Design Fever

I spent the weekend in a shopping and decorating lather. The wooden retro shelf pictured here was bought for a song from from the local Surplus City. What do I consider a song? FIVE dollars in this case. (Take that Decor Direct Girl!) It was the last of its kind in the store and the display sample to boot. I could hardly believe my luck.

Looking at that photo really kicks up my OCD, because it looks a little out of kilter. The crookedness is caused entirely by the way I was holding the camera though, it's actually totally level and currently sitting atop my stereo speaker although I have plans to wall mount it soon. I had to merchandise it (Christopher Lloyd) before I could assign it a permanent space on the wall.

My second find was this groovy retro-style night stand:

I'm using it as a coffee table and I'm thrilled with the way it blends stylistically with The Couch, not to mention the additional storage space the two large deep drawers add to my living room situation. FINALLY a place for my remote controls (they currently number four). Total price? Thirty-five dollars, also at Surplus City.

Having spent most of the weekend in the design mode, you can only imagine my shock to learn a mere hour ago that the premiere episode of Season 3 of HGTV's design star was TONIGHT. But for an extremely luckily-timed perusal of the guide, I wouldn't have seen it at ALL. Fortunately, I caught the show only five minutes in. (Whew.) The whole season looks to have been filmed in, of all places, NashVegas, practically right in my own ding dang back YARD.

HOW, I ask you, oh how did I not know this? I'm slippin', that's for sure. This whole having a job thing is seriously cutting into the online reindeer games. (Not that I'm complaining. I really do love my job.)

Obviously, I will likely not spend as much time recapping the show this summer as I did last. But, still, Season 3 looks at least as promising a Seasons 1 and 2 AND the first challenge looks pretty amazing.

The contestants (nine of them) were given a budget $100,000 and what looks to be a pile of lumber and a some army cots and sleeping bags. Their assignment? Build the design headquarters in which they will be living for the remainder of the competition. Yah. Good one. Mean time, the design star wanna-be's will be sleeping al fresco at the construction site until the structure is complete. Time limit for the challenge? One week. I can't even imagine.

If you missed tonight's episode, you can easily catch up here , meet all the contestants and view their audition videos. My preliminary favorite is Matt Locke, a thirty-eight-year-old from Colorado who blew the judges away with his elaborately engineered design board. But, as we know, there's no telling how the whole thing will end up. Tune in next Sunday on HGTV at 8:00PM CST.

Speaking of design competitions, I'm actually switching from Com-shaft Cable to DirecTV in order to finally be able to experience Season 5 of Project Runway on my very own couch. Although I'm finding it very difficult to find any info on the upcoming season, I do understand that episode one will air sometime in July, so for once, no more waiting around for the DVD's to be issued...woohoo!

I have managed to find some rather strange, even sometimes cryptic videos from a Latin designer who may or may not have been cast in Season 5. I suppose it could be a hoax. You can see the shortest video here.

C25K

I've been reading Carrie's journal since, I don't know, before her oldest child was born. I think he's seven now. Man. That's just freaky, isn't it? I don't remember how I stumbled upon the site. And, honestly, I don't know what keeps me going back. Don't get me wrong, Carrie is a fine writer, but in the end I have very little in common with her. Carrie is younger than me, more conservative, and a stay-at-home Mom. It's funny how you can get drawn into someone's life, isn't it? One compelling entry and seven years later there you still are. Or there I still I am anyway.

Carrie has given birth to two little boys in the last seven years and, in the process, like many of us, put on some weight. For the last year, she's been committed to a faithful diet and exercise regime and, as of now, has lost a total of 100 pounds.

You can experience her transformation and see her before and after and some in-between pictures at her photo set here. Be sure and observe the last photo in the set. I'm not sure you could tell she's the same person if you compare her today to some of her pre-weight loss photos.

Carrie's entre to the running world, like that many others, was the Couch to 5K Program. If you've been living under a rock and never heard of it, Couch to 5K or C25K, is an extremely gradual progression of jogging/walking work-outs designed to take even the most inactive of couch potatoes to a place where they can complete a 5K run in eight weeks.

