The Dry Tortugas: Photographs

So Close

I came heartbreakingly close to capturing a primo shot of dolphins swimming in the waters of the Gulf off the coast of Key West. This is the best of the lot of the don't-blink-or-you'll-miss-it game they played with me off the bough of Captain Karen's ship. In all, about five to six dolphins were in the group including two youngsters. Amazing. Too tired for now to write more. (Click for a larger version.)

Best Boy

For various reasons, I was unable to touch base with my son, Chase, before leaving town. But I got this text from him last night:

I checked the blog and love the haircut it looks beautiful in the pictures. I hope you are having a good time. Be careful and I love you.

Good-Night Sun

I said good-bye to the sun again today and this is the best of my photos. I like it, but...still. I'm not happy with it. Click for a larger version. The tall ship pictured here was probably a quater mile off shore.

Key West

I suppose the most important thing about this trip is the wonder of being able to see it without the inconvenience of glasses. I was wiser than I knew in getting fitted for contacts before leaving. The sun is positively tropical down here; I am closer to Cuba than the US mainland, as all the tourist information literature likes to constantly remind me. So, it is pretty much imperative that I have the ability to wear heavy duty sunglasses at all times. Also? The difference contacts have made in allowing me to accurately see through the viewfinder of my camera has been miraculous.

I took this photo earlier today while touring the butterfly house:

Would you even look at that? Wow. Even if I do say so my damn self. I have more amazing shots of that field trip that I'll try to control myself from posting. Probably unsuccessfully.

We touched down in Miami on Sunday at around 9 a.m. After a hellacious wait at the car rental place that included a very close encounter with a hispanic lady sporting a hair-do exactly like that of a show shihtzu and a really bad attitude. There are four of us but, since at least three of us were insistent on convertible vehicles, we ended up with two cars so we could actually haul ourselves AND our luggage.

I had envisioned the trek from Miami to Key West as taking maybe a few hours. Wrong. It took us all day to travel those 150 miles. There is no interstate access to the keys, a two lane (sometimes four lane) highway on which top speed averages around 50 mph is the only access route. And we did not travel at top speed very often.

We arrived tired and hungry at around 5 p.m. and were ecstatic to finally check in. Those who know me well know that the place where I'm staying is "clothing optional" at the pools and I've been threatening for weeks to opt out of mine on this trip. That actually happened the first night and then again last night and I'm guessing every night until I leave. Only in the hot tubs, though, where the bubbles obscure any really serious exposure. I'm saying that's not cheating. Also not cheating is my blood alcohol level that I work hard to keep at a level beyond legally intoxicated.

It's okay because we don't have vehicles; we rented bikes for the week on which we can easily get to anywhere we want to go on the island.

I fulfilled a life long dream yesterday when I toured Earnest Hemingway's house:

A very nice place, but most remarkable perhaps were the lush gardens on the grounds:

And the famous six-toed cats, descendants of Hemingway's original kitty. Here one snoozes near the front porch:

Hemingway did much of his KW writing in a detached guest house where he kept an office:

I tried hard to inhale and or absorb any lingering talent molecules. (As if.) Can't resist posting this photo of Papa's pool which he paid the then exorbitant price of $20,000 to have constructed:

I can't get over the color of the ocean water around here. It is not the slate blue or steely grey of the Atlantic or the lighter blue of the Pacific, but a true aquamarine that I would have thought didn't happen until further into the Caribbean. But then again, I suppose this IS the edge of the Caribbean.

It is gorgeous, and prettier in person than the photos.

They say goodnight to the sun here every day with a large gathering of hundreds of people on the pier. Everyone frantically snaps photos or videotapes as the sun dramatically slips into the horizon. And last night, I was no exception. I have many photos, none of which I am even marginally happy with. I sort of can stand this one I snapped of a guy at the end of the pier fishing:

Eh.

I'll leave you with another photo I'm far happier with, a little something else from the butterfly house from this morning:

LOVE!

NashVegas: The Incoherent Hotel Post

1. Bunny Ranch. News of.
2. Pool. Game after game.
3. Drinking a 4.0 (Bohemian Pale Ale)
4. Clarence. At the Liquor Store. Thinks we're pilots. Randomly. We don't discourage him.
4. Being Ignored.
5. Pretty feet.
6. Shrimp Penne.
7. Tragically? The band is Phoenix Rising. Over earnest female lead singer lost in the eighties. We leave as the Cyndi Lauper begins. She doens't know the words to "Time After Time". Oy the pain.
8. Biker people. Revving their motors. To make up for their myriad shortcomings. No one is fooled.
9. I have a Pob. But I'm not telling anybody.
10. Next stop? Much further south.

[Edited to add: I forgot to mention that I was fitted with contact lenses just before I left town. Unfortunately, it is a requirement of Doctor's Value Vision that one demonstrate the ability to both insert and remove said lenses before they will allow you to leave the store with them. This proved a little challenging for me. Despite the fact that I have been torturing my eyes with various cosmetics for the better part of. Well. Several decades.

I was given instructions and then abandoned with nothing save a tiny mirror in a dark corner of the store. There, I poked myself in the eye for several hours trying to get the lenses in. Did I mention? This was very difficult because...I CAN'T SEE. This is why I, in fact, require CORRECTIVE LENSES. I became so frustrated in fact that I actually left the lenses at the store the first night convinced I was NEVER GETTING THEM IN.

Finally? I went back knowing I would either a) Get the contacts in b) Continue to resemble Peter Billingsley for the rest of my natural damn life. After another fifteen minutes without success I asked the staff, "Is there anyone here who can actually help me with this?" Whereupon a round red headed lady was rustled from the back of the store. Rather than abandoning me with the mirror, she stayed with me and guided my efforts to insert the lenses. And what do you know? On my second attempt? SUCCESS!

People? You would have thought I was Helen Keller with a lens implant. I was all, "I CAN SEE, i CAN SEE! WithOUT glasses!!!! WOOOHOOOO!" I leapt from my chair and started jumping and flailing my arms around. I'm not kidding. I was that excited. Ya'll don't know.

