint, answering, “Meow!”

Tigger was huddled under a parked car on the street in front of our house and was probably so hungry that he finally actually allowed himself to be captured by a relieved Satan.

The cat spent the twelve hours immediately following his return asleep in an exhausted furry heap on the bed in the guest room (which he considers his own) and is now back to splitting his time between the guest room and the balcony.

We haven’t watered the plants since.

We're going!

Indigo Girls and The Weepies October 3rd at Ryman Auditorium! Special thanks to Eliza for the heads up.

Revival

Go ahead on over to River Walk Journal and enjoy Mom's latest, "Revival".

Shoo!

A Place for my Stuff

It's been another busy weekend around here.

First off, FurGirl has gained a brother:

Willow, barely pictured here in his secure hiding spot under the bed in the guest room, has officially moved in. Willow technically belongs to Satan's son, David. The feline's future was somewhat uncertain following David's departure last weekend to college. Thus, he is now officially the newest member of our little household.

While the photo really leaves something to be desired, I had to share it because I took it by simply placing the camera on the floor, pointing the lens toward where I thought the cat was and depressing the button without ever looking through the view finder. I didn't expect to capture any image at all, much less the whole entire annoyed cat.

The first Mrs. Satan has also been visiting, bringing her along her black lab, Lokie, to keep FurGirl company. The two are nearly impossible to catch in the same frame. Here is the closest I managed to get to that this morning:

And that is pretty much the extent of the enjoyable part of the weekend.

Otherwise, Satan and I turned our attention to a task we've been putting off for years: our storage shed.

Basically, we've been paying large american dollars for years to rent a 10x12 storage shed in which to house approximately $1.79 worth of CRAP that we otherwise have no room for in our actual house.

We now dealt with this problem yesterday by paying more large american dollars to rent a U-Haul truck into which we loaded the $1.79 worth of crap (in ninety degree heat), and then proceeded to drive the crap to our house where we had prepared for the in-coming crap by having the entire back of a semi-truck placed in our back yard.

We then spent the rest of the afternoon, in the still ninety degree heat, unloading our $1.79 worth of crap into the semi-truck trailer. I wish I could tell you that our new crap-holding device (the semi truck) is free, but sadly, it isn't.

Part B of this neverending brilliant plan is for us to move the approximately $3.75 worth of crap that is currently in the barn on our property into the crap-holding semi, thus combining two fairly large piles of crap into one gigantic pile of doom worth (are you with me here?) that's right, $5.54.

But the fun doesn't stop there! Oh no. The plan is to then sort the large pile of doom into smaller piles of crusty stuff which we will tag and display in our yard, thus becoming the scurge of the neighborhood, and eventually hosting a--GUESS WHAT--yard sale!!

This means that large groups of the regional undead will lurch into our yard in droves in the pre-dawn hours on the day of the sale offering us pennies on the dollar for the crusty crap we've been (inexplicably) storing for years at a cost of a zillion dollars. In this fashion, we will divest ourselves of approximately 25 percent of the crap.

And....here's where I just have to draw the curtain, because I'm starting to get hysterical just writing about it. I think you get the picture.

The good news? The good news is that I located the other half of the tiny Christmas Village! Which, I totally need for the upcoming holiday season! Also, Chaseroo, who was brave enough to help us for a portion of the day, found a treasure trove of his old original Nintendo games. Also, I found some old pictures that I've been missing for a while.

I'm really glad to have a day of rest.

Off the Map

Pictured here is my breakfast that I decided was too lovely and righteous not to share.

It is with some sadness that I share any pictures, however, as my picture-taking self missed out on a major photo op this weekend. Satan and I traveled to the big city of Lexington to move his youngest son into the dorm at the University of Kentucky. I took my camera and FORGOT a photo stick.

Yah, I was not happy.

Still, I can report that said freshman is now settled in his (tiny) dorm room with as many comforts of home as possible. In fact, the entire endeavor would have been a raging success but for one small incident during which, in a traffic jam, consisting of approximately one million sweaty, annoyed college students and their parents, at high noon, with not a car moving in any direction, in the ninety-five plus degree heat, in the center of the UK Campus, Satan became agitated, leapt from our vehicle, stood on the CENTER LINE of the street and, gesturing wildly, and screeching at the top of his lungs, had some, let’s just say, less than complimentary comments to share with the entire assemblage about my, in his opinion, less than adequate map reading skills.