I've been flirting with the idea of comitting myself to C25K for quite some time. As I told my girlfriend when we are at the theater to see SATC, "I've been thinking about that Couch to 5K Program..." And, when my friend looked at me expectantly, I finished, "...I think I'll just keep thinking about it."

It was good for a laugh.

But seeing Carrie's photos tonight, and knowing how much self-discipline and determination it's taken her to buckle down and lose a hundred pounds, makes me feel guilty. Guilty about the extra measly twenty pounds I've been gaining and losing and, often, ignoring since I quit smoking seven years ago.

So, yah, I am now beginning to think seriously about giving the program a try. It just might be time for me to take a big girl pill. In order to become a smaller (healthier) girl again.

Don't expect any unflattering let-it-all-hang-out photo sets out of me.

But I'll keep you posted.

egOprah

I'll just go ahead and confess right now that I got my toes done yesterday.

Not only that? I got my toes done before vacation too.

The truth is that I'll probably get my toes done again this summer. And I'll keep getting them done until the weather turns too chilly for open-toed shoes.

Not that I can afford it or anything.

I'm a recent convert to the pedicure. Recent as in the last couple of years or so. The truth is, crazy as it sounds, I used to think that sitting in a throne-like chair and thrusting your feet into the face of a stranger and paying them to massage your feet and clip and paint your toenails was just all...a little too much, you know? It just seemed so bourgeois and a little icky.

And it seemed that way right up until I sat in a throne like chair and thrust my feet into the face of a stranger and they massaged my feet and shaped and painted my toenails. After that I was all,

"AHHHH SWEET MYSTERY OF LIFE AT LAST I'VE FOUND YOOOOOUUUU! AT LAST I KNOW THE MEANING...."

You get my drift. I know of no other beauty process that is quite so enjoyable. I mean, getting your hair cut and styled makes you feel a whole lot better in the end, but the process is kind of boring and annoying and sometimes even painful. An eyebrow wax? Please.

But a pedicure? It's all pleasurable and soothing and relaxing and in the end? REALLY cute soft, sexy feet. Not to mention greatly expanded shoe options: peep-toes, flat sandals, strappy high heeled sandals, even bare feet look snazzy when your toes are "done".

And, yah, I could do it myself and, yah, they'd look just as cute but. A girl just has to reward herself sometimes, doesn't she? And even if I do get arrested for accidentally writing a bad check to the pedicurist, I ask you, how cute will my feet look in those prison flip-flops?

[Note to self: Call the ex-man and tearfully suggest he subsidize Pedicure Recovery Program in order to help restore my shattered self-esteem and quash my extreme loneliness since the big D. All of which is, as he well knows, totally his fault. It could happen.]

Okay where was i? Oh, right, The pedicure. Which isn't, if you can believe it by now, not actually my point.

My point is this. Ever since I've been getting pedicures, I've noticed next to every pedicure throne is, among other publications, a copy of Oprah Winfrey's "O, the Oprah Magazine" placed conveniently on the side table for my reading pleasure. And the first time, I was all like, "Hey! That's Oprah! Oh...it's her magazine!" and then I read it nearly cover to cover while getting my pedicure and it was all good.

Next pedicure? Same thing. At first I was, "Oh, darn, it's the same magazine. With Oprah on the cover. Again." Still, I picked it up thinking there may have been an article or two I missed last time around only to realize...no. This is a whole new issue. With Oprah on the cover. Again.

The third time? I was prepared. And beginning to grasp the truth. Which is that Oprah is on. The Cover of. Every. Single. Issue. Of her magazine.

How long has this been going on? Well, there's this year. And last year. And the year before that. And the year before that. And, don't get me wrong. I like Oprah. Girlfriend is nothing short of a phenomenon and she has, through her book club, almost single-handedly resurrected the ancient past time of actual READING OF BOOKS for legions of people who never would have considered it otherwise. Her charity work is amazing. And her show still often manages to be interesting even if she is sort of turning into a caricature of herself ("Everybodygetsacar! Everybodygetsacar!").

But every issue? EVERY issue? For EIGHT YEARS?

Not even Martha Stewart currently feels or has felt the need for that kind of monotonous one-note overexposure. Does Oprah really think that if she relinquishes a cover that people will forget it's her magazine? Or that they might forget what she looks like?