The Doctor's Value Vision staff? Were all...whatever. Yawn. Drool.

Meanwhile I'm all, "Gimme a phone book! [Still jumping] I bet I can READ IT...WOOOOOOO!"

Instead, they rolled their eyes and handed me a People Magazine.

And I'm all...."WoooooooHOOOOO! I can totally READ THIS!!! WOOOOO!"

So, anyway. I have contacts. I can see. Woo.]

Vacation Hair

(It never looks this good when I do it myself.)

Displaying

Behold my latest project.

I've wanted to display some of my own photographs in the new hacienda for a while now. I like to change it up, though, and these narrow (3") tchochke shelves from my good friends at The Container Store fit the bill perfectly.

Of course, it couldn't be an easy process. I began by thinking simple, narrow shelves like this could be had just any old place in town. Eventually, I hit every possible store: WalMart, Pier One, Linens-n-Things, Kirkland's, Bed Bath and Beyond, Hobby Lobby...there may have been others. I kept running into this option over and OVER. It made my skin crawl.

Finally, frustrated and hopeless, I came to my senses and spent five minutes with Pinky at the Container Store and, boom, there they were. Perfection. Why is it always the simple things that turn out to be so hard?

Fortunately, the frames (11 x 14) were easily had for half price (lucked in on a sale) and the pre-cut 8 x 10 mats were super cheap. The prints I ordered from Snapfish.

In other news? I'm about to go on VACATION....woohoo! My last big hurrah before returning to work will begin tomorrow. I'll be taking Pinky and my camera and, most importantly, you along as usual.

Lights Out

As a blogger, I've found only one thing more satisfying than getting a post off my chest that I feel is at least marginally clever and coherent.

And that is being the the subject of someone else's clever blog post. (Just don't make me stand next to her. I'm convinced I would come off like Jabba the Hutt by comparison. For serious.)

In other news, I awoke yesterday to a strangely dark and quiet house. When a flip of the bathroom switch didn't result in the light coming on, I was marginally annoyed that I would have to replace the bulb. It wasn't until I stumbled to the kitchen and found my toaster completely uncooperative in response to my efforts to toast my Pop Tarts that I realized something more, shall we say, sinister was afoot.

Bizzyville HQ? Was utterly without electrical power.

That's right: no flat iron, no blow dryer, no make-up mirror, no air conditioning, no Style Channel, no HGTV, and MOST importantly NO INTERNET ACCESS. And ya'll know how I get without my connection. Like a crackhead in a sleep clinic. It ain't pretty.

After quick look at the calendar (yes, I've reached a point where I have mostly no idea what day it is) and a few nervous minutes of calculating, I realized it was the last day of the month. The ex-man and I had agreed that the utilities would be transferred into my name the on the first of May, and I had made arrangements for that to happen weeks ago.

I began to recall the details of those arrangements. My calls to Western Kentucky Gas and Paducah Water Works went smoothly. The utilities would transfer on May 1st. My call to Jackson Purchase? Was a little weird. They couldn't just transfer the service to my name on May 1st based on my phone call.

No, Jackson Purchase Energy would also have to have a call from the ex-man (STILL technically my husband, btw) agreeing to the switch. Because... Because what? Because, I suppose, it might REALLY PISS HIM OFF if I started to pay his electric bill? Or maybe there has been a rash of unsavory characters switching stranger's utilities into their names? MMMMWWWAAAAHAHA!

At the time, I thought the whole thing ridiculous, but still, I shot off an e-mail to the ex-man with instructions that he had to call Jackson Purchase and okay the whole deal. Which he did.

I'll spare you the pain and agony of the details yesterday's frantic calls to Jackson Purchase and the hour or more that it took to unravel the mystery of my lack of electricity. What it boiled down to was that someone at Jackson Purchase took the ex-man's call to mean the electricity must be turned off on April 30th and my call to mean I wouldn't need a drop of power until May 1st.

Evidently, the transferring of electrical power from one person's name to another effective the first of the month is a concept that this particular utility company (unlike all the others) has not yet grasped. What Jackson Purchase MUST DO, what they HAD TO DO is to drive on out and shut OFF the power on April 30, and then plan to make yet another call at my house to turn it back on THE VERY NEXT DAY.

Meantime? No power for me until May 1st.

Unless, of course, I'd be willing to pay a $75 reconnect fee.

And in that case they could roll out some time late in the afternoon and turn it back on. Just, you know, whenever they get around to it.

Like I have a choice. Oh, yah, no, I'll just do without ELECTRICITY for upwards of 24 hours. No biggie! (And if you're keeping count here? You know that they were going to have to make another trip to my house the very next day anyway.)

Naturally, Jackson Purchase is now enjoying my $75 and I'm back to blogging, and doing laundry, and watching the Style Channel and stuff. Except for my butt hurts. From where Jackson Purchase Energy STUCK IT IN AND BROKE IT OFF.

In conclusion, I'd like to award a big ol' Bizzyville Super Snap to Paducah Water and Western Kentucky Gas for consistently, silently, and efficiently providing unbroken utility service to Bizzyville HQ throughout a highly complicated situation such as my own. When you have to switch service into someone else's name. Effective the first of the month.

Rockin' in the Free World

I'll just go ahead on and admit that it's taking me a really long time to recover from my trip to the north country. I talked a lot of smack about the World's Most Amazing Karaoke Machine, but the truth is, even I was not prepared for the wonder. For various reasons, I cannot be specific about the exact number of songs, or the exact location of the system, or even the city and state that we visited.

What I can say is that what was originally going to be a trip with four girls in a Subaru turned into five girls and one very cute poodle puppy in a Chrysler mini van. We headed out in the early afternoon Friday (thus conveniently escaping the quilters...praise Jeebus!) and made it to the hotel at around four p.m. There we were distressed to learn we had unknowingly booked ourselves into a hotel with large sign posted in the lobby ABSOLUTELY FORBIDDING pets upon pain of a very large fine.

Of course, crating poor little Oreo in the van at night was not going to be an option. Luckily, among five girls, we didn't have too much trouble locating one with a little extra purse room. In this fashion, the puppy was pretty easily smuggled in and out of the establishment as necessary.

