Day Two. Which makes up for Day One. Almost.

Do you remember that scene in the Indiana Jones movie (No, I don't remember which one and I'm too lazy to look it up)with the little Asian kid that Indy "sorta" adopted, before Angelina Jolie could get her hands on him? Remember the scene where he looks off into the distance and says dreamily, "Fortune and Glory"? That's exactly how I feel when someone mentions Memphis, Tennessee. I get all swoony (is TOO a word) and heart-mushy (also a legitimate word).

Day Two of vacation, which as I mentioned earlier, began with buying a new helmet for The Man and and cursing Jackson, Tennessee. There would be better, more powerful curses for them, but more on that later. Once the helmet was purchased we could not get out of that den of thieves fast enough. And the first road sign that looked interesting enough to stick in my addled brain.









Off we go!











Now when I say that Memphis makes me swoony (still a word, yo.) I mean it wrapped itself around my cold, black heart and gave it a little hug. From the lady that let us sneak into the "Members Only" parking garage so that the roving band of thieves that was surely chasing us couldn't take all my precious jewels and fine lingerie, to the homeless guy with no legs that I gave a dollar to and watched him hand it back to The Man and wish him a Happy Fathers Day. It was sweaty hot, laid-back cool, and beautiful. I may have sprained my shutter finger taking pictures of every single thing that passed in front of my sunburned nose. We spent the majority of our time there on Beale Street. Everyone should.










































We shopped. We ate. We tapped our feet along with the street performers playing on every corner. We chatted with store clerks and tourists and waitresses. We tried on Elvis sunglasses and hung out in B.B. King's Bar. In short, we had ourselves a ball. One shop in particular stands out because it's where I purchased what surely will become a family heirloom.















My very own voodoo doll! Complete with instructions! (Jackson, Tennessee - you have been put on notice.) Sidenote: I never have to worry about The Man using it on me becuase he will not read instructions for anything. Ever. Which means that I may be in trouble anyway, because he is liable to just go throwing that thing around wily-nily and may likely throw an inadvertant curse on my ass. I think I'll hide it in the vegetable drawer of the refrigerator just to be safe.


After some damn fine barbeque, and many dollars spent on buying me foolish trinkets, we decided (read: I decided) to walk around and get some pictures. As we walked down a side street, me snapping pictures as fast as my Nikon could handle, we passed a gentleman sitting in a window sill shaking his head at us as if we were the most pitiful thing his eyes had ever seen. "You meeessed tha most emmpotant ones" he drawled.











Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Sonny James.


Mr. Sonny, as I now think of him, introduced himself as the "unofficial" historian of Beale Street. He launched into a diatribe covering architecture, music, city ordinances, outlaws, and the fact that every mention of Beale Street in any reference book EVAH was wrong. All this, while launching a bag of peanut M&M's into his gold laden mouth. He smacked his lips and proclaimed "The Oh-Fishul Peoples of this town would have you believing that Beale Street began as a Cull-choo-ral Center, but Nossir. They's wrong. Beale Street wus started by hoddlums an' swindlers."

For ten minutes we sat and talked...or rather he talked, and I tried to get my brain to record verbatim every word out of his mouth.

"See that building over there? The one with the large green braces holdin' it up? Now the townsfolk would have you believin' that they done went and put that up fo' your safety. Lies! All Lies! There ain't nothing worng with that there building. It's all a scam."












(It's lies! All lies!!)



"Did ya'll see that bar with the Diving Goats? Ya'll be careful if'n you go in there. Them goats was raised on al-kee-haul, and they's mean as can be, so don't you go stand near'em with a drank, or they'll attack."


















From Mr. Sonny, we learned where we could pawn our watches for the best prices, which bars watered down there beer, and where we could get a hooker if we so desired. (No, Mother. We did not so desire.)

(Big ass beer pic)


Eventually, Mr. Sonny leaned back against the window, took a deep breath that announced that the informative part of the lesson was finished, and finished off those M&M's.

"Now if'n you folks found this info'mation at all helpful, any donation that you would like to pass my way would be much obliged. This is how I pay mah bills. The city don't condone it none, but they can't stop me from talking, now can they?"

Best five dollars I've ever spent. Thank you Mr. Sonny. You're all right in my book.

Ready, Set...Go Away

I have a bad habit. Actually I have several which my mother can list in alphabetical order for you, but there's one that I would like to talk about. I am currently the Queen of Unrealistic Expectations. I will build something up in my head to be so wonderfully fabulous, that not even Willy Wonka or the Great Wizard of Oz or Her Royal Oprahness could fulfill my plans.