You might be thinking that this incident has the makings of a legendary marital smack-down, and normally you’d be right, except that I was laughing so hysterically at his outrageous behavior by this time, that I simply was unable to engage in battle. Also, I was wearing my new sparklies which, as you’re probably aware, often have the effect of magically draining the fight right out of a girl.

Ironically, as it turned out, the spot where Satan had his meltdown was actually within spitting distance of the dorm we were headed for and we were completely and absolutely on the right track to get there. A fact that Satan still has yet to acknowledge.

As you might imagine, I later shared this story with every single person we met during the remainder of the weekend (and a few strangers on the street) and with each telling of the story, Satan managed to interject more and more fictitious details about the (essentially nonexistent) role he played in navigating us to our destination.

The truth is that later, I went on to navigate us directly to our hotel as well as orchestrate a complicated directional rendezvous with Satan’s other son who met us mid-journey en-route from Louisville.

All this while essentially writing this entire blog entry in my head.

I’m tired.

Sparkles

I'm up WAY past my bedtime (it's AFTER 10 p.m. for God's sake) because I wanted you to be the first to know: I am now in posession of some very nice sparklies to mark a VERY SPECIAL ten year anniversary.

What can I say? The man is crazy about me.

Squeaky Clean

I had an appointment at my dentist this morning for a cleaning. Both Satan and I go a dental center which is owned by a husband and wife team of dentists and staffed by a small army of hygienists.

After Diana the hygienist cleaned my teeth today, Dr. K my dentist, stopped in to give my teeth the once over.

DR. K
So, how are your teeth today?

ME
Great! Only two bleeding points and my numbers are good.

DR. K
(Peering into my mouth)
Your teeth really are in great shape.

ME
I’m very proactive. I do floss and brush every day, you know.

DR K
It shows.

ME
Too bad you can’t say the same for my husband.

DR K
Oh?

ME
There’s really no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it: the man hardly ever flosses.

DR K
Is that so?

ME
Certainly not every day for sure.

DR K
You don’t say!

ME
Absolutely. And last night?

DR K
Yes?

ME
Well, last night I’m not sure he brushed.

DIANA THE HYGIENTIST
(gasps)

DR K
(nodding his head sadly)
We have suspected as much for some time but couldn’t be sure.

ME
I think it’s time somebody made a note in his file.

DR K
(solemnly)
We’ll take care of it.

***

A wife in posession of a tenth anniversary present might not have felt so chatty.

Is all I'm saying.

Cracking: An Update

Due, no doubt, to the enormous pressure placed on Satan as a result of my recent entries, I am happy to report that negotiations have tentatively begun that could very likely result in an anniversary present for my incredibly deserving self.

On the other hand, it hasn’t happened YET, and we’re into double digits.

When no news is bad news.

Greetings, gentle readers!

It is my sad duty to report, reluctantly, there is still no progress on a proper tenth wedding anniversary gift for yours truly.

A wise person once told Satan and me that a husband has two choices in marriage. He can either be “right” or be happy.

Ya’ll. Poor Satan. He is still right.

To tell you the truth? I probably would not have escalated this whole situation to public blogging status had I thought he was TRULY SERIOUS about neglecting to mark this important marital milestone with some sort of sparkly. Frankly, I thought I’d write a funny entry, he’d buy me something, and that would be the end of it.

As it is, I’ve tried to help him extricate himself from this mess. I’ve gone so far as to specifically point out the exact sparkly that would make this whole situation go away in a hurry (and, trust me, it’s not EVEN extravagant considering the occasion).

Despite my help, he continues to make alarming pronouncements such as, “I won’t be buying you an anniversary gift.” Also, just plain, “No.” Or, puzzlingly, “I’ll buy you a birthday gift, but NOT an anniversary gift.” Or, annoyingly, “I bought you an XX dollar dinner, isn’t that enough?”

And, frankly NO, that isn’t enough, and if I’d known I was, in effect, EATING MY OWN SPARKLY, I would have high-tailed it out of the restaurant double-time.