After throwing down our luggage and stowing our beer supply in the room refrigerators (because HELLO? we couldn't be anywhere EVER without beer), we headed to a local bar for many games of pool and our first real whistle whetting of the journey. And I'll just tell you now that once whetted? We pretty much stayed that way for two whole days. As my mostly incredibly blurry photos bear a sad silent testimony to.

From the bar (where Oreo made new friends among both the staff and the patrons) we headed to The Undisclosed Karaoke Machine location.

There we fell in love, felt the earth move under our feet, stopped in the name of love, rode on the City of New Orleans, put on our boogie shoes, decided it was too late baby, fell for a shooting star (one without a permanent scar), thumbed a diesel down, fell to pieces, and tried to slow our mustang down (without a whole lot of success).

This went on. And ON.

And then? It went on a while longer.

It went on until we were forced to stop because we were desperately in need of nourishment. This called for a trip through the Steak-n-Shake drive-thru. Backwards (don't ask). (But you can technically still get [really bad] food that way.)

Saturday found us (surprise) all feeling a tad queasy and sleeping until nearly noon. We were lured from our fluffy hotel beds only by the promise of God's perfect food: a grilled out burger. Said burger was helpfully provided by the owner of the Karaoke machine. And soon after lunch? We were down on the corner, out in the street, rollin' on a river, feelin' better now that we're through, drunk the day our mama got out of prison, on our own with no direction home a complete unknown like (sing it with me) a rolling stone...

We were people possessed. Every song we knew? The karaoke machine knew too. Every song we thought of? Was just a few seconds away. Stevie Wonder? Got it. Juice Newton? Suzi Quatro? Yep. Indigo Girls, Alison Krause, Mary Chapin-Carpenter, Linda Rhonstadt, Stevie Nicks... We even did a rousing version of this little number, one we all just happened to know the words to. Because, back in those days--the seventies if you must know-- it was the law that one purchase (and memorize) the Grease double album soundtrack.

This went on until our host fell asleep. And poor Oreo looked like this...

...having fallen out from either exhaustion or gone unconscious in self defense (more likely both), a limp, furry bag of puppy bones. On the plus side? She was even easier to smuggle up to the hotel room.

We headed for the hotel but not before we made a WalMart stop where we picked up some important items (that every girl needs on a trip out of town):

-Boy Shorts Bathing Suit

-Press-on tattoos (tribal)

-Apples to Apples Game

-Handcuffs

Back at the hotel, we played a few rousing rounds of Apples to Apples and afterwards enjoyed a soothing soak in the hotel pool and hot tub. Right up until the management tossed us out.

All in all, it was more than any five girls could hope for in one weekend and just what the doctor ordered for one girl in particular who, rumor has it, is on the verge of (whisper) Going Back to Work.

Home

My weekend trip was super fun, but I'll write about that tomorrow. Right now, I'm back home and will be a serious couch potato for the duration of the night.

I had to take a moment, though, and share with you this photo of Oreo and her new Mom, Ashley, taken just after I placed her new puppy in her arms. It was, as they say, love at first sight.

Adopted

I've been on the phone all morning making various arrangements for little Oreo who will soon (on Sunday) be decamping for her new home in Cadiz, Kentucky. I hesitate to admit how very close I came to adopting her myself. That is one furry little face (with crazy curly whiskers and dark knowing eyes) that is awfully hard to resist.

As it is, I will be minding her until tonight at 8:00 p.m. when another friend will pick her up and babysit her until Sunday when we can unite her with her new mom and dad (currently on a trip to Orlando).

I cannot personally babysit until Sunday because I, along with three intrepid friends, will be on a mission. A mission to the flat lands of central Illinois. A mission to investigate an incredible story. We'll be crossing over into another dimension. A fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination.

It is an area which we call the The Forty Thousand Song Karaoke Machine (with complimentary tequila).

Stay tuned.

A Whole Year

I can't believe it's been a whole year since I first linked to a then fledgling website called iList Paducah. I could hardly have imagined the leaps and bounds by which the site would grow and the blogging reindeer games that would ensue. And I can't for the life of me figure out how anybody in this town ever figured out what the heck to do on a Saturday night before Mary Thorsby and Nikki May made it their business to keep us informed. (And if you haven't subscribed? HELLO? You need to sign up this minute.)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ILIST! (And many more.)

Homeless

Breed: Miniature Poodle (expected to weigh between 10-12 lbs at maturity.)

Type: Party Mix

Sex: Girl (of course!)

Price: $200 (a bargain)

Date of Birth: 2/22/2008

Name: Oreo!

Distinguishing characteristics: Interesting markings--brownish blonde boots on all four feet, white "spilled milk" mark down the chest; one white strip below the neck on the back. Lively and playful and nearly housebroken. E-mail me if you're interesting in adopting. Oreo is one sweet girl.

Dying. (On the inside.)

A recent cell phone call.


(ringggg....)


EX-MAN
Hello?


ME
Hello?


EX-MAN
Hello?


ME
Hey! How are you?


EX-MAN
Oh, pretty good.


ME
What do you mean?


EX-MAN
You know, feelin' pretty cheerful.


ME
But...aren't you dying inside?


EX-MAN
Say what?


ME
DYING INSIDE. You know. From sorrow and heartache? Because you miss me?


EX-MAN
Oh! DYING INSIDE. Yes. Yes, absolutely.


ME
Well. I sensed that.


EX-MAN
So...are we final?


ME
You mean as in SWEET MARITAL FREEDOM? Is it ours?


EX-MAN
Yep.


ME
We could be! I don't know. Haven't heard anything.


EX-MAN
So, we could be free.


ME
It's possible.


EX-MAN
And not even know it.


ME
Could be. At any moment. Maybe even this moment.

EX-MAN
Did you get the income tax return taken care of?

ME
Welll....no.

EX-MAN
NO?

ME
I filed us an extension. I've been, um, busy.

EX-MAN
So I read, Miss Tequila Shots.