Not likely on either count.

No, I'd go so far as to say that even if Oprah never appeared on another cover of "O the Oprah Magazine" people would still be pretty clear the "O the Oprah Magazine" is a magazine belonging to Oprah. With an O.

So, Oprah, if you're reading? And, like everybody else, I'm sure you are, it's okay. You can step off the cover now, okay? We see you, we know you're out there! Yes we do! We're aware it's your magazine, too! Really.

Maybe you could offer your bestest, goodest girlfriend, Gail, with whom you invented the Life-Changing Girlfriend Road Trip and then proceeded to ram the whole experience down our throats as if nobody had never taken or considered a Girlfriend Road Trip, a cover. As, you know. A Life-Changing Girlfriend Gift!

But however you have do it, Oprah, do it soon. Because enough is enough, already.

(Maybe you could reallocate all the time necessary for hair and make-up for a cover shoot for a nice, relaxing pedicure. I'm just sayin'.)

Bill Strikes Back

On the heels of the Todd Purdom piece in July's Vanity Fair that I linked to a few days ago, the Clinton Camp issues a bit of a defensive response. Seems they're taking it personal-like. Get the scoop at Ben Smith's Blog.

SATC: The Review

Somebody (thank you!) reminded me that I sorta dropped the ball on the big Sex and the City premiere this weekend. I did hit the theater on Friday night, as promised, sans hat (of any kind), and having indulged in a fruity girl drink (but just one--no more riding around toting open beers and half drunk margaritas in my bicycle basket. damnit. i miss u key west!).

I'm happy to report that the theater was packed to the brim with scads of girlfriends half of whom were saving seats with their big purses for their girlfriends yet to arrive (or in the girls room). SUCH a girl thing. (Does a guy ever save a seat for another guy? No. And...even if he wanted to? What would he use? His wallet? I think not. Please make me stop with the parentheses.)

Anyway, the movie. Was...okay. The quality and content was for the most part on a par with the TV show. At times, not so much, but it has to be a bit harder, after all, to write witty repartee to fill two plus hours as opposed to thirty minutes. And anyway, nothing was going to live up to the hype. Unless SJP were to, I don't know, actually shit a Manolo Blahnick in the middle of 5th Avenue. Which...not to spoil it for you, but that doesn't happen in the film.

It was wonderful to see all the girls back together again and fun to be among a large crowd of enthusiastic women (and about three gay guys) who spontaneously cheered and applauded upon seeing the opening credits. The clothes were mostly divine and I don't think it's a spoiler to say there are positively scrumptious wedding dresses featured from the world's top designers. At the center of the story are some watered silk royal blue Manolo pumps with jewel encrusted buckles that are. To. Die. For. I'm beginning to tear up at the memory of them.

On the other hand? Also prominently featured was the dreaded gladiator sandal. God, what is WRONG with people? I don't care what anybody says, this is a dreadful fashion trend and not, in my opinion, flattering on the spindliest of gams. These shoes nearly made SJP's spaghetti noodle legs look beefy and you know that's saying something.

If you're not sure what shoe I refer to, here's a sample:

Gag me. Seriously.

It brings to mind my violent aversion to the El Camino...thing back in the day. I mean...was it a car or a truck?

In the case of the gladiator...is it a boot or a sandal? A soot or a bandal? It looks as though it USED to be a boot or a sandal. Before the nuclear holocaust. But now? Now it's something in between. Something horribly wrong. It's a new strain of mutant shoe. And, God help us, it seems to be spreading.

But I digress. Overall, I recommend the Sex and the City the movie just for the sheer fun of it because we all need a heapin' helpin' of over-the-top fashion (with the exception of the GS) and sex now and then. I mean, you gotta go, right?

But have a cosmopolitan or some-such fruity drink with your girlfriend(s) before the show and buy your ticket online ahead of time so you won't be rushed. Then you can snicker at all the poor sods in line like we did.

[Editors note: More spacing issues at the beginning of this post. ARGH! Damn you blogger double-space glitch! Damn you to hell!]