Now, I’ll just be honest, a girl can get mighty depressed in a situation like this. Despondent. Weepy. She could even, God forbid, begin to slowly die inside (sniff!). Refuse to make pancakes. Even hum “The Way We Were” quietly to her sad, sad little self while concocting delightful, but sadly underappreciated, dinner salads. And generally continue in a downward spiral.

As it happens, I recently had dinner with the first Mrs. Satan (also a reader of this here blog). She was appropriately horrified at my lack of blingage to mark this important occasion. And, after some consideration, she recollected only receiving two anniversary gifts from Satan herself. They were: 1) A tool belt. 2) A tarp.

And we all know how that ended up.

So, if you see Satan out there looking dazed and disoriented (and, face it, doesn’t he always?), give him a ride to the nearest jewelry store, would ya? He needs your help.

***

In other news, I've just made the happy discovery that Nora Ephron, writer of "When Harry met Sally" and "Heartburn" two of my ALL TIME favorite movies has her own blog. HOW I was not made aware of this sooner is simply beyond me. Nora has a new book out called I Feel Bad about my Neck which is now officially at the top of my "must read" list.

I discussed Nora's new book and just her overall grooviness with my Mom recently and we are in agreement that she must be added to the guest list of our "fantasy girlfriend lunch". The (constantly changing) list currently reads:

Carrie Fisher
Mia Farrow
Shirley MacLaine
Nora Ephron

Before her untimely death, Jackie O was, of course, a must-have and Janeane Garofalo USED to be on the list, however, since her stint on West Wing during which her eyebrows looked exactly like furry black paralyzed catapillars glued to her forehead, I'm not so sure. Cybil Shepherd is a definite maybe. Shirley is only still hanging on by a thread since the publication of her book, "Out on a Leash" in which she details actual conversations she has with her rat terrier, "Terry".

Ahem.

One Day at Time

Mom strikes again, this time at Amarillo Bay!

Comparing

Not long ago, we just happened to have access to a Sony Cybershot F8 28 and thought we'd compare its "macro" function to that of my Panasonic Lumix FZ30 out on my balcony by taking shots of my (tiny) shamrock blooms.

It would have been easier to compare had Satan got the EXACT same two shots, but that, too, is a little difficult. Here's what we came up with:

This is the image from my Panasonic Lumix.

And this is the image from the CyberShot.

I'm happy to say I think they are very comparable. In the larger version, the CyberShot my be a TINY BIT clearer.

And counting...

Dear Comcast Cable Company,

Please answer your m*therf*cking phone. We have not been able to enjoy overpriced, sh*tty cable programming for sixteen hours. We have been on hold with your "service" department for approximately SIX of the last SIXTEEN hours. Pick up, b*tches!

Dear Global Warming,

Can we please get a break here? I’m sure my co-workers are tired of being traumatized by the site of my fish-belly white legs. But, it’s too hot for stockings and self-tanner makes me orange. I’d wear slacks but it’s, GUESS WHAT: too darn hot.

Dear Satan,

It was swell of you to buy me a nice dinner upon being reminded that it was your TENTH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY, but unfortunately, it’s just not that easy. An appropriately contrite, quick-thinking husband would have gone for the wildly overpriced, breathtaking flower arrangement delivered to his wife’s office on the day immediately following the anniversary. Unfortunately, you have completely missed your opportunity to get off that cheap. You are now officially on the hook for something sparkly. I am, therefore, instituting a new feature on this blog. If you’ll check the upper left-hand corner, I think you’ll see what I mean.

Hopelessly Devoted

Last night, as Satan and I were getting ready to leave the house to make an appearance at a neighborhood gathering, we had this conversation:

SATAN
(Tosses his wallet on to the counter.)
I don’t guess I'll need my wallet for anything.

ME
Oh, I think you’ll probably need it.

SATAN
Nah. I’m not going anywhere but back here after the thing.

ME
You probably ought to bring the wallet.

SATAN
Hey, we’re just going over for a little while, remember?

ME
I don’t think so.

SATAN
Well, I don’t know about YOU...

ME
Care to place a wager?

SATAN
A wager?

ME
A wager.

SATAN
(Pauses.)

ME
(Eyebrows raised.)

SATAN
(Begins to look a little sickly.)

ME
(Eyebrows still raised.)

