A lesson on how to vacation like me.

Warning: Contains spicy language. Side effects may include indigestion and complete loss of respect for the writer.


Once again it's time for our annual vacation, just me and the Man, and many, many miles on a Harley. Now if you've been silly enough, dedicated enough or just plained bored enough to read some of my previous posts, you will see that we've done this before. We are professionals...do not try this at home.

Let me begin by talking about packing for a trip of this magnitude. Cramming enough clothes to last two people for ten days onto the back of a motorcycle is no easy task. Concessions must be made. Rain gear, sunscreen, comfortable panties...some things are just non-negotiable. Everything else is fair game. That cute summer top you bought to go with the sparkly sandals? Not gonna happen. Just go ahead now and resign yourself to comfy jeans and tank tops. Or do what I do. Take some crappy t-shirts that you don't care about and then when they are all dirty, throw them away
and buy new ones.

Everything you needs must be packed on THIS amount of space.




It will make you think twice before your order anything smothered in barbeque sauce.

Since I am assuming that most of you have never traveled extensively by motorcycle, I am going to educate you on some of the finer tips and techniques of this mode of travel. This is my public service to you. And I'm hoping my probation officer counts this as part of my community service. (It's a joke, MOM. Geesh.)

First of all, there's the biker wave. This differs greatly from the normal wave, the neighbor wave, and the pageant queen wave. Let me illustrate.




Drop hand casually, no finger movement, small head nod if you're feeling particularly friendly. Must be done while ignoring the insane person on the passenger seat that's waving like she just saw Bozo the Clown.

Road hazards are especially dangerous when traveling on two wheels. This particular trip we encountered gators, snakes and landslides. (Not to mention some of the worst roads I have ever traveled. Tax dollars for road maintenance, people!)

Lest you be confused and think that we drove through a swamp, let me 'splain.

This is a gator.



This is a road gator.



Do not confuse the two. Neither is fun to run over, but only one of the above will come flying through the air towards your head. Unless you have flying alligators alligators where you live, in which case I will not be coming to visit anytime soon.


Now we all know what snakes look like. I'm not going to google a picture of one just to post here for your illustration. If you really want to see one, go google it your damn self. But. But. This is a tar snake. It can make for slippery, weaving, jolting driving. It will also cause the Man to shout at you to "Sit Still!" when all you were really doing was spinning around 180 degrees to take a picture of a camel's butt. (True story.) These are tar snakes.




We all know what snakes look like. But these are tar snakes. They WILL cause you to get yelled at.

All the News that is news

Ya'll, I've been busy writing. I've been writing everywhere but here. Plus, the internet is time-sucking my life away and I need a twelve-step program. In an active effort to change it up, I have resorted to paper and pencil and scribbled notes crammed in the bottom of my purse. I have outlined and plotted and charted my way through a storyline. And then in a fit of impatience, I went back and read everything that I had so far. And you know what? It's crap. Complete and utter overworked and stale crapola. But, it was practice and got me back in the habit of writing a small bit every day. It taught me to be a little more aware of my surroundings and the everyday language that I encounter.

Maybe I should try writing something less lofty. Lower my standards. Write what I know.

Today's work events and an earlier Facebook thread prompted me to discover my next Great American Novel:

Dear Customer
Or How Not To Act In A Retail Enviroment

Chapter One: Please Bathe

Chapter Two: I don't need business or love advice from a guy selling purses out of a van.

Chapter Three: Yes, I look like that girl you used to know, but she didn't like you either.

Chapter Four: Toothpaste and it's common uses.



What? It's a work in progress. Or I need more sleep. It's really hard to say at this point...

Talking to myself

So there's a thread going around the blogger world concerning what you would say to your 16 year old self. Figuring I would rise to the occasion, I've decided to write a letter to the 16 year old me. If nothing else, it will be an exercise in LESSONS LEARNED. And if I drag a few skeletons out of the closet and expose them for the assholes that they are, then all the better.

Dear Teenage Me,

Yes, this is weird. You probably have never received a letter from yourself before, but try and pay attention. I know you may find it shocking that you even have any brain cells left at the ancient age of *cough* forty-six *cough* but there are at least a hundred or so still functioning to impart some wisdom on your skinny ass.

Listen up, kiddo. I've managed to keep your body alive for another 30 years and even managed to beat some sense into that hormone-addled brain of yours. It wasn't easy, but the main thing I need to tell you is that you will be ok. I promise.

Now that the big news is out of the way, here's a few pointers to make your life a little easier to navigate the next few years.

I know that high school sucks, but it pretty much sucks for everybody, so you're in good commpany. The only people that believe that high school doesn't suck are those three or four people that never grow beyond it. There will be good days and bad ones, but that's pretty much the rule of the rest of your life. It ain't all cruising in cars and hot dates. But again, you will be ok.

Embrace your inner dorkiness. I know it's hard to be different in high school, but one day soon, your originality will be something you are proud of. Plus you will never have to drive yourself bat-shit crazy again trying to find the exact same kind of tennis shoes that everybody else is wearing.

Keep your copy of the Thoureau book that your English teacher made you read. Otherwise you will have to spend some serious Ramen-noodle starving college student money for another one. (Which you will love and still have today, btw)

Stop perming your hair. Seriously. If Eddie Murphy can't pull off a Jeri-Curl look, neither can a white girl from the Bible belt of the Midwest. You will not achieve a tousled, carefree, "I just came from the beach" look for many years. Stop it.

Look down. See those legs? They are fabulous. See those abs? Get a good look now and ingrain it in your memory. Look behind you. That is an ass to die for. Trust me. Take care of those, instead of taking them for granted. Good genes will only carry you so far. The rest takes hard work.