What's Up with Bill Clinton

Do NOT miss reading this fascinating piece on Bill Clinton by Todd Purdom in the July issue of Vanity Fair. "The Comeback Id" takes a look at Clinton's jet setting lifestyle, his health, his philanthropic work, his post-presidential financial dealings, and his sometimes volatile outbursts on the campaign trail stumping for his wife. Love him or hate him, (and I fall firmly into the love category), Clinton is one fascinating character. Read the piece right here.

That's Amore

So, two weddings in one day today. That's a lot of slinging around of terms like "forever" and "true love' and "commitment" for two divorced girls to bear on a hot summer day.

Eventually, with all the wild optimism whizzing around in the air, we got to feeling a little faint.

Fortunately, we have our medication to revive us.

Whew.

Pampering Herself?

Despite the fact that the Amy Winehouse CD "Back to Black" won a record six Grammys at the 2006 awards show, I didn't discover the wonder until just recently.

In my typical way-behind-the-curve fashion, two years later, I'm all, "Like, ohmygod! Amy Winehouse is, like, totally bitchin'!" It's sad really. "Back to Black" has been playing in my car stereo for weeks now and I haven't been this enamored of a CD since my love affair with "Leonard Cohen: I'm Your Man". I love it. LOVE IT.

Musical talent aside, however, poor Amy seems to have officially taken over the title of World's Biggest Female Celebrity Trainwreck (WBFCT). There are literally countless videos of her all over the internet showing her drunk, disoriented and belligerent, railing against the press and just...who or what ever. One of the more famous of these shows her at a concert engaging in what for all the world looks like a bit of a cocaine snort during a song. Her song. That she's supposed to be singing. On the stage.

Girlfriend really DOESN'T want to go to rehab.

Amy's been in jail. Her husband's been in jail. Her in-laws took to the BBC airwaves to plead with the public not to continue to buy her music. In the hope that the resulting lack of cash flow would interrupt the flow of drugs into her brain.

Most recently, Amy has been photographed wearing what the press speculates is a diaper beneath a flowered mini-dress. I really can't tell what it is. Heck, you be the judge. If you ask me, that could just be a bunched up slip and some panties.

Regardless, I'm just glad Amy has something between her crotch and the paparazzi. Because if she didn't? You know the whole entire world would be subjected to an angle of Amy (ala Lindsay, Britney, Paris, and Beyonce) that only her husband and and her Area Doctor should reasonably be expected to endure.

So, really, shouldn't poor Amy be given a little credit here? Disoriented and incoherent as she is, there is obviously still some small, sane corner of her brain reminding her to keep her lady business covered. Even if she is using a diaper to do it.

***

Amy may just have some up and coming competition for the WBCFT title. In the unlikely person of Kirsten Dunst who seems to be looking a little marginal these days.

***

Lastly, it is my sad duty to (once again) update you on the current state of Alanis Morissette:

Get the full fug right here.

Girls Night Out!

It's been over-hyped, overblown, over anticipated, over advertised and most importantly....

...overDRESSED in The Hat for Which There Is No Excuse even if you are SJP, but still. Doncha kinda want to see it the first night?

I do.

If you want to go, call me. We won't be wearing hats. Promise.

The Festival Widget

BubbleShare: Share photos - Powered by BubbleShare
Please bear with me here on the whole photo thing. You know how obsessive I am when I get started on something. I am, apparently, the last person in the world to figure out these sharing/scrolling photo slide show widget thingies. I had hoped to be able to embed music with the scroll but this process is evidently more difficult with a PC than a Mac (e-mail me if you know of an easy way to do this).

Still, I'm happy to have gotten this far and not to have gone insane (I took well over 1,000 photos) figuring which photos to add and how to arrange them. It is these types of questions that threaten the sanity of over-thinking obsessive/compulsive types like myself. I could spend, literally, days on this stuff; I have already spent much of today and the bulk of tonight on it. For now I've managed, through Herculean effort, to winnow it down to a lean mean 84 photos.

Yep, I'm tired.

The slide show is yet another compilation of (how did you guess?) festival photos. Most of the shots I posted previously are included and then some. I won't take it personally if you click the heck on out of here. For now, I just want to get this uploaded and see how the posted slide show looks. Thanks for your patience.