SATAN
It’s not, uh…it can’t be…

ME
I’m afraid so.

SATAN
(Risks a panicky glance at the calendar on the opposite wall.)
So…the date today would be…

ME
The second. AUGUST SECOND.

SATAN
(Brightens suddenly.)
Hey! This means our TENTH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY is TOMORROW! Of course! TOMORROW! Yes, I’m well aware…

ME
Nice try. But, no.

SATAN
(Back to looking sickly.)
No, huh?

ME
No.

SATAN
(Picks up his wallet)

ME
I hope you’ve got a credit card in there.

SATAN
Say, you're not going to...

ME
blog this? OF COURSE NOT!

Meals on the Dash

Another literary success for Mom! Check it out at SouthLit.

(Scroll down and click on "Meals on the Dash")

He's Baaaaack

Hmmm, wow, it’s been a REALLY long time since I’ve written an entry.

Not sure exactly why that is. Probably any explanation would be an over-share. Even MisterT is wondering why I haven’t logged on. And, I can only tell him that it’s not for lack of evil MisterT material.

It’s because I really have too much to choose from.

Check it out:

MisterT and I fight over who should wash our dirt covered windows. I suggest the perfect solution: matchstick blinds. This makes MisterT really, really mad.

MisterT freaks out and blames me for dog fur he finds stuck to his socks.

(And, speaking of socks…) MisterT accuses me of some kind of subterfuge involving the quantity of clean but unmatched socks he discovers in the designated unmatched socks basket. MisterT is forced to try and mate the socks himself (the humanity!), resulting in a large quantity of matches but also STILL a large quantity of unmatched single socks. This causes yours truly to be subjected to a long, sad speech about the value of unmatched socks and how much they cost in the store (he estimated $25) and how, obviously, I am the cause of the unmated and now unusable socks. [It should be noted that MisterT, at any given time, has enough socks in his sock drawer to outfit a platoon. Apparently, this is no where near enough.]

MisterT spends large amounts of time criticizing my management of our Netflix movie queue. When a movie is not to his liking, I am grilled on the why’s and wherefore’s of how that particular movie ended up in our DVD player and how I could have possibly had the nerve to subject his highness to such a thing. He expects me to defend these less than optimal movie choices as if I were in the witness box and under cross examination in a murder trial. Enjoyable movies elicit no comment.

MisterT bought a new washer and dryer. They are very nice appliances in which I can wash MisterT’s unmatched socks. MisterT expends a great deal of time and energy threatening me with all manner of medieval tortures should I have the nerve to drip laundry detergent on their pristine white surfaces. I do a few loads of laundry and several times catch MisterT prowling about the laundry closet searching for telltale blue drips. When he doesn’t find any, he launches into a long one-person dialog on the state of the washer and dryer I owned and used during the years we dated. He concludes by saying they looked like they were shat out of the ass of a syphilitic yak. [It should be noted that he didn’t begin commenting on the state of my pre-marital appliances until after we were in fact wed.]

It is for these reasons, and a few thousand others, that I can no longer ignore the preferences of my readers who, by a slim majority of 80%, prefer that MisterT be referred to by his rightful and original name of “Satan”. Even my grandmother, I learned this weekend, prefers Satan (she thinks “Lucifer” is much, much scarier).

Lest you think I’m uncaring, I’ve ordered Satan four packages of these from my best good friends at The Container Store.

I’ll leave it to your imagination where they might be placed upon receipt.

Just a Picture

Enjoying an organic summer with a little help from my friend.

Pet of the Month

This is Christine and Molly.

That's Molly in the foreground. The photo was taken for a newsletter I'm producing. Believe it or not, I snapped thirty six pictures of Molly, all but maybe three of which came out as a big, furry blur. Molly don't sit still for long. This was the only acceptable photo I was able to snap. Fortuntely, I really love the image.

Dinner Conversation

We had dinner with MisterT's son, David, who is going off to college this fall. Since he is pre-med, we spent a good deal of dinner calculating how long it would be until we could actually quit our day jobs, move in with him, and spend all day sitting on our necks watching The Sundance Channel and looking forward to the free medical treatment we will receive for the oozing neck sores we will no doubt develop.