This year I put forth an assload of effort into NOT being that person. Everytime my brain would get all "IMMA GONNA PET AN ALLIGATOR!" or "I CAN SPEND FOUR HOURS SHOPPING AND GET GIFTS FOR SEVENTY TWO PEOPLE!", I would make myself go sit quietly in the corner at work and stare at spreadsheets.

And you know what? It worked. Apparently it isn't very hard to trick my brain. No one that knows me would be very surprised to hear this information.

So...We packed up some clean underwear and got the hell outta town. As I've mentioned before, The Man works night shift, so we left on a Friday at the crack of noon. Because falling asleep while driving me around on a Harley can lead to uncomfortable roadrash. Our first stop? Kentucky. Yes, we made it one whole state away.








My favorite picture of Kentucky.












There's a place in Kentucky called Land Between the Lakes. The scenery is beautiful, the road is idyllic, and there is an Elk and Bison reserve. Now since The Man is a hunter/gatherer/Ted Nugent fan, this was ideal. I could sit back and take beautiful pictures that National Geographic would swoon over, and he could stand at a fence and imagine shooting things. Wins for everyone.


Bison are kind of stand-offish.










After this was taken we headed of to the Elk Reserve to partake more of nature's beasts. Antlers are a priority for The Man. As we enter the Elk Area (Arena? Habitat? Hood?), we aew greeted by a large gate and a sign saying there is a charge for driving though the Elk Reserve. Fine, whatever. Just bring on the large mammals. As we approach the gate we see a second sign. "No motorcycles."
So, I guess Kentucky is kind of an asshole, what with the profiling and whatnot. But it was still purdy.
















So while I told The Man over and over that the brochure said nothing about cars being required, we loaded back up and got the hell out of Kentucky. We decided to make our way to Somewheresville, Tennessee and get a room. It really didn't matter where, we just wanted to get out of Kentucky and closer to something fun. A few more hours of riding brought us to Jackson, Tennessee. It seemed like a good place to stop for the night, get a good dinner and prepare a game plan for the next day. We stopped at a well known chain motel, parked near the front door and went inside to hand over some money in exchange for a key to a hopefully clean room that didn't smell like a retirement village.

Now, everyone has done this. You walk in and are greeted by someone dressed as though they are impersonating an airline stewardess. You list your requirents for a room (single, king bed, smoking, first floor) and hand over the money. In return you get a plastic key card which will not work until the fourth time you try it, and a lecture on what additional charges you *may* incur. Total time for the process is what? Four minutes? Five, tops? We did all this, and returned to move the bike and take our bags inside. That's when we noticed it. Some asshat had stolen his helmet! Now lest you not be familiar with the motorcycle laws in the great state of Tennessee, let me inform you. Approved helmets are required for all motorcycle drivers and passengers.

After searching several times and taking to the airline stewardess, I mean front desk co-assistant manager Tammilou (who was entirely unhelpful), we resigned ourselves to walking to dinner and trying to figure out what to do over a couple of plates of barbeque. (I think much better when there's food present, don't you?)

Long story short, we called the police and got a weird sort of almost permission for The Man to ride to the Harley shop the next morning helmetless.












New helmet purchased with vacation monies. Thanks to Bumpus Harley in Jackson for commiserating and making me giggle while you called the thieves Motherfuckers.

I'm gonna leave off here, becuase this post has gone on way too long. Chalk up Day One of vacation to the thieves and assholes. Tomorrow will be better, I promise.

As Promised, A Biker Rally

Feel free to smack me on the ass and tell me I've been bad. I've been away so long and I don't even really have a good excuse. Except that work is hard. And relationships are hard. Raising kids is hard. Life is hard. As a result, I am whiny.

But this is not the time for being a whiny-ass bitching. It's a time for storytelling. Time to get my hand-printed ass(you shouldn't smack so hard)busy and channel the funny. For realz.

Anyhooters, not long ago the Man and I spent a long weekend at a biker rally, in a tiny little place called Bean Blossom. We and the besties loaded up the camper for the four of us and dived head first into the melee. The rally is held in a campground that is famous for hosting the Bill Monroe Bluegrass festival every year.
















The next three days and nights were spent watching revelry and bad decisions. It was glorious. If you ever need a place to feel better about yourself, it's here. check out these distinguished members of society:
















Someone should really tell her that this does not flatter her body type.



And there's this: (Sidenote, a backpack, thigh high hose and combat boots. Seeexxxyyyy!













I did how ever meet a knight in shining armour. Or a fool in a tin-foil hat. Either way he was drinking out of a horn.

















Now, lest you think it was all horror and scenes that make you want to bleach your eyeballs, here's some man candy, who incidentally had the voice of an angel. I tried to buy him, the ladies surrounding him weren't hearing of it.






