I promise my next post will be primarily literary (and I use that term loosely) as opposed to photographic.

I think.

Neat-o

Tired as I am, I couldn't go off to bed without sharing a photo of the coolest bracelet EVER (and I may have said that before but this time I really mean it) that I got at the Lowertown Festival tonight. It spells "writer" in antique typewriter keys. These particular keys are from a Smith-Corona. LOVE! And also pictured there are...matching earrings! LOVE! One earring is an "S" key and one a "Back Space" key. Back Space! Ha! The whole set makes me goofy with happiness.

They had other bracelets in keys that said stuff like "artist" and "hooker" (like a rug hooker, but damn, how fun is that?) and "I Love You". And earring keys like "Margin Release".

It's irresistible stuff I tell you.

If you have to have some for yourself (and I think you do), the Festival runs until Sunday at 4:00 p.m. Come on down.

Covering Ted

Since Senator Ted Kennedy's seizure on Saturday and subsequent diagnosis with a malignant brain tumor, the media has expressed shock, sorrow, hopelessness and now, lacking anything more to say about the situation, has seen fit to just go on and eulogize the man. While he's out sailing in his sailboat.

It is but the latest example, in my opinion, of just what's wrong with today's 24-hour-a-day, seven-days-a-week endless talking head coverage on channels like CNN, CNBC and others. The never ending need for stories, whether they are newsworthy or not, has pushed the definition of "news" into a whole new realm. Now not only is the story the story, but also what someone THINKS about the story is news and what MIGHT happen is news and what will LIKELY happen is news. Even how everyone FEELS passes for news these days.

Many of the print stories are accompanied by pieces quoting this or that doctor painting a bleak picture of Kennedy's chances. The statistic I read most is that "half" of all patients with conditions similar to Kennedy's die within a year of treatment.

I'm not very good at math, but doesn't this mean Kennedy is just as likely as not to live another year? Maybe longer. The only thing Kennedy himself has said is that he is "optimistic".

In one CNBC "news" interview Brian Williams lauded Kennedy as the "nucleus of the American family" and speculated for a good five minutes on how the Kennedy family must be feeling right now. (Duh.) All of this chatting was accompanied by a large red graphic at the bottom of the screen that silently screeched "Breaking News". The whole discussion was called a "report".

And, you know, I'm sorry but the last time I checked? A breaking news report should be something more than idle speculation about how someone may feel. What I've just described here is a talk show, not news.

I count at least ten similar reports at CNBC alone, some of them speculating on possible treatment and outcomes, many of them reporting what other people said about the situation. They are calling Kennedy an "icon", and "the Senate's last lion" (McCain) and legislators are apparently openly weeping on the Senate floor.

Is it just me or does all this smack of "already dead" as opposed to "newly diagnosed"?

According to his wife, the optimistic Senator Kennedy himself is hoping to participate in an annual sailing race this weekend off Cape Cod. And I for one hope he does. Anything to keep him away from endlessly grim, unnecessary and downright inappropriate speculation of what passes for "the press" these days.

Obviously, Kennedy is a a well loved and important figure in American politics. And this is not a good diagnosis. Still, does he not deserve a chance to live until he dies? To hope until he can't? Can we not show the man a little respect in what may or may not be the twilight of his life?

I would encourage the maudlin media, the pre-eulogizing politicians and the sobbing Senators to put on their big boy or girl panties and have a little respect for a man they all profess to love and admire so much.

And shut the hell up already.

(Because I'm sure they're all reading.)

What to do this weekend...

Learn more here and listen to an artist that I am looking forward to, Robinella, here. Hear the Ivas John Band here. The festival will be, literally, twice the size it was last year--don't miss it.

Chelsea Lately

Am I the only one around here with a raging girl crush on Chelsea Handler star of the E! show Chelsea Lately? The show, that airs weeknights at 10:30 PM, and which I have for some reason just now discovered, features comedienne Chelsea Handler and an interesting variety guests commenting on and sending up entertainment news of the day. It has become my new Johnny Carson. If, that is, Johnny was a cute, blond, funny and fabulous girl. Instead of Ed McMahon, Chelsea has Chuy, her pint-sized Latin sidekick.