ME
Yah, well, drowning my sorrows and all that. Uh-oh! Getting another call!

EX-MAN
Uh-huh.

ME
You take care now. And cheer up, would you? Except for...

EX-MAN
The dying inside part?

ME
I expect that can't be helped.

EX-MAN
It's just one of those things.

(clicks)

Geocaching

I had lunch with my friend La Donna today. As we gnawed on our chicken on a stick (we're fancy like that) she told me about an adventure past time I'd never heard of: Geocaching (pronounced "geo-cashing").

The concept is simple: participants use a GPS--Global Positioning System--which costs anywhere from $100 to $1,000 (depending on your level of nerdliness and budget) of one sort or another to locate the coordinates of a hidden, sometimes buried, cache or package. Coordinates are given in Latitude and Longitude.

Once a cache is found, the rules are simple:

1. Take something from the cache.

2. Leave something in the cache.

3. Write about it in the log book. (All caches must contain a log book at the very least.)

According to the website, there are caches to be hunted world-wide. Here are a few of FAQS:

Where are caches found?

The location of a cache can be very entertaining indeed. As many say, location, location, location! The location of a cache demonstrates the founder's skill and possibly even daring. A cache located on the side of a rocky cliff accessible only by rock climbing equipment may be hard to find. An underwater cache may only be accessed by scuba. Other caches may require long difficult hiking, orienteering, and special equipment to get to. Caches may be located in cities both above and below ground, inside and outside buildings. The skillful placement of a small logbook in an urban environment may be quite challenging to find even with the accuracy of a gps. That little logbook may have a hundred dollar bill in it or a map to greater treasure. It could even contain clues or riddles to solve that may lead to other caches. Rich people could have fun with their money by making lucrative caches that could be better than winning the lottery when you find it. Just hope that the person that found the cache just before you left a real big prize!

Can I move a cache once I find it?

Don't move the cache! Responsible cache owners often check on their caches and would be alarmed to discover that it is missing.

An alternative would be to have a trackable item, which is an item that you can move from cache to cache. An example of this is a candle that has traveled from Australia to Arizona, and a Mr. Potato head that leaps from cache to cache. For example you can purchase a Groundspeak Travel Bug , which is a tag that you can attach to an item so you can track its movements through this web site.

Are there any variations in the game?

YES! We strongly encourage it, actually. Geocaching is a game that constantly reinvents itself, and the rules are very flexible. If you have a new idea on how to place a cache, or a new game using GPS units, we'd love to hear about it.

Some examples -

Offset Caches - They're not found by simply going to some coordinates and finding a cache there. With the Offset Cache the published coordinates are that of an existing historical monument, plaque, or even a benchmark that you would like to have your cache hunter visit. From this site the cache hunter must look around and find offset numbers stamped/written in or on some part of the marker site, or continue based on instructions posted to geocaching.com

Multi-caches - The first cache gives coordinates (or partial coordinates) to the next location, or multiple caches have hints to the final cache.

Virtual caches - A cache is actually an existing landmark, such as a tombstone or statue. You have to answer a question from the landmark and let the "cache" owner know as proof that you were there.

How long do caches exist?

It all depends on the location of the cache and its impact on the environment and the surrounding areas. Caches could be permanent, or temporary. It's up to the cache owner to periodically inspect the cache and the area to ensure that impact is minimal, if not nonexistant. When you find a cache, it's always a good idea to let the cache owner know the condition as well.
Periodically, Geocaching.com will review each cache to ensure that everything is still current. We cannot guarantee that a cache will exist at any given time, but we'll do our best to ensure the list is as current as possible.

If you do find that a cache is missing/defaced, please let the cache owner know as soon as possible!

***

One can start and hide their own cache and there are instructions for that too.

It just seems to me that if this whole concept doesn't appeal to your inner treasure hunter, you might not HAVE an inner treasure hunter. Additionally, this would mean another great excuse for a girl to lace on her hiking boots and set off with her camera.

On the down side, the other image that springs to mind is that of Ralphie Parker in "A Christmas Story" when for weeks he anxiously awaits the arrival of his Secret Decoder Pen only to FINALLY decode his first "exciting" message: "Eat Your Ovaltine." Ahem.

Still...there's something to be said for the thrill of the hunt, right?

I'm considering adding this activity to a play day agenda. I'll keep you posted. Interestingly, I notice on the Geocaching website an event at Lake Cumberland that actually is beginning today---a weekend of geocaching. According to the itinerary, there are over 50 caches located within the park.

Meanwhile, if you have any first-hand knowledge of the sport and insights to share, please feel free to comment or e-mail me. [An unrelated formatting side note? I DO KNOW where I should be double spacing, ESPECIALLY BETWEEN paragraphs. Blogger, for whatever reason, has chosen not to allow me to do this. VERY annoying indeed.]

[Updated to add: I'm finding 365 geocaches within the 42001 zip code alone. Perhaps I am the last to learn about geocaching?]

Eleven Herbs and Spices

On today's play day agenda was a trip to the garden store. Wee! (Now crouched and waiting for lightening to strike. Unemployed people are not allowed to have this much fun. I'm pretty sure.)

Pictured above is my summer herb garden. A better writer than I could describe to you the intoxicating mix of heady green scents that waft off the leaves when I brush my hand over them. Ahhh. Heaven. In the box awaiting transplant is: sweet basil, Italian parsley, silver thyme, dill, dwarf sage, curry, cilantro, oregano,chives, and sweet basil. In pots outside at the front of the house I have already planted rosemary and lavender amongst the petunias.

I am only a recent convert to growing my own cooking herbs, but I have hardly ever found anything quite as satisfying. The difference between fresh and dried herbs is rather like the difference between real and silk flowers: no comparison.

Better still, the cost of a plant start is comparable to the cost of one snipped SPRIG of fresh herb at the store. Best of all, there's nothing that makes me feel quite as Martha Stewart as nipping out to the porch for a sprig of fresh rosemary for my chicken glaze sauce or a mixture of thyme and lavender for my herb crusted pork loin, or... Well. You get the picture. It's just a short hop to insufferable from here.

