Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Oopsie, it's been 3 weeks since I posted anything. Well, I have a perfectly good explanation. I've been summering. And if you're reading this in Australia, sorry 'bout it. But just remember that when we're sawing trees after an ice storm, you're bronzing your perfect little bodies on the beach. So, I think that's fair. Anyway, summer has hit KY full force which means every single meal is barbequed, the water bill is sky-high after days of Slip-n-Slide tournaments and there is a kind of humdity-induced malaise that falls over everyone. And I've been in Florida. Jacksonville to be exact. Unfortunately, having just returned from the war and all, Neal was not able to make the drive with me (which is even more unfortunate because I was coerced into driving my 1996 coolant-sucking, hose-detiorating Mustang convertible 12 hours south. My nieces...they know what they want and apparently what they wanted more than anything was to ride in a car "topless". Way to train 'em up, sis!).
So, the journey began...albeit about an hour and a half late which is actually early for me. I had packed turkey sandwiches and chips and cookies and soft drinks and was only going to stop the car for petro and pee stops. Or, as it turns out, if the coolant needle continues to edge toward "high" as I race down I-whatever (this is why I have GPS. No geographical knowledge needed). Needles moving on my car are never a sign of happy times to come. It generally means a 4-hour wait in a Sears lobby while my credit card sighs heavily. So, I stopped at a gas station just inside the Georgia line. I popped the hood and had been checking fluids for no more than 20 seconds when a truck full of boys (and yes, I mean boys) pulled up to see if they could help. Yeah, mister...I watch Dateline and 24 Hours...I think I'll be fine, thank you very much. I do not need you to help me with my coolant levels OR my panties. And this is all probaby complicated by the fact that I am talking to Dad on my bluetooth which is in the other ear. So to the boys it looks like I am easy Crazy-Bait, just waiting to be kidnapped and rode hard all the way to the Mexican border. Anyway, they finally drove away after I showed them what she says (she says "NO" by the way for all of you who still haven't taken your RAD course. Shame on you). I dumped about 20 gallons of coolant in the tank, per Dad and got on my way. And then realized that the AC was no longer coming out of the vent. Awesome. Did I mention I was in Georgia??
So, all of this to ensure that my beautiful little nieces would get one last ride in Colonel Ketchup before we restricted him to in-town driving only. And then they refused. Well, the oldest refused, let me put it that way. Her younger sister, the more daring of the 2, strapped on her Jacksonville Jaguars hat, grabbed Pluto and climbed up in her booster seat, ready for launch. Her older sister stayed in the house. Ahh...kids. So sweet you just can't kill them, right? Images of the trip down were flashing through my head. But as you must do sometimes, I just let it go. We had a lovely day of craft store shopping and feeling the wind in our hair. On my last day there, we decided to head to the beach since the pools in the neighborhood were closed. Either the oldest sister had been schooled by the younger or she realized the fun she was missing because the 4 of us took off in Colonel Ketchup and headed for sandy beaches and ocean waves with my sister at the helm. Somewhere along the way, my sister turned to me and said "this really is fun to drive!" Why yes, yes it is. And then it was all worth it.
The drive home was uneventful until I hit Knoxville, which greeted me with hurricane winds and tornadoes. But I was able to maintain AC for the entire drive, which is helpful when rain is pelting you from all 4 directions. The Col. has been retired to only local driving, which is best for him. He's old, pretty crotchety and doesn't really like new places. But he doesn't mind the gym, the library, and the grocery store.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
While on the hunt for a suitable baby sampler for Queen Elizabeth, I stumbled across this little gem. Nothing says "God's little miracle" like a baby springing up from your salad. And all of us born in the late 70's say "ew..that's just weird and wrong." I mean the very idea of linking the fruit of your loins to your childhood doll is just...ugh..yeah...Thanks, but no.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Yes, there are 6 people in this room and 5 of them are on their laptops, two of them are sitting less than a fist-width distance apart from each other. And, if you can believe it, they are looking at the same thing. This was the morning after my aunt's retirement party last weekend. Now, granted most of us had consumed a variety of adult beverages the night before and so just becoming vertical against the strength of gravity was a great accomplishment. They certainly cannot be expected to have the focus to all look at the same screen. So, everyone is plugged into their respective outlets, except for Nick, who owns a laptop but refused to participate for fear of looking like...well, silly, I suppose. Those British - they are either John Cleese-slapstick funny or dry as toast. There's no in between. But his laptop was less than 6 feet away, sitting on the dining room table. Unfortunately, Aunt B's living room is so vast, that I couldn't fit it all into the picture. Anyway, we were hunting for the perfect beach house for our Soon-to-be-annual-Mother-Daughter trip next month (AKA Sand and Wine Fest 09). But this is not a new scene with us. Last Thanksgiving, there were 8 of us sitting in her living room, 8 of us on our laptops, 6 of us Facebooking each other. Ah..yes, this is where the breakdown of conversation begins - in the home. Who says we can't regress back to hanging out in our million dollar caves, grunting as we punch keys and swill from a bottle? It can happen. And it's all documented on Facebook. We didn't find the perfect home that day, but you can't say that we didn't all give it the ole college try.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
This is the Southern Belles....of Louisville...They have their own show on SoapNet, which shouldn't be all that impressive except that they've got farther with their narcissism than I have to date. I'm not entirely sure who's brainchild this was - to get ladies from a state that is referred to as the Ohio River Valley on the national news, call them Southern Belles, and watch them parade around the Derby City without the benefit of the Derby. If I was a young woman in Charleston or say...Savannah, I would be pissed. I would be upset if I were from Atlanta, but apparently they've already had their shot at whoredom with The Real Housewives of Atlanta so they lost out on this opportunity of a lifetime. I've only made it through 30 minutes of the first show, but basically it boils down to 3 things: money, boys, and shoes. There you go: I have just saved you from losing an hour of your life. Yes, sometimes I have been known to take one for the team. I'm sure Kellie, Hadley, Emily, and ...er..the other 2 girls are perfectly nice young ladies who, when given the opportunity, value the meaning of a dollar. I'm also sure that they are teaching these fine Kentucky men that nice guys really do finish last. And that's too bad because how many men (in Kentucky) do you know that would pay to rent out an entire ice skating rink for just one date with a blonde-haired, Dolce and Gabbana-clad beauty? OK...maybe several..even if it meant selling their John Deere. But the point is, they shouldn't be asked to sell their tractor because everyone knows his tractor's sexy - but you cannot mount one wearing Manolo Blahnik's. I will probably continue to watch this trainwreck because it's summer and the only other shoes..er...shows on my DVR are Burn Notice (Jeffrey Donovan may have the temper of a rottweiler but he's a damn fine actor) and So You Think You Can Dance (don't judge me - I have a non-gay crush on Mia Michaels). So, because you can't lay in the hammock and drink things with umbrellas all the time, I will come in for this. But I'm not expecting much more than lots of hair-tossing, an embarrassing amount of bling and a minimum of conversation involving Ralph Waldo Emerson or post-war Germany.