Best of all, Chelsea doesn't mind making fun of herself. Here, she reenacts a recent unfortunate experience she had while taking Ambien sleep medication. (Gee. Where have we heard THAT before?)




Disclaimer: Normally? Chelsea is a really snappy dresser. No idea what's going on with that trainwreck of a dress she's wearing in the monologue. Must have been one of Those Days.

Chelsea's latest book: Are You There Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea hit the top of the New York Times bestseller list earlier this month.

Credit Where Credit is Due

When I found an envelope in my mailbox with a Jackson Purchase Electric return address yesterday, I tossed it in my purse knowing it must surely be the very first electric bill I would have to pay all by myself in, well, a long while. As you can imagine, I was in no hurry to find out the bad news.

So, how surprised was I this afternoon when, instead of a bill, I pulled a check from that envelope? A check for $75. Made out to me. A refund of the reconnect fee I vented about in this very blog because of my strong (to say the least) belief that I was unfairly charged. I'll admit I sent their customer service department a link to that rather heated May 1st post.

So, thanks Jackson Purchase customer service, for righting a wrong that was both financially and practically especially painful for me to bear.

(And never under estimate the power of the Blog.)

A Key West Memory

I took this photo from the plane (and, yes, any time I think or write the phrase "the plane" Herve Villechaize comes shreiking out of a dark corner of my brain in his white Tattoo tux squeaking "De plane, boss, de plane!") during the scenic flight to the Dry Tortugas. I alluded to seeing this place in my earlier post, but thought you might like to see a photo. Of some lucky someone's very own private island.

And I think getting a massage is decadent.

(The photo is clickable for a larger version.)

Go Ahead On

Read something good today.

Cloverfield, etc.

With everything going on in my life these days, a few of my old habits have fallen by the wayside. Like the management of my Netflix queue. Gone are the times when queue updating and careful orchestration was an important near daily task (and I do miss it).

Still, I manage to sandwich in a flick now and then and, most recently, that movie was Cloverfield. It's a film I had really high hopes for, being as I am one of those people who is always hoping to actually be scared sh!tless by a movie. It doesn't happen very often.

Horror is the most difficult of genres; a half-step this way or that quickly lands a filmmaker in the realm of the ridiculous. Horror is, I think, mostly the art of subtlety usually coupled with a big ol' slap in the face now and then. And I doubt today's ham-handed movie makers can even spell subtle much less accomplish it on film or really grasp the concept. (I'm talking Hollywood here, not the Indies which is where, if we have any, all our hope lies.)

So, anyway, Cloverfield, as it turns out, is basically Blair Witch Project meets Godzilla but with better special effects. It's worth seeing for a few cheap thrills, but there's definitely nothing new here. And the dialogue...oy. Let me give you a sample of roughly seventy-five percent of it:

"Rob...Rob! Oh my God, Rob! Rob! No...no, Rob! Come back Rob! Rob! That's an electronics store...Rob! Rob! What are you doing, Rob?! Rob! ROB! We can't go that way, Rob! ROB! COME BACK! NO! OHMYGOD! ROB! ROOOOOB!..."

Yes, people, Rob is a very busy guy. Obviously they were going for realism here, but gah, stop it. On the bright side, the movie could be useful as a frat party game--everyone drinks when they hear "Rob". Anyone conscious after the first third of the film wins. (Does anyone besides me remember the "The Bob Newhart Show" drinking game? Man. How long ago was that?).

If you're wondering what horror films I DO consider great (and you are, aren't you?), I'll give you my top ten. As of today (because these things are constantly in flux) in no particular order:

Jaws
Psycho
The Ring
The Exorcist
The Mothman Prophecies
Rosemary's Baby
The Omen
Alien
Poltergeist
The Shining

Other recent films I've taken in include Dan in Real Life, a uneven romantic comedy that aspires to the heights of Cousins, but barely makes it passed Hallmark movie status. I'm not sure what is going on with Juliette Binoche in this one, she is usually a fairly reliable sentimental favorite of mine since her unforgettable breakthrough performance in Damage, holy CRAP, was that ever intense. Anyway, she is a little lost in this movie performance-wise, but seems to have undergone a bit of an overhaul appearance-wise. A nip here and tuck there were in evidence along with a general slimming down.