Which is what I'll be if I ever start growing my own vegetables.

Lake Barkley: Communing with the Redbuds

Viva NashVegas

Between bouts of the flu and, now, a raging head cold I'm still here and having a really good time. When I'm not sneezing or blowing my nose, that is.

They call me Snotty McSnorts Alot. Sexy!

I don't know, could it be that my body is telling me slow down?

Nahhhh.

I took a little trip to NashVegas last week. We had tickets to see Etta James at the Wildhorse Saloon. If you ask me, they are using the term "saloon" a bit loosely here. The Wildhorse is a huge venue in the heart of the NashVegas music district in a space more akin to a barn than a cozy-up-to-the-bar type saloon. But whatever.

We headed toward Tootsie's a little early and took in many of the kick-ass country bars (and refreshments) along the Broadway strip before heading to the Wildhorse for dinner. On the way (it was a long walk of at least three blocks), deprived the entire distance of an adult beverage, I amused myself by ducking into a store and picking up a cowboy had to add to my hat collection. Not, mind you, a Stetson-type thing, but one of those slouchy, wadded up cowboy hats. LOVE!

Once perched on my head, the hat served to distract me from the pain of separation from liquid refreshment for the last bit of distance to the Wildhorse. As we rounded the last corner, we encountered a huge line, of at least a block long, queued up for the Etta show. It was the kind of line that I knew I'd never manage, thirsty as I was, hat or no hat. It was the kind of line that makes you damn sorry you gave up your good seat at Tootsie's, only two feet from the bar. It was the kind of line that, in the state I was in, I couldn't possibly be expected to wait in without a) making a spectacle of myself and b) more beer.

Fortunately, some of the more alert people in our party realized the line we were seeing was for the poor bastards WITHOUT tickets. We, on the other hand, HAD tickets! VIP tickets! This meant we got to get in the secret, hidden short line, with the happy people and Emmy Lou Harris that the ticket-takers quickly hustled in to the front of the bar, seated at tables, and...gave us all beer! Also, chicken and french fries and possibly quesa dillas. Life was temporarily very, very, good.

Once served and in our seats, a girl in our party showed us an original 45 rpm record of Etta James' "At Last" that she had in her purse and tells us she's going backstage to get it signed. Which? I wondered, but okay. She disappeared for a time and came back telling us that Etta couldn't sign it at that point but that she would after the show.

But that wasn't the big news.

The big news was that Etta's road manager had offered her $50,000 for the record. And? SHE TURNED HIM DOWN.

I still don't even know what to say about that. I'll leave it to you to ponder.

Meanwhile, time is passing. By now it is after 7:00 p.m. and the opening band has not even taken the stage. I, personally, have indulged in enough liquid refreshment that I am about to get The Click. But I am restless and can't be expected to continue to SIT IN MY CHAIR (gah! this sh!t gets old). Nor can I be expected to suffer thru the anonymous opening band. I decide I'm going to walk back to the hotel and drink beer there for a while (I know. I don't know why. I'm just telling you what happened.)

There was one other among our number that was game, and together we headed back to the hotel, drank MORE beer and then walked BACK to the Wildhorse. Where? Absolutely nothing had changed. Except that the opening band had performed. We were told me we didn't miss much.

More time passed. And still? No Etta.

Suddenly, beer just wasn't hitting the spot anymore. Suddenly! I had a GREAT idea! Let's switch to drinking something more, I believe the word I used was, efficient. Tequila shots! Someone agreed. Shots were ordered and imbibed.

Now it is 8:30. No Etta. I am at this point stopping all the wait staff..."Excuse me...EXCUSE ME? Etta James? Anyone...anyone?"

One of Etta's sons takes the stage and announces that she has pneumonia and has been at the hospital where the doctor wanted her to check in. But, instead, Etta has bravely in the-show-must-go-on style decided to take the stage at the Wildhorse.

I briefly ponder how cool it would be for Etta to expire on the stage of the Wildhorse so I could blog about it.

And then I order another shot.

Worse? I drink it.

Finally, after what seems like FOREVER, Etta hits the stage. I am, by now, a little unfocused, but still able to observe that Etta is: 1) REALLY skinny with a Joan Rivers amount of face work in evidence 2) Mostly unable to stand. One of Etta's sons shepherds her in a kind of James Brown escort style to an office chair that has been rolled to stage center.

In Etta's defense, I have to say that girlfriend is seventy-eight years old, so it's fairly amazing that she's still even performing and releasing new stuff at all. On the other hand? Don't keep me waiting for almost three hours when you're charging fairly astronomical prices and then sing FIVE SONGS. (It might have been six, but no more.)

Etta chose a nice loose fitting black suit with a red sequined top underneath, but MOST rockin' was her choice of footwear: black cowboy boots. Yee-haw!

Once Etta got to her chair, the raunchiness began. Yes, you read that right. Etta James grabbed her crotch (Michael Jackson style if you can imagine him in a chair) and pinched her nipples and mimicked an, um, excited male member under a table napkin and was just generally hot and hunchy throughout almost the whole show, writhing around suggestively in her office chair. The one exception was when she talked about her grandchildren. I'm happy to report that she managed not to grab her crotch once during that story (whew!).

Of course the Big Finish was "At Last". They tell me that I sang along with this song not only out of tune, but also with a nasally Chicago accent (this is a voice that I often converse with my Mother in for reasons not entirely known to both of us). Pretty!

It was only after I arrived home that I learned that FurGirl was busy becoming a star while I was gone.

I've spent the weekend recovering quietly and enjoying seemingly endless American's Next Top Model marathons. I don't think I could take this show in once-a-week doses, but there's something incredibly satisfying about watching the episodes back to back. And anyway, it's really all I can manage at the moment.

Another Lovely Monday

I continue to exist in this bubble between jobs and it continues to be a wonderful place to be. I'm finally old enough to have learned to stop regretting and or rethinking the past and stressing about what may or may not happen in the future. Well...mostly. Let's just say I'm better than I used to be. By a factor of ten. Life tends to whack one upside the head with a proverbial frying pan until one finally learns these lessons. Can I get an Amen?