One memory from the weekend that stand out in my mind (through the drunken haze) is the field games. Think of it as the Biker Olympics, only for "special" or "challenged" bikers. Events included are the Slow Ride (yes, it's a contgest to see who can go the slowest without putting their feet down) The Weenie Catch, The Keg Roll, and The Great Escape. Since pictures of the Slow Ride are boring (I mean, really?) here's a self-explanatory picture of the Weenie Catch. Boobies Optional.


















That's a hot dog coated in mustard hanging from a frame. I'll let you figure out the rules from there.


But my favorite is The Great Escape. A whole stage is set. It's a production! There are props! And a story!

First a mattress is placed on the ground. Then the "entrant" lies down and is joined by two girls. The girls are there to "hold" the guy down and keep him from getting off the mattress. The premise to the story is this: when the time keeper says Go! the man is to jump off the matress, throwing the girls all wily-nily to the ground, as if he has just been busted by a jealous husband. Next to the mattress is a window (frame) for jumping through, then they must jump a hurdle (in this year's case, it was a keg) and mount their bike. They must then start their bike and ride through a series of cones to cross the finish line. Confusing? I have visuals. Of course I do.















































Didja notice that one gentleman decided to complete the task sans clothing? I have photographic evidence that he completed the task at hand, but did not win the gold. That honor went to the man-candy shown above. The cutie-patootie. The one I tried to buy. But naked man did ask everyone not to put any pictures on the net showing his face. Because he is a high school girls volleyball coach. But at least one of the women sitting astride his naked body was his wife. The other was her best friend. And they sat on every man that entered the contest. THAT'S the kind of weekend it was.

I'm leaving out alot , but this nonsense has dragged on long enough. I'll tell you next time about the killer camper (and I mean in a stabby kind of way, not an awesome kind of way) and the bike show and leaving one evening to accept my Mother of the Year award. I'm tired and that's all I got tonight. But I'll take my Geritol and write more tomorrow. Pinky swear.

Phoning It In

In the midst of the chaos and general nuttiness that has been the last week or so, I finally realized that I did not finish writing about my last day or so of vacation. So in the interest of finishing ONE DAMNED THING in my life, here it is.

We drove through Kentucky.
Dave had the oil changed at the Harley shop.
We went home.

Suck. AmIright? Yeah.

It appears that once you get to a state that actually touches the state you live in, things go downhill.

I have several things to blame. Laundry is at the top of the list. I was getting dangerously close to needing to do laundry while on vacation. This, my dear friends, is a cardinal sin (I'm pretty sure). Next, would be the calendar which taunted me it's "You have to go back to the real world soon. And no one will make your bed or bring you food." And finally there was the odometer, which politely told me that my ass had been sitting on this seat for almost two thousand miles.

See? It was like I had been on a week-long one night stand and it was now almost time for the walk of shame. Vacation had totally sexed me up and now was kicking me out of bed without giving me it's phone number. So really, vacation is a bastard.

I don't have any really good pictures of the last days of vacation, so instead I'll just show you what The Man refused to buy me at the Harley Shop (I don't care if we are almost home, Mr. Man!)because he obviously doesn't love me care about the condition of my ass.



So, I'm back at work now. With Monkey Butt.

Hot for Teacher

Day 4: Washington, DC
Temperature: 102
Likelihood of heat-induced brain trauma: 75%
Likelihood of me fanning my T-shirt so vigorously that I inadvertantly flash a senator's aide during his lunch: 90%

I'm feeling not funny today, so this post is likely to be full of suckage. But whatev. I'm committed to finishing this thing. I jotted down a few notes yesterday, so the chances of this being mildly coherent are up slightly. So at least there's that.

So, where was I? Oh yeah, Capitol Building. We parked there and died. Not really, but now that we were no longer moving, the air seemed stifling. (Gah, I need spellcheck. Is that right? Stifling? Doesn't seem right.) Looking around the Mall, we personafied typical tourists, all gape-mouthed and whatnot. As we stumbled towards the big fancy buildings, this approached us.



This is Dave. Everybody say hi, Dave! Dave is a high school science teacher and may have saved our lives. He kindly offered to pedal our sweaty asses around the Mall for an undetermined amount of money. Dave drives a Pedi-cab when he's not teaching science to adolescents and works for tips. Since we have cash and looming heat-strokes, we take him up on his offer.

I'm quite sure that Dave is the hot teacher at his high school and all the girls giggle whenever he talks about positive ion attraction and big bang theories. He is a fountain of information and told us more about the area and buildings than we could have gotten from any tourist-y booklets. Since he knew we were in town for only a few hours, he filled us in on which places were best and which would not be worth our time.