I saw Twenty Seven Dresses on the plane back from Key West and it was absolute trite, predictable crap. With one small exception: they had the good sense to include a tune from my girl Regina Spektor in the soundtrack (Fidelity).

In conclusion: rent Cloverfield for the special effects but don't expect innovation, pass on Dan in Real Life and 27 Dresses.

If you want to see something really interesting, rent my sidebar recommendation, Can Mr. Smith Get to Washington Anymore? a film about a young, smart, but unlikely candidate for the US House of Representatives from Missouri named Jeff Smith. Smith ran against Russ Carnahan, a candidate with a huge amount of name recognition. The film is a fascinating look at the political process in this country today and what it takes to win.

Honey...I'm home!

I did it. I went back to work on Thursday. And they didn't send me home and I stayed all day and worked and then did it again today.

You know I have a strict no-mixing-the-blog-with-work policy, but I think it's okay if I say that it was a pretty darn wonderful two days of working. While the position I hold now is new to me, the work place and the majority of my co-workers are not. They are people I've worked with before and have known, in some cases, for nearly twenty years. It is really a joy to be around and work with people that I also consider to be great friends. I am lucky, indeed, to have managed such a happy re-entry into the working world.

Mid-morning of my second day on the job, these arrived:

A little gift from the ex-man to wish me well.

And, yes, it made me sad. But happy too. It made me think that maybe? Everything's going to be all right.

Snow Day

I arose this morning for the first time in a long time to the sound of an early morning alarm. I was a little relieved to know I could still do it, actually. After a long hot shower and unusually (for me these days) long make-up session, I got gussied up in something relatively professional, stepped into the pumps I dug out after a frantic last-minute closet reorganization the evening before (I hadn't seen my work clothes in nearly a year), and made the drive to work.

Yes, Work.

There I learned that, due to a mislaid letter and other miscommunications, I wasn't actually supposed to start until...tomorrow.

Woohoo! A last minute reprieve.

I hopped back in my car, cranked my Regina Spektor CD (my obsession w/track six continues), and considered how I would spend my little windfall of eight extra hours as I drove home. Ultimately, I concluded that a quiet day (it's rainy after all) of blogging and reading would be in order.

So, here I am back on my couch with my laptop and it's not even 9:00 a.m. Life is good.

As noted in my sidebar, my book du jour is Almost There Journey of a Dublin Woman by Nuala O'Faolain. After reading this post and then this heartbreaking article, I impulse bought the memoir from the Amazon Marketplace. I learned only after I received the book and began reading that it is actually the second installment in a two-book series of memoirs, the first being Are You Somebody.

In any case, I will definitely be reading both, Nuala is a wildly talented writer. Or I should say was a wildly talented writer. She died May 9th, so the book is an especially bittersweet read. It's maybe just the thing to remind me to rejoice in the life that I have left, that we all have left. As I continue my own journey with a new job.

Tomorrow.

Another Butterfly

Vacation Wrap-Up

I fell woefully behind in keeping you updated on my vacation activities. In the end, there was just too much going on, too much fun and merriment, and too much to be taken in to be able to write about it as it happened.

We ended the vacation with a big trip via sea plane to The Dry Tortugas, the pictures of which I posted in the previous post without text so the images would all be clickable for larger versions. The Tortuga's are a chain of seven islands located in the Gulf of Mexico 70 miles from Key West. The largest island, and the one we visited, is actually the most remote national park in the US, accessible only by boat or sea plane. The US government began construction of a military fort on the island in the 1840's hauling millions of bricks via ship to the location. As you can see from the aerial photo I took, the fort is shaped much like the pentagon and is surrounded on all sides by a brick sea wall that forms a moat.

For some reason, construction of the fort was abandoned and the incomplete fort was then used to house Civil War POW's (in the 1860's) and then later, as a regular prison eventually becoming the national park and bird sanctuary it is today.