The weekend was very much fun and included yet another marathon karaoke Wii session and enough liquid refreshment to float a boat. Let's just say it took all day Sunday to recover. But still? Worth it.

I'm mostly thrilled to enjoy another beautiful spring in Paducah. We are entering that magical window when everything blooms in shades of pink, purple and white. I'm only mostly thrilled because, inevitably, spring signals the end of boot season meaning I have to shelve my beloved sturdy, ass-kicking masculine footwear in favor of something more practical for the tropical temperatures that are just around the corner.

It's enough to bring a girl down.

Unless, of course, said girl acquires a little something-something to cheer her up.

The lastest addition

Summing up Saturday

Guess Who's Playing Wii?

Decisions, decisions...

It's been a hectic day around here.

First, I was forced to sleep until 10:00 a.m. with my bedroom window halfway up so I could listen to the sound of the rain that fell all night. Ahhh...lovely.

Then it was up and at 'em and time for a long session w/Pinky catching up on my e-mails and reading blog posts.

And, now, finally, I am wrestling with the important question of where to hang my retro Coca-Cola sign. Those of you from Lowertown will almost certainly remember this large, metal sign that hung on the barn behind my house off the alley. It was easily visible from Madison Street and even from 7th Street.

I've loved the sign since we purchased the house and believe it had been hanging on the side of that barn since at least the 1980's (probably longer). Once the ex-man and I moved into the Lowertown house, I wanted to move the sign to our master bedroom to hang over the bed as a headboard, an idea the ex-man immediately vetoed, deeming it "ridiculous". Thus, the sign stayed where it was, on the barn, for the duration of the time we lived there.

Luckily, I thought of it before we vacated the house completely and, in the end, the ex-man took it off the barn for me and brought it to my new place. Initially, I thought the perfect spot to hang it would be the kitchen, and it would work there. Thing is, that's ALOT of red with the table and all:

So, I tried it over the couch in the living room:

If it stays here, it won't be leaning on the couch as you see, of course. It will actually be hung higher (a departure for me, I hang most things lower) with a strip of wall visible between the top of the couch and the lower edge of the sign. I am leaning toward this option since I think this would spread the bright blocks of red around more evenly in the space and I love the look of the black and white couch with the red sign. As an added bonus the Doisneau print that used to hang over the couch works perfectly in the kitchen:

So, there you have it. I was going to post a poll, but I think I've written my way into a decision.

Whew! I'm exhausted.

Nap time.

Random Wednesday Post

I got a great deal on a vase at (shhh....I got in major trouble over this post) TJ Maxx. I know! I'm not supposed to be going there any more. But, dang! What? I'm not supposed to display my Forsythia? I HAVE TO DISPLAY MY FORSYTHIA. It's gorgeous. You can't just drive by the stuff without partaking. Or at least I can't.

I'm adding a new sidebar feature to the blog. It's called, "Party Quote of the Week". I've been collecting them for a while (because no matter what I'm doing? I'm thinking of you guys. count on that.) or at least since the Year of Complete and Total Irresponsibility began [on or about 01/01/08].

Party Quotes are remarks you either overhear at the party, or that people actually say directly to you that cause you turn to the person nearest you and say,

"Did he/she really SAY THAT?"

And they say yes, and then you say,

"Is it just me or should that be on a tee-shirt?" And they say, "Aw, HELL YES."

Where possible, I will try to obtain permission from the Quoter to use either their name, initials, or first and last name (but I wouldn't count on that last one, no one's agreed to that yet).

Our first quote of the week comes to us from J. S. and was said directly to me at the party:

"I'm not the slut y'all think I am."

(I don't care who you are? That's funny.)

***

On to more serious matters. I was summoned today to a certain housing agency for a lunch meeting with some Federal Officials. Let's just say next Tuesday will likely not be a "good day". (yikes!)

[Edited to add:

***

Pot Stickers at TGI Fridays? Yummy.

***

Confidential to Shauna: You're welcome to visit the chairs any time!!]

A Short Recap

I had a great weekend. It was Christa's birthday and we celebrated with Pad Thai (of course) and Karaoke Revolution for the Wii. I can't imagine that the neighbors didn't hear us drunkenly warbling into the wee (get it) hours of Sunday morning.

Wii is a little behind in the curve in the karaoke genre of games, but still, despite the fact that the game was the "American Idol" edition and didn't have as many songs to choose from as we would have liked [read: we'd like to have every top forty hit from 1950 to present available], we had a very large time that included a faux-hawk and Rockette kicks and at least one party-goer who informed me that his level of inebriation was the highest it had ever been in his entire life. That's right--he had his drunkest experience EVER right here at my house! I was understandably proud. And you thought I wasn't really accomplishing much these days. Wrong! I'm doing IMPORTANT WORK HERE, PEOPLE.

Anyway, the Wii technology is amazing, the game somehow can recognize whether or not one's singing pitch is correct. The added benefit of Paula Abdul, evil Simon Cowell, and Randy Jackson critiquing our performances was actually pretty much of a hoot. I figure Saturday night was just the beginning of what may end up being some pretty fierce competition. At the very least, I foresee a lot more drunken singing going on up in here. (Apologies to the neighborhood.)

The photo at the top of the post is of my latest retro addition to the hacienda. Those model cars were actually gifted to me--how cool is that? (Thanks unidentified gifter!) The cars live in the bay window in my kitchen.

Saturday Night

Sometimes

Sometimes, I can’t believe I’m single. That it’s over. That I made it out alive and sort of internally okay. That I don’t have to keep trying. That I don’t have to feel bad. That I don’t have to be sad. That I don’t have to cry. That I don’t have to be the tragic lonely figure at the Christmas/Thanksgiving/Fill-in-the-Blank family/friends gathering who is married but always alone anyway.