I, personally, also spent some time dropping delicately couched, subtle hints as to the type of medicine David should probably practice i.e., “DUDE, a little brow lift here, a little liposuction there, I can’t hold on much longer…”

David remains, as always, unmoved by my plight.

He has, however, internalized my own personal “drinking rules” that I have lived by, lo, these many years. When the subject of wild nekkid liquor parties came up, he was to his credit, actually able to recite the rules based on a short seminar that I gave him at the beginning of the summer.

You, too, can avoid many an embarrassing situation if you live by these simple drinking rules:

-Do not drink (or “do”) shots. Ever.

-Do not play drinking games of any kind i.e., Quarters, beer bongs, etc.

-Do not “switch up”. This means do not start out drinking beer, then switch to, say, Tequila. You CAN, however “switch down”. Start out drinking Tequila and then switch to beer.

-Do not drink and drive or RIDE WITH anyone drinking and driving.

I give you this wisdom free of charge.

An Inconvenient Movie

The face that launched the Eva Walker

Rosy, etc.

Independence Day

Happy Fourth of July to you! I hope wherever you are you are cool, happy, and enjoying this holiday.

I was pleasantly surprised this morning to find the above flower blooming prettily among my English daisy seedlings. After a little on-line research, I learned the red bloom is most certainly NOT an English daisy. I do think it is a rogue petunia that has seeded itself from points unknown. I am certain neither MisterT or myself bought petunia seeds. A similar vine has sprung up in my sago palm. Must be the wind.

This site was nearly overwhelmed by the four voters who stampeded in to participate in my online poll on renaming MisterT. As expected the result, THUS FAR, is 75%, Satan, 25%, Lucifer. If you are inclined to vote, and my bandwidth holds up, feel free to visit my last post and log your preference. Time is running out!

***

Update: I'm editing this post to add, HOLY COW, I've received an additional TWO votes since writing earlier. Check it:


ReNaming MisterT
So, tell me, what's a BETTER name for Mister T?
Beelzebub (1)
17%
Lucifer (1)
17%
Mr. Peepers (0)
0%
Sorry, it has to be Satan. (4)
67%
Total Votes: 6

Don't let the voting pass you by!

The long weekend

Greetings and salutations all, I'm knee-deep into a blissfully long holiday weekend!

I've thus far had the priviledge of hosting no less than three great girlfriends on the balcony. Unfortunately, I only had the presence of mind to break out the camera for two of them. I blame the adult beverages.

I don't have long to write today, but here's a quick update:

-Still considering Drastic Action C.

-I have secured a real world writing gig. This could cut down significantly on the fun and games at this here blog, but I'm going to try and keep up!

-The controversy relating to my re-naming of the spouse here rages on. Still, no one likes "MisterT". And I do mean NOBODY. At a marathon girlfriend lunch on Friday it was decided that, if possible, I should take a poll here.

And, despite the fact that I am the self-proclaimed Walter Brennen of Internet Technology, CHECK IT OUT:




Take My Poll

These Days...

What I'm reading.

What I'm watching (also, this).

What I'm listening to.

Most recently seen at the theater (noise on that link).

I highly recommend them all.

Summer Yumminess

I don’t know about you, but my sweet basil (thanks Christa!) is madly productive these days. So much so that MisterT and I have trouble keeping up with it and it is in constant danger of bolting.

I developed this delicious recipe yesterday and it’s too good to keep to myself.

Sweet Basil Quesadillas

4 Flour Tortillas
Handful of washed, dried, chopped sweet basil
½ large or one small chopped onion
1 large clove garlic
Your favorite shredded cheese blend (I used Monterey Jack, Sharp Cheddar and Parmesean, but whatever’s handy will work)
Paprika
Some sort of two sided grill i.e., pannini, George Foreman, I suppose a waffle iron might work too

Place chopped onion in a bowl, sprinkle with olive oil, salt and paprika. Microwave on high for two and a half minutes (instant grilled onions!). Slice garlic clove in half and rub one side of the tortillas with it for flavor. Sprinkle cheese mixture on one half of each of the tortillas and top that with the onions and chopped sweet basil. Fold the empty half of the tortilla over the loaded half forming a half circle. Grill for three minutes each in a two-sided grill (you could probably do it like a grilled cheese in a skillet too). Cut into triangles and serve with salsa for dipping.