Let's talk about your family. Ease up on your mom. She's in a bad position and you're not making it any easier. And about your dad? You need to learn when to keep your mouth shut. And when not to. Alcoholism affects more of your friends than you know and hiding behind lies and denying anything is wrong is denying you of support that you might have found. It will take years, but you can make peace with all of this.

Speak up more. You have things to say and haven't yet found the courage to say them. I promise that if you let your voice be heard, good thing will happen.

Stand by your friends. Hug 'em, love up on 'em, tell them that they are the greatest. Because thirty years later, they are still there and wonderful and irreplaceable.



Now, let's talk about college. You new-found freedom is not a license to lose your damned mind. Have fun, try new things, experience life, but for God's sake stop running around acting like you only have a week to live. Do not drink Cold Duck in the shower every morning before class. Do not blow a week's worth of grocery money on lingerie. Don't sign up for classes that begin at 8:00 in the morning. You are not a morning person, and never will be. And go ahead and have that fling with the guy named Jack. He will teach you how to truly enjoy sex. And when you see him? Tell him I said thank you.

P.S. Call your Grandma, she misses you.

I iz not dead.

Holy shitballs, I haven't typed anything in like forevah! My sincerest apologies to all my fans (both of them) and the unwashed masses that have been trying so hard to find me. You can take a bath now, I'm back.

Somehow all the planets got unaligned, and my chi got way messed up. I managed to make it through the days and the nights, but not without sacrificing time from some of the things I would rather be doing. Like writing here. Or tweezing my eyebrows. So now, other than looking like Brooke Shields circa 1985, I have straightened my ass up and gotten back to what I WANT to do, rather than what I HAVE to to do.

I have kept a handy lists of things that I plan on writing about while I was busy doing other things. It's a list compromised of things like "the house is trying to kill me" and "has my ass always been shaped like this?", along with such chilling commentary as "how hard would I punch each one of my employees on a scale of 1-10". I know, real cliff-hangers, eh?

Give me a day or so to catch me breath and I will be back to tell you all about how my cat is and asshole and why you should never give birth to babies with big heads.

**Side note: I have just mailed out some disposable cameras to friends with instructions to take one picture and mail it to another friend. Last frame sends it back to me. Stay tuned to see me get kicked out of WalMart for trying to develop pictures that are sure to be NOT PG-rated.

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.

hello...remember me?

Yes, I know I been gone for like eleventy-billion years, but there has been so much life in my days lately. I'm still not sure who scheduled all this psychosis filled activity, but as soon as it slows down and my meds kick in, I'll be back to tell you all tales of wonder and merriment. Or naked bikers and camping failures. Your choice.

Seven things about me that you never wanted to know

I read alot of blogs. Big blogs, small blogs, humorous and informative. With all this reading, I've run into a fair amount of lists. And since it's been a very (*ahem) long time since I've written anything, I thought I would try one of these new-fangled listy things all the kids are raving about.

So here are seven (unless I run out of things that are interesting or someone flashes a shiny object in front of me)things about me that you probably didn't need to know. If you're not a fan of useless information, you should just go ahead and clickity-click on that little red "X" up there in the corner. Go ahead. I won't cry. Much.

1) I have cartoon feet. The patron saint of Hanna-Barbara bestowed upon me the feet of Fred Flinstone. The are wide, squarish appendages with round, stubby toes. (You totally want to make out with me right now, right?) Plus, I can stop a car. Probably.


2) I like to touch things. Now before you call the cops, it might not be what you think. I am a very tactile person and certain textures just make my brain happy. Let's just say that I'm far better being at the Children's Museum, instead of the Art Museum. Also? Certain fabrics can give me the hhhhuuuuzzzzzz. You know that spine-shaking, creep-fest that crawls up and down your skin? That's the hhhuuuuzzzzz. Trees, flowers, kitties, marble, linen, and the softest leather? Love. Them. Hard.


3) Food. I love it, but on the other hand I may be the most non-picky person about food EVER. Animal, vegetable, mineral, blue, green, chunky, pasty? Whatev. Gimme. Just throw some groceries down my throat and let's move on.


4) Due to the nature of my job, I have acccess to some of the most exotic and eclectic alcoholic beverages in the U.S. I have a full stocked bar at home that would make the local tavern jealous. Lagers, and porters, and bocks and beers. Imported, domestic, micro-brew and craft vineyard. But. But. I drink the same bourbon every single time. I don't know if this a habit or laziness or loyalty. I choose not to think about it too much.


5) If my bra doesn't match my panties, I'm uncomfortable all day. Also, I cannot bear cheap underthings. They make me squeamish.


6) If there is less than 3/4 of a bottle of laundry detergent on the house, my teeth hurt. From the clenching. With worry. I might run out. I feel much better knowing that if there is a zombie invasion or a plague of pestilence that would keep me from leaving my house, I will have aleast 1.75 bottles of detergent at my disposal.


7) I would rather have someone beat me with a large pissed off squirrel than do dishes. So it's a good thing that I have teenagers in the house to do my bidding. And load the dishwasher. When I was a kid, my parents had a dishwasher but we weren't allowed to use. My dad made is known to one and all that that "contraption" wasted water that he PAID FOR. So I did dishes every night. It was good training for me because I know have the stamina to tolerate the whining from the teenagers when they have to put dishes in and push the button. O, the agony.


So, there are seven things about me that you really didn't want to know. You may now consider yourself my very good friend. The kind that bakes me cakes and tells me I'm pretty as they brush my hair.