I have lots of pictures like this. I didn't want to lean too far out of my seat and take a chance on swaying the Pedi-cab rickshaw thingy, thus causing Dave to get irritated and throw me out, leaving me to die along the street.





After pedaling 2/3's of the way around, we disembarked, paid the cute teacher and started to head into the first of many Smithsonian biuldings. This is when we overheard Dave the Cute Teacher negotiating with his next client. He offered to take the couple HALF the distance we had just ridden, for well OVER the price we had just paid. Clearly, we are cheap and he is re-thinking the whole "working for tips" thing. But in our defense, he told us to just pay whatever we thought was fair. Meh. I hate being cheap. I also hate being guilted into paying more. FAK!

We loaded up our guilt and plowed into the first building, surrounded by middle schoolers on field trips and Griswold family vacationers. First up, the Air and Space Building.





Then the Museum of Natural History


RAWR!




I think this one looks sneaky. I suspect that dinosaurs were assholes like that.

And that's when it happened. You know how you can go somewhere, somewhere far away, somewhere no one ever goes and then you see someone you know? Well there he was. My Ex. The Milkdud himself.


Hi, Asshat.

After that, it was time to change buildings and hope The Milkdud wouldn't find us. The Museum of American History. (My apologies for the poor quality of pics, it's really dark in there and my camera is ashamed of the fact that it is smarter than me.)


You can almost smell the napalm and weed.







I have oodles more pictures, but I'm afraid this is turning into a slideshow at Aunt Liz's house of their trip to Bumfuckville while eating crappy appetizers and inhaling Uncle Raymond's second-hand cigar smoke and beer farts.

A few more buildings later, as our blood reached the temperature of lava, we headed back to Chesapeake Bay and comfy beds and air conditioning.

Stop back by tomorrow, there will be bears, hikers and funeral processions. Not neccesarily in that order.



Bye Dave! You'll always be my Capitol Crush!

A New Bright Shiny Day

After spending the night fearing for my health and safety, not to mention dousing my entire body in 38 gallons of Purell, we headed out for rounds of antibiotics...I mean a hearty breakfast. Making our way eastward we proceeded towards the coast, with our only planned stop for the day being York, Pennsylvania.

Now you may ask what is in York that would attract two happy vacationers? Why it was the birthplace of Christine. Are you still puzzled? Christine is the name that The Man has given to his motorcycle and York is the home of the Harley-Davidson factory where it, I mean she, was born.

We arrived there that afternoon and signed in for a factory tour. We were only allowed a limited tour since the factory was currently making the 2011 models and they had not released them to the public yet. We browsed around the lobby until the tour was ready to begin and after a short introductory movie, we were fitted with protective eyewear and earpieces so that we could hear our tour guide.

Let me be the first to say that this may not be a girly-girl place. But on a coolness scale, this place still rates pretty high. The large machinery, the cool robotic technology, the brawny men walking around in tight shirts......wait. Where was I? Oh yeah, the gorgeous paint colors, the acres of bright shiny chrome...it was still enough to hold this girl's attention.

No cameras or recording devices were allowed inside the factory, but I have a few pictures from the lobby that show the process.



Pieces and parts



Frame (This factory only makes the larger touring bikes.)



The Man gets a look in his eye when he's surrounded by this much chrome. It's the same look I get when I walk in a designer shoe store.



It's starting to look like....something?



What I find completely amazing about this whole thing, is that it only takes them two hours to build one of these beautiful pieces of machinery. No matter what paint color, no matter what emission stardards (different countries have different requirements), no matter what bells and whistles you require, it's still two hours and out the door. Hell, I can barely get ready to go out in two hours! But then again, I'm an older model and they don't even make some parts for me anymore.

After again succumbing to the lure of the gift shop, we loaded up (I pushed The Man kicking and screaming) and headed back out on the road. Rural Pennsylvania is actually quite pretty and I enjoyed the scenery until we crossed into Baltimore.



Word of warning: Do not announce that you are from Indiana while in Baltimore. Especially if you are wearing a Colts shirt. They are apparently still quite bitter.

We tossed a coin, or followed a tractor, or came to some conclusion that we should head south. Another hour of so of wandering around found us here:



We did it! We made it all the way to the coast! We were on Chesapeake Bay and there we would stay for the night. In a real room, with clean sheets and hot water and eveything! Room service! Soap! Down-filled duvet on a king-sized bed!



Edited to add: Mileage totals Day 3: 853 miles
Condition of hind-quarters on a 1-10 scale: 6.5
Median Outdoor Temp: 418 degrees Farhenheit (estimate)
Number of poor meal choices: 3

Tomorrow - The Beach