The flight out to the island was a scenic one, only 500 feet above the ocean and 40 minutes in duration. Lou, our pilot, pointed out and flew even lower over various locations of interest like a private island and several of Mel Fisher's multi-million dollar shipwreck finds which I dutifully snapped photos of (I'd post the shipwreck photos, but they only look like shadows in the water).

Looking through the viewfinder eventually made me very nauseous prone as I am to motion sickness in the first place. I had to spend the remaining 20 minutes of the flight like a dog with my nose pressed as close to the tiny window air vent as possible and praying my roiling stomach (full of my usual lunch time margarita--what was I THINKING?) wouldn't get the best of me. Fortunately for everyone, it didn't.

Landing on the water went surprisingly well and, once I slogged on to the beach after gratefully scrambling out of the plane, my sickness was quickly forgotten. Because, oh my goodness. It was just like Gilligan's Island. If there had been a fort there. We headed for the visitor center and watched a short video about the history of the island and then headed to the snorkeling beach.

My companion, a snorkeling enthusiast, had packed gear to do that with and at the airport, the sea plane people asked me if I needed any. Although I told them no, they packed me some on the plane anyway. And once standing on the completely unspoiled and near empty white sand beach (also pictured in the previous post) and gazing into the crystal clear water under a gorgeous azure sky, I knew I'd be insane not to at least give snorkeling a try.

Why would I be so afraid of snorkeling you ask? That would be nearly 100% attributable to an unforgettable viewing of this at a VERY impressionable age (age three if you're wondering). I've never as much as contemplated sticking even a toe in the ocean without the soundtrack going off in an endless terrifying loop in my head. Plus? How many tragic ocean stories have you read that began, "While snorkeling off the coast of --fill in the blank--a terrified couple were attacked by a--shark/man eating squid/rabid alligator/two-headed sea monster/web footed lava lizard/whatever terrifying creature you can think of--". You know. That sort of thing.

Still...I was in a tropical paradise (I told myself). So, I took a big girl pill and agreed to give it a try. Once suited up (and can I say again? thank GOD I got contacts) with my flippers and mask and inflatable vest I felt as though all I was missing was a large flashing sign across my ass reading "SHARK DINNER". Nevertheless, I bravely flopped across the beach and into the water where, the first time the water got up to my neck I hysterically screamed "HELP!" through my snorkel tube. Like, maybe three times. Or ten.

I was instructed to just put my face in the water. Many times. And then? I just did it. I put my face in the water. And I was completely weightless and all I could hear was the sound of my own breath in my ears and all I could feel was the cool ocean water against my skin and the sun on my back and everything before my eyes looked just like an aquarium. Only the aquarium was endless and everywhere. There was coral and shells and fish. I kicked a flipper and glided across the water double quick.

And just like that? I was hooked.

We snorkeled for maybe a quarter of a mile around the island. It was magical and amazing and I only was scared once, when a lone guy who had walked out on the moat wall to fish shouted out and told us there was a five-foot barracuda swimming near where he was standing (maybe 15 feet from where I was). I responded by shouting back, "Don't say the b-word, okay? Just don't say it!" And we swam on and I never saw a barracuda. Just small friendly-sized fish (I know one kind was a parrot fish) that dart around coral like you see in salt water aquariums and such. We probably snorkeled for an hour and a half, but I could have stayed in much longer.

By the time we emerged, we didn't have much time left before the plane was to leave, and we spent it walking out on the sea wall which is when I got the shot of the sea turtle you can see in my picture post. I actually have about eight great shots of him every bit as good as the one I posted thanks to my trusty camera.

Those who know me and the fact that I have skin that generally stays fish-belly white year-round, are likely wondering if I fried in the tropical sun to a deep shade of lobster red. And the answer to that is I WOULD have, were it not for Neutrogena's latest sun block which now is up to an amazing SPF of SEVENTY. Yes, SPF 70 for fair, vampire-ish maidens such as myself. I am burnt in places that I missed with the screen and am otherwise mostly just tanned. Yes! Tanned! Simply amazing.

I actually did lots more on my trip that I could write about, but I feel the moment has passed. Suffice it to say I had a wonderful, incredible time and I can't think of a better way to end up my hiatus from work.

Onward.

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.