Sometimes, I wonder how he is and if he is okay now, really okay, and wonder if I was the reason he mowed our yard for four hours each week. And I remember how surprised I was when my ex-wife came for a visit, offered to mow the yard, and was done in thirty minutes without even breaking a sweat. And I asked her how she got finished so fast and she said, “Your yard is tiny, you know.” I and I was all, yes, I know, but when he mows it, he’s out there for hours and hours. And she was all, I can’t imagine what he does to the lawn for that long. And I was all, maybe he is trimming each blade of grass individually? And she was all, whatEVER [unspoken subtext: Hate it for ya, sister], and going on about her business.

Sometimes, I look at my cell phone and think about calling him and, you know, asking about the yard. And then I wonder what he will do this summer without a yard, because I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have one now.

But then I think, a phone call is sort of EXTREME isn’t it? All that dialing and talking and being vulnerable.

And so I send a card instead.

But it doesn’t mention the yard.

It just says I hope he’s okay.

Splurging

So, yesterday, I'm at TJ Maxx when I run across THE most fabulous pair of white croco embossed leather chairs. Many of you are familiar w/my B&W couch, so you know that a pair of white leather chairs (with black legs) are just the ticket for my living room.

I have up to now been using what were formerly my outdoor balcony chairs for additional seating and, while they're cute chairs, they are not comfortable (wicker flower chairs from Pier One) and once gotten into? Can be fairly difficult to get out of, especially after a few adult beverages.

I had to have many little talks with myself yesterday at the Maxx about the chairs, the state of my finances (frightening to the point of pants soiling), being responsible, the dangers of impulse buying, and why I can never seem to cut a ball on the rail into the corner pocket...

Oh, wait that last issue was a whole 'nother conversation.

Anyway, I'm having all my little internal talks and circling and stalking the chairs like a starving cheetah in the Serengeti, when I notice, high up on the back of one of the chairs, some black scratches. And bingo! That's when I knew they were mine. Because I could totally smell the damaged mark-down, baby.

Sure enough, the helpful folks on the floor knocked $50 off the price of EACH chair and ba-da-boom, before you could say ARE YOU INSANE YOU UNEMPLOYED TWIT?! I'm licking my chops and driving home with a pair of shiny new only slightly damaged chairs loaded into the back of the Subaru. Wee!

Lookie:

You really can't see the embossed croco finish in the photo, but it's there and it's, trust me, very cool. I have a thing for croco. Also, you'll note the previously discussed and voted on deviled egg dish table works surprisingly well with the new chair, even if I do say so myself. Also? The dog. Who, the minute the camera came out, made sure she was cozied up to the chair herself (but is all not looking at the camera and trying to make it look like a total coincidence).

Back? Maybe.

Hey. I'm back. I think.

I've been trying to write here for days; I have no less than three entries saved in my hard drive that I began and then couldn't finish for one reason or another. It is so easy to lose the thread of blogging when you don't do it for a while. I keep getting calls from people checking on me. They always remark that I'm not writing. Sometimes I don't know if this is a bad or good thing.

I did have the worst case of the flu that I've ever had in my life. I had fever, lost my voice, coughed, and was utterly devoid of energy for upwards of ten days. I think I'm still suffering the effects--I sleep a lot and will fall asleep any time I get too still, even now.

I don't suppose it's any wonder that I would contract such an illness considering all the upheaval in my life these last three months. No doubt, my defenses were down.

Still, I've managed to keep up a fairly brisk pace of fun when my energy level permits or when I just simply can't stand to be still any more. I've managed to brush up on my pool playing skills considerably, I got in some hiking before I went completely south with the flu, I've driven to NashVegas a few times and managed to see "Chicago" at the Carson Center.

I'm hoping to get back to blogging on my regular schedule now, but I know better than to make promises.

Because with me these days? You just never know.

Delerious

My love for fifties and sixties retro style is pretty well documented here. So, perhaps you'll understand why, in my feverish state, I've been unable to stop watching this video that I stumbled across at James Lileks' site today.


I can't really, for the life of me, understand why I am so drawn to the objects of an era that was so unabashedly Stepford Wife-ish, conservative, and sexually repressed. It is the antithesis of who I am and how I live my life. Nevertheless, I continue to covet all the home furnishings and even some of the appliances featured in the video. It's all so desperately modern.

Under the Weather

The bad news is I have the flu: coughing, aching, fever, etc.

The good news is that I am being dosed with every imaginable medication for this condition. I should be back up to speed in the not too distant future.

I miss you guys.

Any Excuse for a Photo

My friend Keena headed west just now, on her way to a brand new house and new life.

Keena also happens to be the Ex-Man's ex (stay w/me here), so this means her boys were my boys for the duration of my marriage.

Our paths all briefly crossed here today for what will likely be the last time for a very long while. And so, as trucks and cars were loaded and unloaded, out came the cameras. In homage to the Usual Suspects, rather than saying "Cheese!" we settled on repeating "Give me the f!cking keys" since we all thought our photo location was reminiscent of a police line-up.

My neighbors must be so proud.

I Wanna be a CowGirl

By popular demand (oh! twist my arm!), I'm posting a photo of the latest addition to my ever growing boot collection. I'm always a little partial to my newest pair, but, I have to say, it is taking a mighty long time for the shine to wear off of these (it's showing no signs of waning even now). I still can't believe my luck to have found them by the side of the road.

My house guest, Keena, and I managed to ride out the oft predicted Winter Storm that area meteorologists were all no doubt mightily relieved to finally welcome. For TWO WHOLE HOURS yesterday afternoon flakes fell from the sky while West Kentuckians frantically (I'm guessing) dutifully mixed, cooked and ate their french toast.

Keena and I bravely fought the elements together enjoying having shouted exchanges like these:

ME

WHERE ARE YOU GOING....OUTSIDE?!

KEENA

(Obviously about to take her dog out for a potty break.)

YES! OUTSIDE TO THE BARN TO FEED THE LIVESTOCK!

ME

YOU SHOULD STRING A ROPE FROM HERE TO THE BARN SO'S YOU KIN FIND YER WAY BACK!

KEENA

WISH ME LUCK!

I'll admit we didn't eat french toast, but boy howdy, did we ever eat. I cooked up a chicken stir-fry heavy on the fresh veggies in the wok and Keena contributed a crispy crunchy romaine salad with high-dollar Cesar dressing. We counteracted all these greens with chewy turtle cookies (caramel, chocolate chips, pecans) fresh and warm from the oven that we ate while watching Slipstream, a hallucinogenic film written and directed by Anthony Hopkins that starred everyone in the world.