The dish makes an excellent summer lunch or appetizer with your favorite draft beverage! I can hardly stand my cooking self.

And now for a couple of secrets just between me, you, and the fence post.

First, I’ve taken matters into my own hands and stolen MisterT’s hummingbird feeder. After all, Harold (and now Maude) were MY friends and it’s just, well, NOT FAIR. So, the feeder is filled, mine, and installed on my balcony. Expect pictures soon.

Secondly, and I can’t say this too loud in case the universe might take notice and devise some cruel joke on me, so I’ll whisper...

Vewry, vewry quietly...

(Today I am happy.)

Random Chattiness

Okay, so it’s been a while since I’ve put up a post of random updates about myself. Today is the day.

Hmmm, firstly, there’s been a lot of backlash about my decision to rename the spouse MisterT. Frankly, nobody, Nobody, NOBODY likes it. Most everyone says it “doesn’t flow” like it used to since the switch. In fact, MisterT himself has had second thoughts about the decision having received calls AT WORK protesting the change. It got to the point where MisterT was ready to give up and give in and approve my going back to calling him the S-word.

On the other hand, it wasn’t the greatest experience for MisterT when upon entering a crowded movie theater somebody yelled, “Hey look! It’s S---n!” and all heads turned in our direction. Well, so it WAS funny, but only if you’re me and not him, right? Also, he had a meeting recently where some of the principles were calling him the S-word. Which, of course, TOTALLY makes me snicker, but probably isn’t the best idea for him, truly.

And so, I’m sticking with MisterT, apologies to everyone. Even though he DID steal my hummingbirds! The little junkies are still zipping by my balcony, completely ignoring my lantana, petunias and pink geraniums, not to mention ME in favor if MisterT’s big bottle o’ bird crack.

Update on the cell phone situation—MisterT, fueled by indignation over his perceived shoddy treatment at the hands of me and Dave the Cingular Guy, through some complicated maneuvering, ultimately managed to get a new razor phone for about $50. He spent a few days waving it around and asking me when I was going to CALL MY FRIEND DAVE and tell him ALL ABOUT his NEW $50 RAZOR. HA! Also, randomly shouting (after hanging up from a cell call), “TAKE THAT, DAVE!” Which, you know, was a little spooky when it happened in restaurants and parking lots and stuff. I suspect MisterT may still be making these out-of-the-blue pronouncements when I’m not around, which probably looks pretty bazaar to the uninformed. But the good news is that he’s feeling much better about the whole thing in general.

I know ya'll have just been on the edge of your seats about my personal situation since I posted the "Wednesday Night Breakdown" entry. Truth is, I'm still in the midst of an existential crisis. Unfortunately, SURPRISE, I am not getting the support I would like to during this delicate time from MisterT.

Take today, for instance. I was once again discussing Drastic Action C on the phone with MisterT. And, would you believe? ONCE AGAIN, he wasn't saying the RIGHT things to me, but rather he was again making EVIL MISTERT statements.

So, since I know he reads this blog, I'm going to post that particular phone conversation noting his actual responses to my statements and also, for his personal growth and development, what he SHOULD HAVE BEEN SAYING. In this fashion, perhaps, he can grow as a person and become more successful in life.

ME
Seriously, I think I'm going to take Drastic Action C

MISTERT
Actual Response: You are just going to finally have to make a decision here.
Ideal Response: Maybe I should take some time off work, and we should take a nice long walk with FurGirl and talk it over.

ME
Okay, I COULD make a decision but it might not be the decision YOU like. Then how will you react?

MISTERT
Actual Response: We all gotta do what we gotta do.
Ideal Response: Honey, whatever YOU want is also what I PERSONALLY want. Most of all I want you to be happy.

ME
Can't you, for once, be a little more supportive?

MISTERT
Actual Response: I can't make the decision for you.
Ideal Response: How about I call the spa and book you a massage while you think it over?

ME
No, but you could HELP me make the decision.

MISTERT
Actual Response: I've got another call.
Ideal Response: I'm clearing my calendar until we get this resolved.

ME
'Bye

MISTERT
Actual Response: *click*
Ideal Response: NEVER LEAVE ME, I BEG YOU!

So, really, I'm fairly optimistic since we're not very far apart here.