It is mine and Keena's cosmic fate to have to watch these types of movies whenever we get together. She reminded me of our last visit during which we watched Inland Empire, David Lynch's schizophrenic film featuring a perpetually alarmed Laura Dern.

The good news about these types of movies is that they are largely without a plot, making it possible for us to both play on our laptops while still soaking in the cinematic weirdness.

Checking In

I am so out of touch these days. For all of you who've been concerned: I'm Okay! Really!

I miss writing here when I don't do it, but sometimes, real life takes over. At the forefront of my activities these days is my job search. Obviously, time is of the essence, and although I don't want to jinx anything, I may be headed back into the workforce very soon.

I have incredibly mixed emotions about rejoining the nine-to-five world again. One part of me feels the need for this structure and productivity and (most importantly) INCOME, but the other side wants to run into the woods with nothing but my dog and an internet connection. Okay, so let's be honest, I'd also need a generator for my blow dryer and a free standing shower. And my cell phone.

Okay, so the woodsy thing is a bad analogy.

As it is, I'm spending a lot of time just plain old unplugged, often with a beer in one hand and a pool cue in another. I've cut my hair (traditional bob that is very short in the back). I found some really cool cowboy boots by the side of the road that just happen to be my size. I'm obsessed with wearing them everywhere.

A generous reader of this blog made it possible for me to finally experience a few Lush products first hand and from what I can tell, it's all as good as it looks. Most notably, I've happened upon their Big shampoo. If you have fine, limp hair? You owe yourself a jar of Big. Trust me. I'm only slightly less obsessed with Herbalism, a facial cleanser I received as a sample. It's a little like washing your face with gritty guacamole with extra herbs, but the results are yummy, smoother skin that's not the least bit sting-y or irritated (quite a feat when you're as sensitive as I am).

During the glorious weather we enjoyed last weekend, I took a little trip with FurGirl to Giant City State park where we hiked a trail and spent time perched lazily on a high, smooth rock contemplating nature. I've said it before and I'll say it again, there are places in the Shawnee Forest that will make you swear you can't possibly be in Illinois and Giant City is one of them. The topography there is as far removed from flat, symmetrical rows of crops--what I at least associate with Illinois--as you can possibly get short of an actual mountain range.

After the hike, we came home by way of Carbondale in order to make a stop at the Neighborhood Co-op Grocery, the closest thing we have to a whole foods store in the region (as far as I know). I browsed through their collection of essential oils, tinctures, and herbs, all of which made me contemplate possible new Bizzy Fizzy scents and ingredients.

I took another side trip earlier this week to Murray, Kentucky to visit Jasmine, a Thai/Sushi restaurant that I keep hearing buzz about. Located in a strip mall on 12th Street, Jasmine definitely has the more upscale Asian look going on and the clientele was surprisingly, happily without the WestKY vibe I sometimes dread (probably due in large part to the college).

It was a lunch visit, but I nevertheless ordered up a big pile of food including Pad Thai, Tom Ka soup, and a shared sushi appetizer. I'm sorry to report that I found the Pad Thai so drowned in an overly sweet sauce (and nearly devoid of any other ingredients) that it was nearly inedible. The sushi, however, was perfectly acceptable and the soup...THE SOUP! Heavenly. I had only ordered a small bowl, but found it so delicious and perfectly flavored with lime juice and real live galangal root and lime leaves that I would have been more than content to have only ordered that and a huge bowl of it. Next time? I will order just that and be grateful it is to be found a mere 45 minutes from my front door.

After lunch, I took a drive down Olive Street in search of a little music store I used to frequent back in the eighties called Terrapin Station. I didn't have much hope of finding it, since it had been so many years since I'd visited. Back in those days, the shop was a comfortable groovy sort of out-of-the-way place in a little house in an older residential neighborhood. You could trade albums or cassettes and browse their eclectic collection in a fog of incense smoke.

And in fact, just as I suspected, Terrapin Station was no longer to be found on Olive Street. I was disappointed, but not surprised, and so I decided to just take a leisurely drive around town, maybe find a book store.

I made a few lazy turns in my usual disconnected reverie and was driving down a busier road when I noticed an older strip mall to my right that I turned into on impulse. I drove past a few stores and was contemplating my next move when I looked up to find myself directly in front of ...Terrapin Station (noise) in what turned out to be their new location which I've now learned is 920 S. 12th in the Bel-Air Shopping Center.

I sound calm about it now, but I assure you at the time, I was so surprised to have unknowingly driven directly from Olive Street to the new location utterly by accident that I nearly shat myself. After I got a hold of myself, I parked in the conveniently available FRONT ROW parking space the cosmos had clearly reserved for me directly in front of the store, and strolled in.

The new location is obviously larger and more commercial than the old, but the vibe was comfortingly the same: something Grateful Dead-ish drifting from the sound system, incense wafting from the back room, and a new staff of hemp clad hippies greeted me from the cash register.

Although they do still offer some record albums for sale, the Terrapin Station now trades primarily in CD's both new and used. Of course, they do sell tie-dyed tee-shirts and now offer a line of cool cloth purses made entirely of recycled materials and a small but astute collection of high quality new and used books. LOVE! I picked up a William Burroughs novel in honor of the occasion.

Otherwise, we are all here in Western Kentucky currently hunkered down in our homes trembling with fear that snowflakes MAY FALL from the sky AT ANY MOMENT. (Please note: they haven't yet despite dire predictions that the blizzard should have begun last night.) Nevertheless! Residents of the area are observing the law of the predicted snowstorm and continue to scour the shelves of local grocery stores in search of french toast ingredients: milk, eggs, bread in the Great Tradition. Don't ask me why. It would seem more reasonable to me to lay up a supply of nonperishable food items in case we are socked in until spring.

But hey! What do I know?

Knowing Me, Knowing You

For a very wide variety of reasons, this video kills me.